by Jeff Gunhus
The thought of what he’d done to both his family and his country made it hard to even look at him. A wave of nausea came over her and she pushed it back. Emotions had no place during an operation. She knew better.
As he came closer, she prepared herself for the first exchange of words. She’d replayed this moment a thousand times in her head over the past four years, practiced a million zingers she could send his way. She expected him to come to a stop in front of her. Maybe apologize. Maybe launch into a defense of his actions. But he didn’t do any of that.
As he approached, he put a hand to his mouth, covering his lips as he spoke.
“You’ve got a shadow, back right corner,” he said. “Black pickup.”
“That’s your hello after four years?” she said, even though she was thinking oh shit. “Some paranoid bullshit remark?”
He walked up to her, staying an arm’s-length away. His eyes met hers and bore in. They were filled with disappointment and sadness. For a second, she felt like a little girl, the same one who could never live up to her dad’s expectations. Fifteen all over again. But the next words out of his mouth shocked her right back into present day.
“They have Joey,” he said. “They have Lucy’s boy. If you want to see him alive, get in the car.”
Her head spun. Joey? It wasn’t possible. He was at school. Not just any school, but at Sidwell Friends, a private school where the DC elite sent their kids. Simultaneously one of the most dangerous and one of the safest places to go to school in the country. The fact that high-ranking diplomats, businesspeople, and government officials sent their kids there ostensibly made it a place of interest for the evildoers in the world. But it also meant that the level of security was off the charts. There was actually a special area for the various bodyguards and Secret Service agents who had to wait until their charges were through learning about fractions and adverbs for the day. The idea that someone could have abducted Joey from such a place was ridiculous.
Still, she suddenly found it hard to swallow.
“What are you talking about? Who has him?”
He was already moving. “Who do you think? You’re wasting time. Let’s go.” He opened the passenger door and climbed in.
She stood frozen in place. This wasn’t the plan, not even close. Thirty seconds and he’d knocked her completely off balance. The plan had always been to drive him out of there, luring him into a false sense of security with a sob story about her wanting to reconcile. She was supposed to pump him for information; then, once that was done, pump him full of bullets. But that was out the window now.
Joey. It had to be a trick. She ticked through the alternative explanations in her head.
An old friend tipped him off about Joey and told him the name.
He’d either spotted the shadow or guessed there was one there. The term shadow was a problem since it meant that he’d already pieced together why she was there. It might have only been a guess on his part, but a damn good one.
Last was his claim that Joey was in danger. Once he knew she was worried about Joey, it was the easiest leverage point he could use to get under her skin, maybe throw her off her game enough to escape once she’d driven them away from the prison.
There, all of it explained. No one had Joey. It wasn’t possible. She’d talked to him by phone just earlier in the day, just as the nanny was about to take him to school.
Angry at herself for letting her dad get the upper hand so easily, she pulled the micro-Taser from her pocket and palmed it. The only thing micro about it was its size. It still packed five million volts, and she looked forward to using it.
When she climbed into the car, her dad eyed her cautiously. He paid special attention to her left hand, where she cupped the Taser against her side. She had to admit, he was good.
“Before you do anything stupid,” he said, “just listen to me.”
She turned in her seat, her finger on the Taser button in case he lunged at her. “Talk fast. Anyone who threatens Joey usually doesn’t get a chance to speak for long.”
“I don’t know what the plan is here,” he said. “I expect you’re supposed to drive me somewhere nice and quiet so we can talk and then kill me there.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Let’s stop with the bullshit, okay? Let’s talk like adults.”
She hated the weird sense of pride she felt when he called her an adult. It was exactly the kind of reaction that proved she should never have been sent on this assignment.
“Okay, who has Joey?”
He looked disappointed in the question. “The Agency took him earlier today.”
“There’s no way.”
“Sidwell Friends.”
A jolt of panic ripped through her.
“How did you—”
“I tried to get word to you when I found out,” he said. “But I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
She tried to slow her breathing. “You’re lying.”
“I’m sorry, honey. They took him.”
“Don’t you dare call me . . .” She stopped herself. There he was again, getting under her skin with a single word. If she was her own trainee, she’d fail her from the program for not being cut out for fieldwork. But this was her nephew they were talking about.
She reached for her phone that was on the coin tray between them. He grabbed her hand to stop her. The second he did, she brought up the Taser and pressed the button. The voltage arc cackled in the air an inch away from his neck.
“Let go of my hand right now.”
He relaxed his grip but kept his hand over hers.
“If you call to check on him, they’ll know I told you there was a problem,” he said.
“So?”
“You’re better than this,” he said.
The truth snapped into place quick enough. “You have someone inside. You’re protecting him.”
“The second you call, they’ll start tearing through the ranks looking for the mole. That and you’ll give up the only tactical advantage we have.”
“A little convenient, don’t you think,” she said. “You give me this information but tell me I can’t check it to confirm.”
“You have to trust me.”
Those words didn’t sit well with her. She cocked her head to the side as if thinking of something she’d forgotten. “You know what, Dad? Fuck you.” She jammed the Taser into his neck. His body went ramrod straight and then spasmed wildly as five million volts poured into his nervous system.
She grabbed her phone and speed-dialed Sidwell Friends back in Bethesda, Maryland. With the time difference, Joey’s kindergarten class would have already eaten lunch and gone back to their class.
A woman answered the phone on the second ring. “Sidwell Friends. How may I help you?”
“This is Barb Newcastle,” Mara said, using her alias. It was the name everyone at Sidwell knew her by. Her heart thumped in her chest as she tried to get the words out in a normal voice. “I’m out of town and I’m not able to get in touch with my nanny. I just wanted to make sure Joey made it into school today.”
“Yes, Ms. Newcastle,” the voice came back. “I saw Joey earlier today.”
She gulped for air and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d believed something had happened to him.
“Thank you,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure the nanny and I didn’t get our signals crossed.”
“No problem at all, Ms. Newcastle.”
“Ask to talk to him,” her dad croaked beside her, still recovering from the Taser blast.
She readied the Taser and nearly zapped him again, but stopped herself.
“Goodbye, Ms. New—”
“Could I speak to him, please?” she blurted out. She saw her dad close his eyes in relief. She didn’t like that.
“Of course, let me connect you to his classroom,” came the voice.
The line clicked and was replaced by on-hold musi
c.
“What’d they say?” her dad asked.
“They’re connecting me to his room.”
He shook his head. “They’ll say there’s no answer. You have to demand to talk to him. Say it’s an emergency.”
“I thought you said I shouldn’t call at all?” she said.
He shrugged. “The damage is done, might as well take it all the way so you believe me. I’m sure they’re already going apeshit at Langley to figure out who tipped me off.”
“That’s kind of your specialty, isn’t it? Having someone else take the fall for your mistakes?”
“Hello? Ms. Newcastle?” the voice said on the line.
“Yes, I’m here,” she answered.
“I’m sorry, but there was no answer in the classroom.”
The pit reopened in her stomach. “It’s just after one o’clock. They should be in the room.”
“I’m sorry, but sometimes the teachers don’t answer. Or they might be visiting the library. You just never—”
“This is an emergency,” she said, raising her voice. “I need you to find him and I need you to get him on the phone.”
“Ma’am, I assure you he’s here,” the voice said.
“Then I need you to find him. Do you hear me? I want to talk to Joey.”
“Ms. Rober—Newcastle, I assure you that . . .”
The voice trailed away. The woman on the phone knew the mistake was out there. All Mara could hear was her own ragged breathing.
“What did you just call me?” Mara whispered.
Silence on the other end.
“How do you know my real name?”
She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Her world had just split in half. The part behind her and the part where her Joey had been taken hostage.
“Hurt him and I’ll kill you,” she whispered. “I’ll kill every last one of you.”
A long pause and then finally a man’s voice on the line said, “I don’t want to hurt him. I hope you believe that. But you know I will if I have to.”
“Why are you doing this?”
The man took his time answering. Mara heard her own heavy breathing, her heart pounding in her chest. “You weren’t supposed to find out about this,” the man said. “It was only an insurance policy if you forgot where your loyalty lies. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
Mara closed her eyes, recentering herself, allowing the fear she felt for Joey to be replaced with something else. Pure rage. “No,” she said, her voice ice-cold. “I’m crystal clear about that.”
“Good, now do your job, Mara. Evacuate the target from that location and then complete your instructions. We’re watching.”
Then the line went dead.
And Mara decided that once the mission was done, no matter if Joey was returned unharmed or not, she was going to have to kill Jim Hawthorn.
CHAPTER 2
Four years ago
“Scott Roberts is a true American hero. If you can’t see that, then with all due respect, sir, you’re a moron,” James Hawthorn, Director of Intelligence, told the man in front of him.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
Even though Hawthorn had been friends with Preston Townsend’s father since their undergrad days at Dartmouth, and he’d known the man since birth, he’d never called him a name like that since he’d gotten his new job. Worse, it was in front of a group of subordinates.
“Can we clear the room, please?” Townsend said softly.
The eight other men and women in the room couldn’t get out fast enough, not even pausing to grab their coffees and legal pads on the way out. Once the door closed, a smooth seal forming along the curved wall of the office, Townsend turned to his friend, a wry smile on his face.
“Jim, did you just stand in the middle of the Oval Office and call the president of the United States a moron?” Townsend asked. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you did.”
Hawthorn remained standing with his shoulders squared. “No, sir. What I said was that if you couldn’t see that Roberts is a goddamn American hero, then you’re a moron. If you come around to seeing things my way, then I technically didn’t call you anything.”
Townsend blew out a deep breath and crossed over one of the couches in front of the fireplace. He laid down, rubbing his eyes. Hawthorn thought he looked tired. No, more than tired. His friend looked worn down to the nub. He’d noticed the suits fit a little looser now and his skin stretched taut on his cheekbones. Of course his hair had gone gray, but that happened to all of them. Even no-drama Obama had gone the way of the gray after a few years in the world’s finest gilded cage. But it was more than that, and seeing how haggard his friend looked took some of the edge off his anger.
“You look like hell, Mr. President,” he said, sitting on the couch opposite him. “Are you letting the docs check you out?”
“Funny that you won’t call me Preston, even when we’re alone,” Townsend said.
“Wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“But you have no problem calling me a moron.” Townsend laughed.
“Not when you’re acting like one,” Hawthorn shot back.
“Your guy shot up the Serbian embassy, killed the ambassador’s personal bodyguard, and from what I hear, slept with the ambassador’s wife.”
“Have you seen pictures of the wife?”
Townsend sat up. “This is a real problem. James Bond is supposed to be working for the British, not us.”
Hawthorn gave a what are you gonna do? shrug of the shoulders.
Townsend pointed to his desk. “I read the report on this guy. Not the one you sent me, but the full version. By the way, don’t do that again. When I ask for something, I expect to see the full, non-redacted version.”
“There are some things in there I figured you didn’t want to know. Stuff the guys before you did.”
“No shit,” Townsend said. “I felt like I needed a shower afterward.”
“All done in defense of our country.”
“Without due process or oversight,” Townsend said. He held up his hand. “I’m not going to debate Civics 101 with you. Look, Jim, I admire your loyalty. Hell, my family has been the beneficiary of it since before I was born. But this guy’s a one-man wrecking ball. It’s just a matter of time before he goes too far and starts a war.”
“Yet, all he’s done so far is keep us out of one.” Hawthorn stood up. “If it wasn’t for Scott Roberts, you and I wouldn’t be standing in this room. Washington would be off-limits for the next thousand years while we all waited until the radiation from the nuke he stopped dissipated.”
Townsend looked surprised.
“Yeah, that one isn’t in your report,” Hawthorn said. “The paperwork never tells the whole story.”
Townsend stood and looked at his old friend. “Do you trust this guy? I mean, really trust him?”
Hawthorn didn’t hesitate. “When there was a terrorist threat against my family, I didn’t call the Secret Service. I didn’t call my personal protective unit. I called Scott Roberts. And once I did, I knew my family was going to be safe. He’s the real deal, Mr. President. Not the right guy to cut loose, especially with everything we have going on right now.”
Townsend took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll let you keep him.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hawthorn said, quickly gathering his things. He’d learned early in life to take the yes and then get the hell out.
“Oh, and, Jim?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Try to look chastised when you walk out of here. I don’t want everyone thinking they can walk in here, call me a moron, and get what they want.”
Hawthorn grinned. “Chastised and browbeaten. You got it.”
He opened the door and strode into the anteroom outside the Oval. Most of the people who’d been ushered from the room after his outburst were still hanging around, most pretending to be typing notes on their devices. He looked down and slumped his shoulders a bit, prob
ably playing it up a little too much.
“Sorry, guys,” he mumbled as he left. “He’s still pretty pissed off. You might want to give him some time before going back in there.”
Worried eyes went to the Oval’s open door and no one made a move toward it. Hawthorn thought he might have gotten a few minutes of peace for his old friend. He needed it.
The weight of the office was bearing down on Preston Townsend, and not for the first time, Hawthorn wondered whether he’d made a mistake helping to put the man into office. All occupants of the Oval had the weakness of ego, and Townsend was no exception. Still, Hawthorn worried that he was less capable of dealing with the constant drone of criticism than others. As he left behind the staff cowering outside the Oval, he pushed the thoughts aside. For better or worse, that ship had sailed. He and the country had to live with it.
* * *
Hawthorn walked through the White House, out through the east door, and across the road that led to the massive Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the French Second Empire monstrosity that housed most of the staff who claimed to work in the White House. With over half a million square feet of floor space, it hadn’t been hard to select a quiet space to meet Scott.
“How’d it go?” Scott asked, standing up from a wooden bench in one of the marble hallways.
Hawthorn frowned. “A cat may have nine lives, but you seem to have eighteen.”
Scott looked relieved. “He’s letting me stay.”
“No, he’s letting me keep you on if that’s what I decide,” Hawthorn said. “I’ve got to tell you, Scott, maybe it’s time you hung up your spurs and rode off into the sunset.”
“C’mon, is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke. I fought hard for you today. Maybe a little too hard. I don’t think I’ll be able to pull your ass out of the fire next time.”
“What makes you think there will be a next time?” Scott asked.
“Because with you,” Hawthorn said, “there’s always going to be a next time. The country owes you big. I owe you big. It’s time to collect. Retire. Go relax on a beach. Take Wendy and the girls on some fishing trips.”
