Silent Threat

by Jeff Gunhus

  Omega worried him, too. Sending Roberts to kill him had been a bold move executed with subtle tactics. If Roberts was to be believed, even he didn’t understand he was being played for a pawn in their game. If Roberts had been successful, then it never would have been traced back to Omega. The perfect alibi. Smart. But the fact that he was still breathing showed it hadn’t been smart enough. Even the mighty Omega, with its tentacles seeming to spread into every organization around the world, wasn’t infallible.

  But they were tenacious. And he worried that they would try again.

  Still, Omega’s modus operandi was to stay in the shadows. He doubted an assault in the immediate future. Besides, Roberts had assured that his personal protection unit had been beefed back up to nearly where it had been while he was in office. The Secret Service’s embarrassment meant he would be safe. For a while at least.

  And during that time, he intended to have some fun. It’d been a while since he’d had popular support. Even the last two years of his presidency had been a real drag. The Democrats had wiped the floor with his party in the midterm elections of his second term, running the whole thing as a referendum on him. Once they retook control of the House, the oxygen had been sucked out from his entire legislative agenda. He’d been a lame duck from the day after the election until he left office as one of the most unpopular presidents in American history. Approval ratings even lower than Bush the Younger. That hurt.

  No, he had to think back to his first days in office to remember a time when he’d had this much fun. That had been far better, of course. The media reporting on his every move. The entire world voraciously digesting every utterance from his mouth. The way entire markets rose or fell just from a sentence or two spoken to the press pool. The feeling of power had been intoxicating, and he’d reveled in it.

  His kidnapping and assault had created a media buzz and an interest in him that felt very much like those heady early days. Roberts had been right about that. Reporters who’d come after him with knives and flamethrowers when they tore down his White House until it was no more than rubble, fawned over his condition, expressing admiration for his resilience and positive attitude. One of the anchors on Fox News actually choked up, live on air, at the sight of the ex-president with his bruised face and swollen eye.

  The environmental angle couldn’t have been working better. As a conservative Republican, no one in his party had seen it coming when he’d declared his support for climate change initiatives toward the end of his presidency. Of course, the punditry had decried it as a desperate bid for relevancy at best, or an attempt to distract from his administration’s many scandals at worst.

  Truth was, he’d never bought into the climate change deniers who filled the right wing of his party. But he loved the contribution checks they wrote, so he’d been happy to join the anti-science chorus throughout his career, calling into doubt the truth of climate change, even in the face of near consensus among the world’s most brilliant minds. Once it was clear his presidency was going down the toilet bowl of history, especially once those same ignorant, science haters turned their backs on him, he’d taken off the shackles and committed the cardinal sin in politics. He’d told people how he really felt.

  It’d gone well enough. Some commentators had even compared him to Nixon going to China back in the seventies. Just as it took a conservative to reach out to China, because a liberal would have been suspected of caving to socialism, a conservative breaking ranks and trumpeting climate change was enough to create a national conversation. Until the CIA scandal; then it was back to being compared to Nixon for other reasons.

  But, thanks to the short attention span of the American people, that was ancient history now.

  Today, he was an American hero again. And damn if it didn’t feel good.

  “Mr. President, I have to say, your willingness to excuse this outrageous attack is leaving some people surprised,” the CNN anchor said. The camera was set up in the living room of his Lincoln Park home. A location suddenly with a much-improved security detail since the events the day before.

  Townsend smiled and then winced just enough for effect. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a black eye to keep me down. Besides, I understand what these young people who grabbed me are so worried about. The Earth is in trouble and we need to take action to save it.”

  “You said young people,” the anchor said. “Earlier you said your kidnappers wore masks and you were not able to determine any specifics about them. How do you know they were young?”

  Townsend was sure that viewers watching the interview would be leaning forward, loving the feeling that a gotcha moment was about to happen on live TV. But the anchor had walked right into where he’d wanted. “I assume they were young because they weren’t aware of everything I’ve done for the environment. That I was not only on their side, but actually an environmental activist. If you remember, during my administration, we . . .” And then he was off to the races on a hit parade of his accomplishments.

  After the light went off on the camera, the members of his staff in the room broke out in applause. Townsend knew they were kissing his ass, and he loved it.

  Mirren, his chief of staff, walked up and handed him a printout. “The media requests keep pouring in,” she said. “National shows are lined up. The local shows are listed below for you to choose from. We also have to decide if we want to do late-night and who first.”

  Townsend stood, enjoying the adrenaline high he was on, and took the paper offered him. Another aide, a young man whose name he’d never bothered to learn, rushed forward to hand him a coffee. Townsend took a sip. Prepared exactly as he liked it. “We need that date for a climate conference. Something to announce on these shows.”

  “Greenpeace has a conference in Miami next month. Sierra Club has something in two weeks. Or we have the option to create our own if we don’t want to piggyback on something already set up.”

  “Let’s see what the capacity is for their events and then think through the pros and cons of both options.”

  “All that is in the briefing paper,” Mirren said, clearly pleased with herself for anticipating his question.

  And he was pleased. His staff had come to life the same way he had. Instead of sitting on retirement watch, they were standing, at least for a news cycle or two, at the center of the universe.

  Townsend glanced at his watch. “When’s the next interview?”

  “You have a ten-minute break. Then it’s MSNBC. Also, Patterson’s staff called again to set up a call. You want me to put him off again?”

  “I’m not talking to him.”

  “It’s awkward for the sitting president not to be able to say he spoke to his predecessor after such a public attack.”

  “Awkward? Kind of like it was awkward when he asked me not to campaign for him? Asked me to not speak at his nominating convention? To hell with Patterson.”

  Mirren glanced over at the camera operator, then at the other staff in the room who were all studiously pretending they hadn’t heard the outburst. “But we’re trying to change—”

  Townsend held up a hand to stop her. Under his breath, for her ears only, he said, “Tell them I’ll say we spoke. He can say the same. It’s good for both of us. And better for me that I don’t have to talk to the son of a bitch.”

  “You got it.”

  His phone rang in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and recognized the number. “I’ll be in my study. No one disturbs me.”

  He answered the phone. “Hold on,” he said, then lowered it from his ear as he walked out of the room, across the foyer, and into his study. His heart pounded in his chest. This was the phone call he’d been waiting for. He took a deep breath, then raised the phone to his ear. “You know who did this to me, don’t you?”

  Jim Hawthorn answered without hesitation. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Did you send him?”

  “C’mon, Preston.”

  “Was it you?”

&nb
sp; A long pause. Then, “I think we need to talk. It’s time.”

  “So talk. This is a secure line.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you? I’ll come out. Tomorrow.”

  Townsend hesitated, working through the optics of Hawthorn walking up to his front door in front of the press pool that had gathered on the street outside. He’d be able to work up some kind of excuse. Besides, an active government official coming to check up on his well-being only made him look more powerful.

  “Okay, tomorrow. But if you don’t shoot me straight and give me some goddamn answers, I’m going to tell my new Secret Service detail to give you a body cavity search. Right now, they’re not inclined to tell me no.”

  “The shiner looks good on TV,” Hawthorn said. “Those global warming activists sure pack a punch.”

  The line went dead. Just like Hawthorn to get in the last word. Townsend clenched his hand around the phone and nearly hurled it against the wall, but he stopped himself. All of his favorite photos of himself covered nearly every square inch, and he didn’t want to damage any of them.

  A soft knock came on the door. It was Mirren. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. But we’re one minute out from the MSNBC interview.”

  He smiled. Another dose of adulation and sympathy was just what the doctor ordered. He touched his fingers to the bruise around his eye and then poked at it violently. It hurt like hell, but he wanted it as angry-looking as possible on TV. He opened the door and grinned at Mirren, ready for his close-up.

  CHAPTER 17

  Finding the place hadn’t been that hard even though Asset doubted the Secret Service would even look for it. The story told by Townsend had thrown them off the scent of the actual people responsible for his kidnapping and beating, and no one had questioned the ex-president’s version of events.

  Because what possible reason would an ex-president of the United States have for looking into camera after camera on the news programs to lie to the American people about who’d so easily defeated his Secret Service protective detail, beat him bloody, and then dumped him in the bottom of a closet? If the truth ever came out, Townsend was going to set a new record for least popular ex-president. A record he already held.

  But Asset knew Scott and Mara Roberts had been the perpetrators of this particular crime. He also knew someone had to provision them for the assault, and that it had to be someone Roberts trusted. If it was some regular black-market purchase, a patriotic seller might have put two and two together after seeing the details of the attack on TV and decided it was their American duty to call in a tip to the authorities. Anonymously, of course. Patriotism only went so far.

  As Asset got out of the car, he thought about his own love for his adopted country. Serbia held no part of his heart. But there’d been a time when Mother Russia had meant something to him. No, it’d meant everything to him. But that was a long time ago, in a different world where a nineteen-year-old version of himself wore a uniform without a shred of cynicism, only pride. That kid was gone, scoured faceless in the mountains of Afghanistan and deserts of Syria. Damaged by what he’d seen, then destroyed by what he’d done in revenge.

  Still, after all the years of chiseling his psyche into its current perfect version of a paid killer, the order to kill a U.S. president had caught him off guard. He knew America. He’d studied her as he would any adversary, recognizing both her beautiful strengths and her terrible weaknesses. Americans failed to comprehend just how omnipresent the U.S. was in the world’s psyche, but Asset understood perfectly. An ex-president, even one universally despised like Townsend, was part of not only the country’s inherent fabric, but the world’s as well. Killing him was going to be news that reached into every far corner of the globe. Parts of the world would cheer when they heard, but it was destined to raise a rage in America not seen since the attacks of 9/11.

  The immensity of the act made him pause. Made him question. Made him doubt.

  Made him feel weak.

  And there was nothing he despised more.

  He used his training to transform the anger he felt at his own emotions into fierce intention. This was a job, just like any other. The next time he had the president in his sights, he wouldn’t allow such weakness to slow him down.

  The street was empty except for some dogs digging through a pile of trash to his right. He took in the cameras positioned around the perimeter of the building and felt a small rush of appreciation for a fellow perfectionist. His contacts in the area had pulled Harold “Harry” Walker’s name out of the air for him within an hour of his first inquiry. There were a couple other men in the city who could have provided the supplies, and a crazy lady who operated a gun hall out of Chinatown, but Harry Walker was the one who did it.

  Ex-Marine.

  Ex-contractor for the CIA.

  Ex-friend of Scott Roberts.

  Soon-to-be ex-weapons dealer in Chicago’s South Side.

  Only, he wasn’t really a dealer. According to his sources, Harry bought guns to get them off the streets, paying top dollar for the real powerful, destructive stuff that had no place in an American city. Take the money and run. No questions asked.

  But he still serviced a handful of high-end pros from the old days, agents who did private protection work or corporate espionage gigs.

  Or helped an old friend kidnap a president.

  He opened the door to the pawnshop and walked inside.

  * * *

  The place looked like any other pawnshop. Mostly junk that no one wanted or needed. A sad shrine to people’s failing fortunes, a battlefield graveyard in their desperate fight to stave off hitting rock bottom.

  “Can I help you?” a gangly young man spoke up from behind the U-shaped counter. He wore a jacket that was too big for him and he slouched, but neither of those fooled Asset. The smallest movements, the smooth glide of the man’s hands across the glass countertop, tipped him off that the man was someone to be reckoned with.

  “Here to see Harry Walker,” he said.

  “He’s not here. What can I help you with?”

  Asset looked up to the camera mounted on the ceiling nearest him. “Just a few minutes of your time, Mr. Walker. I’m friends with Cedric Rol.”

  “Look, mister,” the young man said. “Maybe you don’t hear so good, but I said Harry’s not here. Now, if you’re looking for some baseball cards or an iPhone 5 with a cracked screen, I can hook you up.”

  Asset remained staring at the camera, ignoring the man. He spread his arms and lifted his sports jacket to show his beltline.

  “Whitey, check him,” came a voice over an overhead speaker.

  The young man showed no sign he was embarrassed that he’d been caught in a lie. He deadpanned, “What do you know. Looks like Harry’s here after all.”

  He walked out from behind the counter and motioned for Asset to raise his arms again. Asset complied and Whitey gave him a rough pat down. When he felt up his groin, Asset whispered, “Shake it more than twice means you’re playing with it.”

  Whitey stepped back and nodded to the camera.

  The back door buzzed and a tall African American man with a white beard stepped out. He didn’t look too happy to see him. “Cedric usually lets me know if he’s sending someone over. He didn’t mention you.”

  “We both know Cedric Rol is dead, Mr. Walker,” Asset said. His eyes danced over the wall behind the old man. He spotted a hole where a gun muzzle appeared, trained on him. This was going to be more difficult than he’d planned, but nothing he couldn’t handle. “But I believe we both knew him.”

  Harry made a show of leaning back against the counter, his arms spread wide. To most people it would look like he was making himself vulnerable as a sign of trust. But it was an easy gesture with two other guns backing him up. One behind the wall. And the young kid, Whitey, had taken a position behind him. Still nothing he couldn’t work with. He’d kill the two backups and then take his time with the old man. If there were more men in the back, t
hey might prove a complication, but he didn’t think there were. Otherwise there’d be a third gun on him.

  “Maybe we did,” Harry said. “Maybe we didn’t. Still not a fan of someone comin’ in my store without a little heads-up about it. Makes me feel, I don’t know, a little nervous.”

  Asset didn’t like this man. He was arrogant. Disrespectful. He felt a small rush as he clicked through the options he’d employ to get him to talk. Even after he told him everything he knew about Scott and Mara Roberts, Asset promised himself a little extra time with the bastard to make him pay for his disrespect. It was an indulgence, but all work and no play, as the saying went.

  He searched the walls around him until he found what he needed. A mirror, half covered with the Pabst Blue Ribbon logo, hung at just the right angle to show him the young man behind him. His eyes darted there for only a second, but it was enough for Harry to notice.

  “Whitey, watch out for—”

  But he never finished the sentence.

  Asset had his phone out of his pocket, spun, and hurled it at Whitey’s head. The kid’s reflexes were good, but not good enough. Instead of hitting him square between the eyes, the phone hit his right temple and careened off.

  Whoever was behind the wall either had slow reflexes or much better ones than his friend, because no shot was fired. Whitey was lucky either way. Asset had already dropped to the ground, so a shot at him would have struck the guy he’d just beaned with his phone.

  Using the second of confusion, Asset launched himself forward across the ground, sweeping the man’s leg and then crawling over him like a snake wrapping up its prey.

  As he did, he felt a bulge on the man’s waistline. A second later he had Whitey’s knife held up to his throat.

  The man tensed and then went still.