by David Spell
The former CIA Director had hand-delivered his letter of resignation to the White House on Wednesday. Tony, the President’s chief-of-staff, had told him that Asher’s schedule was packed that day but said he could have five minutes. Sterling marched across the floor of the Oval Office to stand in front of the President’s desk.
“Mr. President, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Asher did not answer, merely staring at his guest over the top of his glasses, a sheaf of documents in his hand. Maxwell handed over the single sheet of paper to the chief executive. The President read it and dropped the letter onto his desk.
“Who’s the Acting Director?”
“Sir, Vijay Sable is in charge until you appoint someone else. He’s the Director of the Operations Directorate.”
“Very well. You’re free to go. Tony will discuss the details of your severance and have you sign some papers.”
The President went back to reading the report in his hand. Sterling was surprised that Asher had not said more. There was no, ‘Thank you for you service.’ It was more of a, ‘Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.’ He quickly pushed his anger down, knowing that very soon, he would have access to the Oval Office whenever he wanted.
Amari entered the waiting area at Staples, where Maxwell sipped a bottle of Voss Artesian Water.
“You ready for CNN? Let’s head on over so they can fit you with a mic and check your levels. This is just a short, get-to-know you interview. They won’t ask you anything difficult so smile a lot, and reiterate your desire to serve the American people, blah, blah, blah.”
Sterling nodded, letting the Secret Service agents lead him out of the room through a maze of corridors to where CNN had set up their on-site interview room. As they approached the temporary studio, Maxwell noticed a cluster of men in dark suits standing in the hallway. A familiar figure was speaking with Derrick Moss, the popular reporter for the Cable News Network.
That looks like that FBI agent, Thomas Burns, the former CIA Director thought. What’s he doing here? A CNN cameraman was suddenly standing in the corridor, his camera aimed at Sterling. As they got closer, Burns nodded at the lead Secret Service agent, who in turn motioned for his three men to step aside.
“Hello, Maxwell. Congratulations on being picked for the VP,” Thomas smiled.
Conscious of the camera, Sterling forced a smile onto his face and nodded at the FBI agent.
“Thank you. Maybe we can catch up later, but I have an interview I need to get to.”
Several of the other dark-suited men stepped forward as Burns held up some papers.
“Yeah, about that. I don’t think it’s going to work out. I have warrants for your arrest, signed by a federal judge. You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder. I also have multiple warrants here from the British Virgin Islands accusing you of rape, statutory rape, assault, and child abuse.”
Maxwell felt his knees go weak. Before he could even open his mouth to protest, an FBI agent had handcuffed him and was leading him towards the underground parking area where three black SUVs waited. Sterling got a glimpse of a microphone being shoved in front of Agent Burns’ face as Derrick Moss tried to figure out what was going on.
Winchester, Virginia, Saturday, 1925 hours
Chuck stood with Kevin and Andy, discussing the upcoming training they were going to conduct for the FBI. The big man sipped his tumbler of bourbon over ice, glancing at his wife across the room mingling with Sandra, Amy Fleming, Kevin’s wife, and Mabel Perkins. Mabel had held baby Ray most of the evening, the toddler clearly enamored with the older woman.
Beth was wearing a sleeveless black dress that looked amazing on her. She sipped a glass of red wine, looking up to see Chuck staring at her. She smiled brightly, clearly having a nice time at the company event. Dinner was scheduled to be served at 2000 hours.
In another corner of the room, Shaun and Sam were having a conversation with the general. I wonder what that’s about, McCain thought. Probably just Perkins being himself. Even though he was a retired major general, the man had the ability to connect with everyone he came into contact with. Perkins smiled and nodded as Shaun said something, looking into the younger man’s eyes. That’s what leadership looks like, Chuck thought.
McCain was also pleased with how Mercer had taken Taylor under his wing. Shaun had been close to Tim and Tom, their loss leaving a hole in his soul. The retired master sergeant had quickly seen the younger man’s potential and was looking for ways to develop him.
Clark was explaining to Fleming the curriculum they were going to teach the federal agents as the former Marine listened intently, holding a bottle of beer. Andy had been invited to attend the dinner with the idea of asking him to become the training coordinator for the business. Kevin, Chuck, and the general were actually hoping to bring as many of the others on board as they could, or at least keep them busy as contract instructors. At the moment, however, the business still wasn’t generating quite enough cash flow to expand their staff.
The sound of a low-flying helicopter caught everyone’s attention. General Perkins issued an order, sending Mercer and Taylor out of the room. Wallace walked over to where McCain, Clark, and Fleming stood.
“Our guest of honor just arrived,” he said, mysteriously.
Kevin and Chuck glanced at each other and shrugged as Perkins cleared his throat, getting everyone’s attention.
“Mrs. Clark, Mrs. McCain, Mrs. Fleming, I’d like to let you know what’s about to happen. This is the core leadership team for Century Tactical Solutions,” he said, gesturing around the room. “At the same time, we have a financial backer who has chosen to stay in the background for reasons that will become obvious when you meet him. The President of the United States, Benjamin Asher, is joining us for an hour or so. He’d loved to meet each of you, but I must ask that there be no photographs or recording.”
Elizabeth’s eyes met her husband’s, a look of shock on her face. She gave him a slight smile and shook her head in disbelief. A few moments later, the back door opened, admitting four Secret Service agents, led by Sam and Shaun. They looked around the room, the team leader speaking briefly with Perkins. Apparently satisfied, the Secret Service agent spoke into his sleeve indicating the area was secure.
The President entered the room, wearing a blazer over his white shirt with no tie. He smiled and waved at the ladies, making his way to where General Perkins stood with Chuck, Kevin, and Andy. He shook their hands and smiled. His words, however, came out in a growl.
“Introduce me to your wives and then we need to have a chat in the study.”
Asher shook each woman’s hand, giving them his famous grin and speaking briefly with them. He even took a moment to hold Ray, telling Elizabeth, “He’s gonna be a big one like his daddy.”
Ten minutes later, the President, the general, Chuck, Kevin, Sandra, and Andy were all in the study, the door closed. Without asking for permission, Asher poured himself two fingers of Perkins’ whiskey, before turning to look at his companions.
“So, whose bright idea was it to go to war with Mexico?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, McCain spoke up.
“It was my idea, sir.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was my idea,” Clark said.
“It was a collaborative effort, Mr. President,” Perkins added, “but I approved the operation and took responsibility for it.”
“What about you, Staff Sergeant Fleming? I thought Marines had more sense than that?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Andy answered, coming to attention and looking straight ahead, “from one jarhead to another, this was a righteous mission and I was proud to be a part of it.”
The President shook his head. “Marines,” he said, with a sigh, glancing at Sandra who shrugged.
“I wish it had been my idea, sir,” she commented. “I supported the team, but was also involved in something else.”
“Yes, you were
,” Asher smiled. “You certainly were. We’ll talk about that in a minute. Gentleman, if the general hadn’t been able to reach me that morning when you were detained by the Border Patrol, I don’t know that I would’ve been able to help you. If you had been arrested and put into the system, you would’ve been on your own.”
“Sir, we understood what we were doing and the potential consequences,” Chuck said, “but thank you for intervening for us.”
“Mr. President, we apologize for putting you in an awkward and embarrassing situation,” Kevin added, “but we really didn’t see any other option. We had an opportunity to cut the head off another one of the cartels and get a bit of payback for what they did to Sandra.”
Asher shook his head again and took a big swallow of bourbon.
“Awkward is right. El Presidente is still pissed from when I sent the SEALs in last time, along with you three,” he said, pointing at Chuck, Kevin, and Andy. “He’s such an ungrateful SOB. I mean you guys go in and kill around thirty cartel members and snatch one of the up and coming crime lords. You’d think the bastard would be a little more grateful.
“Of course, he didn’t believe me when I told him I didn’t have anything to do with this one. El Presidente ought to be thanking us. Can we come to an agreement here? I want your word that you will not pull another stunt like that without talking to me first. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” everyone in the room spoke up in unison.
“Now, that I’ve chewed on your asses a bit— sorry, Ms. Dunning— I want to talk business for a couple of minutes. In spite of my misgivings, I was very impressed with your work against the cartel and I want to increase my financial contribution substantially. Obviously, the other men and women who were part of this operation are the best of the best and I want them working for Century Tactical. Can we make that happen?”
“Certainly, Mr. President,” Wallace answered. “My only concern is that it’s going to create a much larger payroll and we aren’t exactly a thriving business yet.”
Asher waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got more money than I know how to spend. We’ll figure out a way to make it work. Wallace, can you get me the bank info for everyone who was involved in that mission? They’ll be getting a deposit in the next few days for their hard work.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Thank you for that.”
“Ms. Dunning,” the President continued, “I understand that you had something to do with uncovering some very nasty videos of your former boss, Maxwell Sterling.”
“Yes, sir. We also had some help from a CIA agent who was sent on a mission by Sterling to locate evidence of his crimes so that he could dispose of it. He made her believe that she was looking for evidence linking the late Alfie Nicholson to ISIS. What she found was nothing of the sort.”
“Interesting. Agent Burns shared a few of those details with me. I’d love to meet that CIA agent sometime and hear the entire story. For now, I’d like you to see the result of your efforts, Ms. Dunning. Wallace, can you turn on the television for a couple of minutes? Put it on CNN. They really are fake news but even those lying bastards won’t be able to deny this.”
Two minutes later, the leadership team of Century Tactical and the President of the United States watched as Maxwell Sterling was led away in handcuffs, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
“Special Agent Burns,” Derrick Moss spoke, holding a microphone, “what can you tell us about this? You just arrested the Vice-Presidential candidate for the Democratic Party.”
“That is correct,” Thomas said, looking into the camera. “We actually have warrants on Mr. Sterling from the United States, as well as from the British Virgin Islands. There will be a full press conference later, but he is being charged with conspiracy to commit murder here in the US. In the BVI, a judge has issued warrants for rape, statutory rape, assault, and child abuse. America has a Bilateral Extradition Treaty with the British Virgin Islands, but we’ll have to see how all that will work out since he’s also facing serious charges here.”
“You understand, Agent Burns, this arrest during the Democratic National Convention is going to be viewed as being political in nature, a political hack job. How would you answer that charge?”
The senior FBI agent gave a slight smile and a shrug. “I wouldn’t bother. Once a judge signed those warrants, our job was to arrest the suspect, Maxwell Sterling. We knew he was here and made the arrest as quickly as we could. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
With that, Burns turned to follow the other federal officers out of the Staples Center. The group in the general’s office burst out in applause.
“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Kevin spoke up.
Sandra wiped a tear from her eye. She hadn’t been sure if she would ever see Sterling pay for his attempt to have her killed. Chuck placed a comforting arm over her shoulder as Perkins flipped the television off.
“General,” the President looked over at his friend, “Is it time for dinner? All this drama has made me hungry.”
Later, on their drive home, Ray fell asleep in his car seat five minutes down the road.
“Did you know that was going to happen tonight?” Beth asked.
“That the President was going to show up? No, the general kept that one quiet. I met him once before, when we were finalizing our business plan. He walked into the room and Perkins told us that he was the main money behind our start up.”
Chuck did not tell Beth that the President had also asked Century to create a couple of tactical response teams to go along with the training they were going to provide LE and military units.
“What’d you think?” the big man asked his wife.
“What did I think? I met the President tonight! Who can say that? He was so nice! Thanks, babe. Once again, you gave me the experience of a lifetime.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C., Tuesday, 2255 hours
Sterling sat at his desk, his fifth tumbler of Macallan scotch sitting in front of him. He stared at the screen of his cell phone. He had called Saleem over and over, leaving multiple voice mails. He had also sent texts and emails. Maxwell knew that his own career was over, but he at least wanted to apologize to his friend. Even hurriedly adding Jamal Harris to the ticket as the new VP candidate, Bashir had still dropped twenty points in the polls.
The former head of the CIA had had his arraignment that morning. Sterling had stood with his attorney and entered a ‘not guilty’ plea to two counts of conspiracy to commit murder. Maxwell’s lawyer had waived the preliminary hearing so no evidence had been presented. The federal judge didn’t consider the defendant a flight risk, setting his bail at only a hundred thousand dollars. Sterling was able to use his home as collateral, signing his own bond after the hearing. His lawyer let him know that an extradition hearing was scheduled for the following Monday on the charges pending from the BVI.
That was an even scarier proposition. The idea of standing trial and likely going to prison in a third world country terrified him. Maybe they would let him and Ethan share a cell, he laughed bitterly, sipping his scotch. He intended to fight extradition for as long as he could, but once the nature of his charges got out, Sterling knew he didn’t stand a chance. The court of public opinion was going to crucify him.
Maxwell felt exposed not having the Secret Service detail or his CIA security team around. After trying all afternoon and evening to contact Saleem, Sterling had started drinking. A feeling of desperation washed over him. Maybe I could run away? I’ve got enough money to go to South America somewhere, he thought. He began searching Google for countries that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the US. The power flickered for an instant, the lamp on his desk going off and then immediately coming back on.
“Great, just great,” he mumbled, the alcohol numbing his sense of dread.
“Hello, Maxwell,” an accented voice spoke from the shadows.
&n
bsp; It took Sterling a moment to register the threat. He fumbled with the desk drawer on his right where he kept his Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver.
“Stop! Put your hands flat on the desk.”
Maxwell immediately complied.
“Who…who are you?”
“You know me as ‘Lara.’ We’ve talked online a few times.”
The former CIA chief’s eyes widened.
“This is all your fault! If you had done your job, none of this would be happening to me.”
“You might be right,” the voice said calmly as a figure stepped out of the shadows, a suppressor screwed onto the muzzle of his pistol. “Allah’s will is often different from our own.”
“Allah?” Maxwell slurred. “What the hell does Allah have to do with my life being so screwed up?”
“That is a very deep question that will have to be dealt with in another lifetime. Saleem is very disappointed and angry that you let him down. You told him that your situation had been resolved. Your arrest has humiliated him and very likely cost him the election.”
“I know,” Sterling mumbled, covering his face with his hands, not noticing Lara slip up beside him. “I feel terrible, but he won’t call me back.”
Maxwell turned his head to see a small-framed man with dark hair standing beside the desk, pointing a gun at him. He glanced down to see his drawer open, his revolver missing. No, not missing, he suddenly realized. Lara was holding it in his other hand, both guns aimed at him.
“Yes, Saleem does not want to talk to you now or ever.”
Sterling realized that Lara was moving closer, the revolver pointed at his head, but the whiskey had drastically reduced his reaction time. The former spy chief attempted to turn and grab the intruder’s arm, but Musa easily evaded it, stepping in close to Maxwell and pressing the Smith & Wesson against the side of his head and pulling the trigger.
Ten minutes later, the assassin disappeared into the night.
