CHAPTER 20
Washington, D.C.
CONRAD MICHAELS TOOK ANOTHER SIP of his water and shifted in his seat. He straightened his tie and leaned forward in his seat. Tugging the microphone closer, Michaels cleared his throat before he spoke.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Michaels said. “Can you please repeat the question?”
Greg Yedlin, a senator from California, furrowed his brow and stared at Michaels. “I asked if you would address the recent allegations against you that you evaded taxes. And I’d really like a response.”
Michaels exhaled and stared off pensively. “I have addressed them. I told you and the rest of the media that they were false, completely fabricated.”
“Yet the evidence suggests otherwise.”
“I fail to see what this has to do with the issue at hand,” Michaels said. “Senator, I hope you’re not simply grandstanding in an effort to gain notoriety and subsequently political clout—because I can assure you that your little plan is backfiring.”
“Pardon me, sir,” Yedlin said. “I wasn’t trying to do any of those things. I was simply trying to do my job before you did what you always do. Demean, belittle, disparage—and then you go to great lengths to tell us how smart you are and how we must go along with your little plan no matter what. That’s not the kind of leadership we need in this country.”
Michaels’s eyes narrowed. “And it has nothing to do with the trumped up charges you and your little band of miscreants are investigating, the kind of charges that not even a grand jury would consider. I’m still offended and appalled that you believe I would put my own people in harm’s way. I would never do any such thing. Those operatives out there working hard to put an end to terrorists know that is the most ridiculous allegation levied against me. It reveals what the true nature of these hearings are: to get things out in the open so you can rip me down and ride that wave of public sentiment toward regaining power in the senate. You’re simply too transparent, Senator Yedlin.”
Yedlin adjusted his glasses and stared down at his papers, studying them for a moment before responding.
“I wish we were only under the guise of partisan politics,” Yedlin began, “but I’m afraid that just isn’t true. We’re here because of your gross abuse of power. There are incredible responsibilities required to live in a democratic republic, the least of which is to uphold public trust. And the fact that we’ve all heard the dramatic tape of you suggesting you were willing to put the men and women who serve this great country in harm’s way as a political ploy is beyond revolting. As someone who proudly served in the military—unlike yourself, I might add—I never once questioned whether anything other than the country’s best interests were at heart when we received our marching orders. I never once wondered if the only reason I was going somewhere was to prop up a politician’s favorability ratings. But I’m saddened by the fact that those serving this great country today will now wonder such things.”
Michaels took another sip of water and pointed at Yedlin. “Senator, don’t be reckless. I think we both know you’re just trying to score points with your political base, maybe even bait me into giving you a sound bite that your Super PACs can use in their attack ads when the election cycle begins in earnest. Well, I won’t do it. All I will say is that I serve at the pleasure of the American people. I serve them with fervency and diligence. I serve them because I love this country and want to see it kept safe. I serve them because Washington has suffered long enough under the bloated bureaucracy longtime senators such as yourself have created. You and your ilk have been in this city for two or three decades and have produced little substantive change for the American people who so desperately need it. The citizens of this great country are who I serve, and it’s a shame I’m wasting my time fighting someone who’s supposed to be my ally, not my enemy. But there you sit, trying to score political points like this is a football game. Congratulations, Senator Yedlin, you’ve simply proven yourself to be another example of Washington’s wastefulness. Now, perhaps we can move along so you can stop contributing to global warming with all that hot air you’re spouting off.”
A low roar erupted from the galley as onlookers discussed the heated exchange between the two men. The head of the committee banged a gavel in an attempt to quiet the conversations.
Michaels looked at Fullbright, who flashed the thumbs up sign. The speech was brilliantly rehearsed, one Michaels had worked on for about a week. He’d memorized every line of it and delivered it with all the passion he felt while writing it. It was all how he felt when he first came to Washington, but even Michaels would admit privately that the city’s power was intoxicating. It had consumed him as well, sucked him right into the jetstream like everyone else who’d come to the nation’s capital before him.
But the speech sounded good and was guaranteed to resonate with Americans of all stripes and parties. It was all he needed to sway public opinion back in his favor and make everyone forget about the video they’d seen where Michaels misspoke. In the political climate of the day, misspoke was the excuse du jour whenever a politician said something stupid or made a regrettable comment. These poorly worded statements occurred more often, happening mostly due to the proliferation of recording devices. Apologies alone couldn’t whitewash such statements. Michaels had learned long ago that the only way to survive in politics was to follow up one’s latest sin with a win. Make people forget what they heard and who said it. Remind them why they voted for you in the first place. And it was a winning formula, time tested and proven over and over again. Michaels had practically turned it into an art form.
So skilled was Michaels that the only thing that ever seemed to stick to him was the nickname Mr. Teflon.
CHAPTER 21
Paris, France
HAWK GENTLY AWOKE ALEX, who’d fallen asleep on his shoulder during their final approach. Though he enjoyed watching her sleep, he needed to talk with her. They didn’t have much time to pull off the operation, but success was vital. If Petrov escaped this time, it was anybody’s guess as to when she might resurface. And by then, it would likely be too late.
“Get ready,” Hawk whispered.
Alex opened her eyes, squinting as she looked around the cabin. “What time is it?”
“Time for us to land,” he said.
She sat up in her seat and tightened her seatbelt.
Seconds later, the tires barked as the pilot set the plane down on the runway and then taxied to the executive jet section of Charles De Gaulle Airport. Hawk peered out the window at the blinking lights surrounding the airport and the night skyline serving as a picturesque backdrop. He would’ve preferred his first trip to Paris with Alex to be under a romantic pretense. But their line of work rarely made room for such indulgences, refusing to guarantee them anything but danger and adventure.
“Isn’t this city so beautiful?” she asked, leaning on Hawk’s shoulder.
He put his arm around her and pulled her tight. “Maybe we can make another trip here sometime and enjoy Paris for what it is.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Once they came to a halt, the team deplaned and went through a watered-down customs process. Their aliases and fake passports withstood the scrutiny of a fastidious customs officer, who defied the norm for even France’s open border policy.
After they cleared customs, Blunt sent a man to meet them and brief them on the situation on the ground. Strikingly tall, Ned Villareal shook each person’s hand before ushering them toward his vehicle.
“I didn’t know Blunt had people working for him in Paris,” Samuels said.
Villareal chuckled. “How long have you been working with Senator Blunt? A week? Two?”
“Sounds about right,” Samuels said.
“Then you haven’t been around him enough to know just how well connected your boss is. He was supposedly dead at one point, but I knew better. No one would take down J.D. Blunt so easily. He might as well be immortal.”
“How lon
g have you worked for him?” Hawk asked.
Villareal turned on the blinker as he changed lanes. “For the better part of the past decade, but it’s just spot work. Whenever he needs a hand with surveillance or if he wants to confirm a rumor, he contacts me.”
“So, who’s your actual employer?” Samuels asked.
Villareal smiled and wagged his finger. “Now, that is not a question I will answer under any circumstances, but you’re free to make all the suppositions you like. Just don’t expect me to confirm or deny any of them.”
Hawk shifted in his seat. “So, tell us what we’re up against here with Petrov and the rest of The Chamber.”
Villareal shrugged. “The usual suspects—tight security, multiple plans, armored body guards, bullet proof convoy vehicles, and an airport checkpoint that will be next to impossible to get into without proper credentials. And weapons? Forget about trying to get them in.”
“No weapons?” Hawk asked as he furrowed his brow.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered. The weapons are already safe and sound, hidden at the airport. Getting them out so you can use them is going to be your biggest challenge by far.”
Hawk exhaled as he stared out the window at the traffic crawling through the city. “From the way you’re talking, it sounds like this operation’s only chance is if it were to occur at the airport. Is that correct?”
Villareal nodded. “That’s a correct assumption. You have little chance of pulling off any kind of op away from the confines of the airport.”
“But we’re far more likely to get caught.”
Villareal shook his head. “No, you’ve got it backward, my friend. You’re far less likely to get caught in that environment. Too many ways out of the city from there. The checkpoint can easily be evaded.”
“How easily?” Samuels asked from the backseat.
“Do you know why there are so many terrorist attacks in France, Mr. Samuels?” Villareal said, not waiting for Samuels to answer. “It’s because it’s such an easy thing to do. Easy to get in and easy to disappear. It’s a nightmare if you’re in law enforcement and want to keep tabs on the goings on of your city.”
“Then this knife cuts both ways,” Hawk said.
“Yes, but it will cut in your favor if you are as good as advertised,” Villareal said. “At least, if you’re as good as Blunt makes you out to be. He sings your praises as if you were the best agents on the planet.”
Hawk nodded confidently. “We’re better than advertised then?”
Villareal shot a sideways glance at Hawk. “Even with your rookie back there?”
“That rookie has already saved my life,” Hawk said. “I wouldn’t call him a rookie any more.”
Villareal flashed a quick grin. “Maybe you’re the one who’s washed up then.”
“Maybe, but I’m not quitting until I either get killed or stop Petrov. Those are the only two choices for me.”
“You do what you need to do,” Villareal said as he drove into a parking deck and went down several stories before pulling into a parking spot. “Let’s hustle inside where we can talk more about what you need to do if you intend on stopping Petrov.”
CHAPTER 22
New York City
LEE HENDRIDGE HAD BARELY been back in the U.S. for a full day before he was itching to get back to work. His editor, Janet Carlisle, told him to take off all the time he needed. He rested in bed for a day before deciding he needed to head to the office.
As he walked down Eighth Street, Hendridge viewed his pedestrian commute through new eyes. The time he’d spent in the charge of harsh Al Hasib taskmasters induced a type of soul searching he didn’t expect. Before he embarked to cover the burgeoning conflict in the Middle East where terrorist groups like Al Hasib were ransacking nearby nations in coordinated attacks, Hendridge saw visions of Pulitzer Prizes dancing in his dreams. When he left, he could only see the death and destruction visited upon a people who were often mischaracterized, even by others who claimed to share the same faith. The children begging in the streets, the rotting stench of death, the oppressive feeling of hopelessness—it all weighed on him, a weight far too great for any one person to bear. And because of that overwhelming sense of despair, Hendridge needed to get to work.
Hendridge needed to do something different for a change, something positive, something that mattered. He no longer aspired to win awards for notoriety’s sake—or even to stroke his own ego. He simply wanted his journalism to make a difference in the lives of people. And the people he decided to apply his new outlook on journalism to were Hawk, Alex, and Samuels, the team that saved him when they could’ve easily left him.
“What are you—?” Carlisle said as she looked up from her morning coffee to see Hendridge standing in her doorway. “I thought I told you to stay home, take the week off, take the month off, take all the—”
“I can’t sit still,” Hendridge said. “Not any more, not after what happened to me.”
She gestured toward the chair across the desk in front of her. “What did happen to you out there?”
Hendridge pulled the chair out and sat down. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet. I mean, it was deeply personal. When I’ve heard of other people discuss stories of survival in the past, I’ve shrugged and wondered why people hailed them as heroes, especially when they were getting paid handsomely to share their stories. How much of it was even true at that price? How do we even know if it’s real?”
“And now?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.
“It was more real than I knew, more real than I would’ve ever wanted it to be. The pain was real, both physical and emotional. The abuse was—it was non-stop. The beatings, the mental torture, all of it. I thought I was going insane for a while. And I’d just about given up hope.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“No, I did,” Hendridge said. “Except those sneaky little bastards never let me near a sharp object. I’m sure it’s because they knew what I would’ve done had I been left alone with a knife for more than five minutes. I certainly wouldn’t be here speaking to you now, that much I know.”
“So, how’d you make it?”
“You know those guys wanted for the murder of all those German bankers, the ones in the news?” he asked.
“How’d you know about that?”
He forced a chuckle. “Even terrorists want to read their own press. I also found out they read The Times every day.”
“Maybe we can put that in our next advertising campaign,” she deadpanned.
“That could be a public relations nightmare, but it is good to know.”
“Getting back to what you said earlier, the team of operatives saved you?” Carlisle asked.
“They could’ve left me for dead, too,” Hendridge said. “They were captured by some Al Hasib agents while trying to make a getaway. They almost got me free too but failed.”
“And what were you doing during this time?”
“I was just bouncing around like a rag doll,” he said. “I had no real purpose, let alone a desire to live. I would’ve preferred to get left behind at that point, but they refused to leave me alone.”
“And here you are.”
“It wasn’t quite that simple,” he said with a smile. “There were many other obstacles to get past in order to make it to this point, but here I am.”
“So, what do you want to do about it now? Want to tell your story?”
He nodded imperceptibly. “In time—but for now, I’d like to focus on clearing the names of those agents. I can’t believe they did what they’re accused of doing. And if they did it, I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation.”
“Reasonable explanation for picking off a bunch of leaders of the German banking industry? Perhaps you bumped your head,” she said.
He leaned forward in his chair. “Really? That’s how you’re going to treat me? I’m a damn hero for journalists and you want to make a comment like that?”
/> “You’re not a hero, Hendridge,” she said, eyeing him closely. “You’re a shill.”
“A shill? For who?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Hell yeah, it matters. You think I’m making this stuff up.”
She bit her lip and thought for a moment. “Let’s just say you have a reputation around the newsroom for embellishing. And quite frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if this whole story you’re pushing is, shall we say, enhanced.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Hendridge said as he stood. “I would never make up anything in print.”
“Maybe, but this hasn’t gone to print yet. You’ve never been the subject of intense scrutiny like this story will be sure to bring. If you try to peddle this fiction, plenty of people are going to try and poke holes in it. You’ll be found out.”
“Do you plan on being one of those people?”
“I plan on vetting this story just like any other. And we’re going to need multiple sources to verify it. I’m surely not about to run a first-person piece from you on your alleged kidnapping.”
“Alleged? Do you honestly think I would do this to myself?”
She laughed and waved him off. “Nothing your generation does surprises me any more. From the generation who made the vapid Kardashians famous, we have other people who will follow in their footsteps to gain fame, power, or wealth. And in your case, maybe all three.”
“If this is a joke, I don’t find it very funny. I almost died out there because I was just doing my job. Nobody else wanted this assignment. You only had one taker—and that was me, the only idiot brave enough to venture to the Middle East on this ridiculous assignment.”
She rubbed her forehead and picked up her phone, distracted by the vibrating pulses. For a few seconds, she stared at the screen before turning her attention back to Hendridge.
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