The First Lady

by James Patterson

  Not enough time!

  Not enough time!

  I think of wasting five seconds or so, trying to raise Scotty again over my damn radio, but instead I push on, thinking that in those five seconds I’ll be that much closer to the armored Suburban and the four armed Secret Service agents within, and—

  “Agent! Please!”

  “Ma’am, I—”

  Up ahead a small man emerges from the bush-covered slope, dressed in camo gear, carrying a long rifle with a telescopic sight, and the muscle memory from years of training kicks in.

  “Gun!” I scream, and I whirl around, grabbing CANARY, protecting her with my body, enveloping her, just like the training, just like the training, just like—

  The sound of the rifle shot and the hammer blow to my back happen in a brief second.

  I fall into blackness.

  Amelia, I think, poor, orphaned Amelia.

  CHAPTER 75

  MARSHA GRAY RAISES her scoped Remington, nodding with satisfaction. Dead center to the back, and the bonus is that she isn’t using a standard .308 cartridge, but rather what’s known as a frangible round, something designed to break up easily upon striking, like the cartridges the air marshals use, so any gunfire in an airliner won’t puncture the hull and cause a sudden depressurization.

  Plus, this round is carrying the same type of poison that she used the other day against that poor kid Carl, back at the Hay-Adams Hotel. Any forensics testing will show that this overworked and pressured government employee had died from sudden heart failure.

  She works the bolt of the rifle, ejecting the spent cartridge, and then grabs the brass and runs up the dirt road, her battle-rattle gear jostling along, not wanting to leave any evidence behind. Marsha knows she only has a handful of seconds before those Secret Service clowns back there figure something is amiss after hearing a rifle shot blast through the morning air.

  Marsha gets closer. The dead agent is sprawled over the First Lady, who’s struggling to get out from underneath the taller and heavier dead woman. She brings up her rifle, doesn’t even bother using the scope, because at this range, she can’t miss. She’ll make the shot and then get the hell out, and leave behind the mystery of how a Secret Service agent and the First Lady both died of apparent heart attacks at the same time in the same place.

  So what, she thinks. Folks still can’t figure out how and why Jack Ruby nailed Lee Harvey Oswald back in the day, and this will just be one more mystery for the ages.

  The First Lady is talking, pleading, mouth moving, and Marsha just ignores the sounds, starts squeezing the trigger—

  As the agent rolls over, brings up an automatic pistol, and shoots Marsha three times in the chest.

  CHAPTER 76

  I’M CONSCIOUS AND my back is hurting like hell, and I hear the rattle of someone’s camo gear as he approaches, and when I think he’s close enough to take the shot, I roll over and quickly squeeze the trigger of my SIG Sauer three times, hitting the gunman right in the center chest, three times in the 10-ring mark at a shooting range, and he flips right onto his back, even though he’s probably wearing a vest.

  I stand up and go over to him, pick up his rifle, toss it down the road, as the four agents come racing up, all of them with their service weapons out, all of them moving like sprinters, and I say “Clear!” and get back to CANARY.

  She’s trembling, eyes wide.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” I ask. “Are you injured?”

  The First Lady shakes her head, starts to get up. I lift her up with one arm and a weeping Pamela Smithson, her detail lead, helps her up on the other side.

  “No, I’m fine, I’m fine … just had the wind knocked out of me … but Agent, that man, he shot you. Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” I say. I look over and see Tanya, Scotty, and Brian examining the gunman, and I take off my scarf, and then my wool coat. I wince. I feel like there’s going to be one hell of a bruise back there by this time tomorrow morning, if I’m still alive.

  Pamela looks with me as I examine my coat. There’s a tear in Amelia’s scarf, and another, smaller tear in my coat, and what appear to be fragments of some ceramic that is dissolving before my eyes.

  Pamela whistles. “Boss, you should buy a lottery ticket when this day is done, ’cause you’re the luckiest woman alive. That looks like a round the air marshals use, to break up on impact. It broke up, all right, on that damn thick scarf and coat of yours.”

  “Not lucky yet,” I say, putting my coat and scarf back on. The other three agents are still standing over the body of the gunman, and I say, “What do you got? Does he have any ID on him?”

  Scotty calls back. “He’s a she, boss, and she’s still alive, though barely. Underneath all this camouflage, she had on a Kevlar vest.”

  Tanya says, “Too goddamn bad, I say.”

  Smithson is now talking to the First Lady, and I go over, look down at the gunman, a slight frame that is dark-skinned, in uniform, and I think—

  I have no real evidence, but I’m certain Ben’s killer is on the ground before me, unconscious.

  I have to take a deep breath, focus, and restrain myself, so I don’t put a fourth round in her head.

  I say, “Any ID?”

  “Nothing,” Tanya says.

  “Any radio, or cell phone, or anything?”

  Brian says, “Nothing, ma’am. Looks like she’s clean.”

  Focus, I think, focus.

  “Tanya, get back down to the road, get the Suburban up here right away.”

  “You got it, Sally.”

  She runs back down the driveway, and I reach around to my belt, tug out my handcuffs, toss them to Brian. “Secure the prisoner,” I say, “and tight.”

  “On it,” he says.

  There’s the roar of the Suburban as it comes bouncing up the trail, skids to a halt. Tanya jumps out from the driver’s side, leaving the engine running.

  “Pamela! Get CANARY in the rear.”

  She doesn’t answer, but she pushes and propels the First Lady into the Suburban and slams the door. A constricting feeling in my chest has just lightened up some. In the Suburban, she’s not perfectly safe, but she’s a hell of a lot safer than she was five minutes ago.

  “What the hell is going on down there?” comes a voice, and Mr. Fuller is limping his way down the road, and Tanya and Scotty react as if he’s another threat, until I say, “Stand down, stand down. That’s CANARY’s father.”

  No time for explanations, or questions, or anything else.

  Now it makes sense. This remote cabin was the other place where a stressed First Lady could be happy and relaxed.

  “Scotty and I are leaving with CANARY,” I say. “Pamela, you, Tanya, and Brian stay behind, guard the prisoner, start calling law enforcement, and make sure the prisoner gets to the hospital alive, got it? I don’t want any accidents between here and the hospital. That shooter is to stay alive, and I don’t care who you guys have to kill to make it happen.”

  Like the good agent she is, Pamela nods in agreement. “What should we tell the locals when they get here?”

  “Anything you like,” I say. “No one will believe you anyway. Scotty, let’s go.”

  In a few seconds we’re in the Suburban. Scotty makes a sloppy U-turn, and we’re bouncing back down the dirt road. I look out the rear and see Mr. Fuller is trying to talk to Pamela, who’s on her cell phone, and Brian is kneeling right next to the shooter, securing the handcuffs, while Tanya stands, aiming her pistol down.

  “Where to, boss?” Scotty says as we hit the pavement of East Dominion Road.

  “No idea,” I say. “Just drive until I think of something.”

  CHAPTER 77

  PARKER HOYT IS again pacing in his office when his special phone rings, and he nearly trips over his own feet, rushing to get to it.

  He grabs it, noting his hand is moist from worry.

  “Yes?”

  Hiss, pop, crackle of static.

  “He
llo?” he says.

  Another burst of static, and a voice says, “It’s over.”

  He collapses in his chair with relief. “Thank God.”

  The voice says, “You should get out of town. Like, now.”

  “Why?” he asks. “You told me it was over.”

  “Well, the phone must have dropped the first part,” the voice says. “It’s over because CANARY’s been recovered and she’s safe.”

  Parker closes his eyes, willing that the voice on the other end of the line will say something else, hoping he is pulling some sort of stunt to get more pay, more prestige, more anything.

  “What happened?” Parker asks.

  “A female shooter ambushed CANARY and Grissom as they were leaving a property in Virginia that belonged to CANARY’s dad. Grissom did her job, and CANARY’s still alive.”

  Damn, damn, damn, he thinks.

  The shooter.

  Marsha Gray, of course. Good lord.

  “Is the shooter dead?”

  “Not at the moment,” the caller says. “She took three nine-millimeter rounds to the chest, broke her sternum and a few ribs. She’s unconscious at the moment.”

  Marsha Gray, alive.

  All right, he thinks. Her word against his. It’ll mean—

  “Another thing,” the caller says. “She had an iPhone with her. Could only open it with her thumbprint, but I managed to do so. Found lots of interesting recordings there … taped conversations between you and her.”

  A long pause and Parker feels like he’s about five seconds away from having a coronary event.

  “Name your price,” he says. “I need to have that iPhone.”

  “We’ll deal later,” the voice says. “In the meantime, I gotta go.”

  Parker sits up in his chair. “Wait, wait, please … don’t hang up.”

  “Make it quick.”

  Parker rubs his head. “You … are you in a position … I mean, can you …”

  “Can I what?”

  Parker takes a deep breath that makes him feel like knives are being dug into his lungs. “Can you … finish the shooter’s mission?”

  No reply.

  The hiss of static.

  More crackling and popping noises.

  Is his caller still there?

  The voice speaks up, tone firm.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  And hangs up.

  CHAPTER 78

  WHILE SCOTTY IS trying to find someplace to park our Suburban, I’m at the door of a pretty yet not-too-fancy town house in a wooded section of Laurel, Maryland, which is about eight miles away from my sister’s place of employment at Fort Meade.

  I ring the doorbell, wait, arm around CANARY. We’re both exhausted, woozy on our feet, and her face winces from the pain that’s no doubt coursing up her left arm, while my own lower back is throbbing like it’s getting punched over and over again.

  I ask, “How are you doing, ma’am?”

  “Please, call me Grace.”

  “Not going to happen, ma’am,” I say.

  I ring the doorbell again, a dark thought coming to me— suppose something has happened to Gwen, to get at Amelia? That could work, grabbing my daughter …

  “This is your sister’s place? Are you sure she’s going to let us stay?”

  “She has to,” I say. “She’s family.”

  And thank God I can see movement through a curtain-covered window, and the door opens, and it’s my sister Gwen all right, wearing an apron, her hands dusted with white flour, and also bearing one surprised and confused look on her face.

  “Grace, I mean—Mrs. Tucker, uh, come in, come in,” she says, and we go in and I close the door behind us and lock it.

  From the kitchen I hear Amelia call out, “Who’s there, Aunt Gwen?” and I have to fight so hard not to run into the kitchen and scoop up Amelia and quit the Secret Service right here and now, and leave and take her with me.

  I say, “Gwen, the rear door to this place. Is it locked?”

  Gwen, bless her, snaps to and says, “I think so, but I’ll double-check. Be right back.”

  As she hustles out I move the First Lady into the living room on the right, then draw the curtains. The doorbell rings, and I slide out my SIG Sauer and gently pull one of the curtains aside.

  It’s Scotty.

  I unlock the door and let him in.

  “Took you long enough,” I say.

  “I wanted to give the parking lot a quick look-see,” he says, putting his own pistol away in its holster. “Didn’t see any unmarked vans or single guys sitting in cars watching the place.”

  By now my little girl has heard all the voices and comes running in, wearing an apron three times her size, her hands covered with flour as well, and she screeches “Mommy!” and that’s it, I’m no longer a Secret Service agent, just one tired and frightened mother.

  “Oh, honey,” I call out, and I hug her and kiss her, and hug her some more, and she complains, “Mommy, not so tight!,” and I can’t speak back because my eyes are full and my throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

  After some minutes pass, Amelia is gently banished to the spare bedroom that’s temporarily hers, and when she says, “Will you have some chocolate chip cookies later? Me and Aunt Gwen made them!”—and of course we all say yes, including the First Lady who actually has a slight smile on her face.

  Gwen brings us all coffee in the living room, and I have my pistol out on the coffee table, and I recall something, then pop out the magazine and put a fresh one in. Three rounds have already been expended, and I want fourteen full rounds available if need be.

  My sister watches me and says, “I wouldn’t worry too much. My house is scrubbed.”

  The First Lady speaks up. “What does that mean?”

  Scotty’s maneuvered his chair so that it’s facing the door. “It means, ma’am, that this house, the utility bills, and everything else are under a different name. Not her own, so she can’t be traced.”

  CANARY says, “Are you a spy?”

  “Not brave enough,” she says. “Just read and think a lot.”

  I finish reloading my pistol and say, “I imagine you’re wondering why I’m here, along with … Mrs. Tucker.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Best you don’t know much,” I say.

  Gwen smirks. “Like need-to-know? You know how many times I’ve heard that?”

  “Still,” I say, “it might help out if this all goes to a congressional investigation one of these days.”

  She nods. “I see. What can I do?”

  “We need to spend the night,” I say.

  “Deal.”

  “Among other things,” I say.

  Gwen nods. “Deal again. Anything else?”

  Not being on the run and being in my sister’s warm and comfortable and so far safe home makes me feel like I’m about to fall asleep in the chair.

  “We need to get the First Lady someplace safe, which isn’t the White House. Or the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. Or any other government place.”

  CANARY speaks up. “I may have a thought or two about that.”

  I slowly nod. “I thought you might.”

  CHAPTER 79

  AFTER SOME HOT tomato soup and French bread, followed by chocolate chip cookies—and Amelia is so proud of how good they are that I have to turn my head to hide my tears—I clean up and find my way, along with Amelia, to her bedroom. CANARY is going to sleep in Gwen’s room, Gwen is going to make do with a pullout couch, and Scotty has a blanket and a foam mattress on the kitchen floor.

  Gwen lets me borrow a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and I say, “Sis … I owe you so much.”

  She gives the two of us a quick hug and kiss and says, “Not another word. Get to sleep, all right?”

  She leaves and closes the bedroom door. A small nightlight illuminates part of the bedroom. I snuggle in and move around, and Amelia is there, and I spoon with her and have sweet flashbacks of t
he many, many times we slept together when she had a nightmare or was scared of thunder or something else. Ben would grumble (poor Ben!) but secretly I just liked the scent and warmth of my little girl. Even the pain in my lower back seems better.

  “Mom?” she whispers.

  “Yes, hon.”

  “I miss Daddy.”

  The words just slip out, like truth often does. “Me too, honey. Me too.”

  Her shoulders start to shudder and I know she’s crying, and I let it be. She rustles around, and I sense her wiping her nose with the bedsheet.

  “He was brave, Mommy, wasn’t he?”

  “Your daddy was very, very brave,” I say. “One of the bravest men I know.”

  “And he didn’t even have a gun. He went after that bad man, and he didn’t even have a gun.”

  “That’s right. He wanted to protect you, like a brave daddy does, and that’s what he did.”

  She snuggles up against me and I can’t quite believe it, but I’m drifting off. So much to think about, so much to do, but after the last forty-eight hours, my body is surrendering.

  “You’re brave too, Mom.”

  “No, no I’m not.”

  “That nice lady downstairs. The one with the hurt hand. She told me you were brave.”

  I rest there, thinking, and say, “Are you sure?”

  “Uh-huh,” Amelia says. “That nice lady told me … that I should be proud. That my mother was the bravest woman that lady ever knew.” And Amelia raises her voice just a bit. “And who is she, Mom? She looks familiar. And how did she hurt her hand?”

  I brush her hair with my hand. “Go to sleep, hon. Go to sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  No pushback from my little girl.

  Thank God for small miracles.

  At some point during the night the bedroom door slides open, and someone comes into the bedroom, and from underneath my pillow I grab my pistol and roll over to cover Amelia’s body, and Gwen whispers, “Boy, always on the job, huh?”

  I get off Amelia so as not to wake her, and my younger sister comes around the foot of the bed and kneels on the carpeted floor next to me. “You doing all right?”