by Sean McFate
“What’s the matter? Scared I’m going too fast?” she said with a smirk.
“Nope. We’re all good here,” he lied, reaching for the seat belt.
Where have I seen him before? she thought as they topped 100 mph. The road narrowed and got dark, until it came to an abrupt end. Lin stomped the breaks and Locke braced himself as the Mini Cooper screeched sideways to a stop.
They were under an enormous stone trestle bridge, the type constructed by the great works programs of the 1930s. Above was a multilane highway that spanned the river and connected Georgetown to Interstate 66. Lin cut the engine. No one was down here at this hour, and the huge trestle hid them from helicopters and street cameras.
“Nice spot,” said Locke, impressed, getting out of the car.
“Hey! Stay in the car!” shouted Lin, but he walked into the darkness. “Where are you going? Get back in here!” Locke continued to ignore her. Damn him! she thought, unbuckling and grabbing her Saiga. When she stepped out, he was gone. She looked back at the car and saw his H&K had disappeared, too. She had chosen this spot because of its seclusion. It never occurred to her that it was also the perfect place for a psycho to murder her.
This is bad, she thought. The only sound was highway traffic above, and the stranger had disappeared. He was her last, best clue. I’ve come too far to turn around now, she thought, furtively moving into the boatyard. He could be anywhere, watching me. Her heart raced, and she paused to breathe and calm down. Her father used to say: If you face just one opponent, and you doubt yourself, you’re out-numbered.
You got this, girl, she told herself as she breathed through her fear. Ahead stood the boathouse, a green barn with white trim. Beyond was the river. Lin snuck forward, maximizing the shadows.
“Over here,” came a whisper from around the corner, on the dock. It was Tom, but she didn’t want to answer and give away her position. It could be a trap.
“Over here,” he whispered again. Lin froze and listened, trying to discern his exact location, but heard nothing.
“Hey! Are you coming?” he shouted. Lin wheeled around the boathouse’s corner, Saiga at the ready. Before her was a wooden dock the size of a small parking lot. It was painted red with a big white star in the middle. There stood Locke, the H&K dangling by his side as he stared across the river.
“What are you doing?” she asked, lowering the Saiga slightly.
“I missed this. Seeing this. Smelling the air. America.”
Where have I seen him before? The thought nagged her. She scrutinized his figure, but it was dark out. “Who are you?”
“I told you. My name is Tom—”
“That’s not what I meant,” she interrupted.
“Ah. Well,” he paused. “That’s more complicated.”
“There was a helicopter battle on the National Mall, a whole bunch of SUVs got blown away by missiles, and I find you bound and gagged upside down in one of them. Who were they? Why was there combat on the National Mall? How is that even possible?! Answers, now!” she demanded.
Locke sighed and walked over to the edge of the water. Lin followed cautiously, Saiga up.
Suddenly Lin realized where she had seen him before, and felt faint. His face was all over the news. He was the one everyone was looking for, the mastermind behind the death of the vice president and 230 Americans. He was extremely dangerous.
“Stop! Don’t move. You’re the nuclear terrorist, Tom Locke,” she said, stepping rearward and aiming the Saiga at his back, but the muzzle shook nervously.
“Don’t believe everything in the news,” he said quietly.
“Lose the weapon. Lose it!” she commanded, and he let it slip off his shoulder and clank to the ground. “Kick it into the water!” He only kicked it four feet down the dock.
Damn him, she thought, knowing it was out of reach yet too close. However, she dared not interrupt the cuffing procedure. It was the most dangerous part of an arrest, and mistakes get cops killed.
“Get your hands up! Higher!” she said as he slowly raised both hands. “Get on one knee!” He did. “Now the other. Place both hands on the ground! Now lie down, on your stomach, and cross your ankles!”
Locke complied, still looking at the far shoreline.
Lin felt giddy inside. If she bagged Tom Locke, the FBI would have to reinstate her. She couldn’t believe her luck. “Put your arms out to the side, and face right.” He did, laying prone in a T position. Cautiously she moved around to his left side, where he could not see her, pointing her weapon.
“You have the right to remain silent,” she began while pulling out the handcuffs. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” She knelt down by his left arm and slung the Saiga over her back. “You have the right to an attorney.” She grabbed his wrist and twisted it in a joint lock, making him grunt in pain. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
Lin knelt on his scapula while moving his wrist behind his back with both hands, the Saiga slung across her back. As soon as the metal touched Locke’s skin, his body snapped into a crescent moon on his right side like a sprung trap. The force threw Lin backward, and the cuffs slipped from her hands and bounced into the river.
Crap! she thought, then spotted the H&K assault rifle a few feet from him. CRAP! He’s going for it! But he didn’t. As she pulled the Saiga over her head and into a firing position, Locke stepped forward, grabbed her arm, spun around her front and catapulted her into a rack of life preservers. The Saiga flew through the air, landing in the middle of the dock not far from the H&K. Lin was buried in a mound of orange, gasping for breath.
You like to play rough. So do I. Lin rocked on her back, then kicked forward, landing on her feet. Locke was moving for the weapons. She grabbed a paddle and threw it like a javelin, hitting him in the head.
“Ow!” he yelped, staggering sideways while clasping his skull. She sprinted toward him and executed a perfect flying kick, five feet above the ground, and impacted his chest. Locke hurtled backward into a rack of upright metal canoes, which then collapsed on him.
“OW!” she heard from beneath the mound of metal. Lin smiled. The canoes started rustling, and Locke emerged both angry and bewildered.
“You want to dance? Let’s dance,” he sputtered, clambering to his feet and assuming a fight stance.
“I doubt you have the skills to be my dance partner,” she taunted back, settling into her own stance. “I expect your moves won’t satisfy me.”
“They will take your breath away, guaranteed,” he said, as they circled around the weapons in the middle of the dock.
Lin attacked first and fast, landing critical hits despite his blocks. Locke tried to keep up, but she was a tornado of speed, anticipating his every reaction. In a four-move combo, she delivered a devastating reverse roundhouse kick to his torso, taking him by surprise and flipping him on his ass.
Coughing, Locke stumbled up as she stood, arms crossed, smiling. “OK, that was a pretty good move,” he admitted. “But I got stamina.”
Locke launched into her, using elbows and knees like a prison fighter. Locke and Lin were a blur of limbs and grunts. She was quick but he was solid, absorbing massive damage and recovering quickly. He landed fewer blows, but each one made her body whither. Locke was slowly driving her to the water’s edge.
Crap, he’s good, she realized. Time to end this before I get wet. In a fiery combo, she blocked a punch and threw a palm heel to his nose. But Locke was quick, ducking her hand and smashing his left forearm into her abdomen, buckling her, and did a double leg takedown. They landed with a mutual gasp inches from the dock’s edge, her long hair in the water and Locke on top between her legs, inches from her face.
Locke smiled. She grimaced. Both were breathing heavily. Lin looked like she might kiss him but headbutted him instead, then rolled on top of him as he cringed in pain. Sitting back on his abdomen, she smiled with triumph.
“Ow!” he muttered, rubbing hi
s nose. “That hurt.”
“Had enough?” she gasped between breaths, still sitting on him. They were spent.
“We could go on like this all night, nonstop,” said Locke hoarsely, in between gulps of air.
Lin’s pulse was still racing, and she struggled to slow her breathing. She tried to speak but could only manage: “Uh-huh.”
Moments later, he said, “That was . . . incredible.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re really amazing, you know that?”
“Uh-huh.” A few seconds passed. “You’re not bad yourself, Tom Locke.”
He smiled. “I told you I had moves.”
“Yeah, I bet you would make a good dance partner,” she said and they both chuckled awkwardly as she slid off of him. She wanted to arrest him, but she was too exhausted and had lost her handcuffs in the river. She would have to figure out another way.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jennifer Lin. People call me Jen.”
Locke turned his head to see her. Lin’s body lay still, except her breasts, which moved up and down with each breath. Even in the dark, her profile was undeniably alluring, even though she had kicked his ass.
Locke eyed the H&K and Saiga, somehow untouched during the fight. “You’re not going to arrest me now, are you?” he asked half-jokingly.
“Not sure yet,” she replied half-seriously.
Locke rolled on his side to face her and was taken aback by her physical splendor. She lay with her arms and legs sprawled out, and her long black hair cast to the right, as if blown. Her face was luminous against the night environs and her dark cloths. She was a Rembrandt.
“Are you gawking at me?” she asked.
“Only a little.”
She rolled to face him and smiled.
Chapter 42
Jackson sat in his office, hands clasped under his nose as we watched the news. The TV was muted to block the news anchor’s ravings, but the pictures were devastating. A Little Bird burned in front of the Vietnam Memorial, like an apocalyptic shrine. Another lay at the foot of the Smithsonian Castle. A Sikorsky S-97 helicopter was in an impact crater near the Reflecting Pool. The carcasses of three armored SUVs with armed men—“Terrorists,” as the press dubbed them—were scattered in the tree line off the Mall, and shreds of a civilian car hung in the trees. The body count was twenty-four and rising. Jackson also knew a Blackhawk full of Tier One operators was missing and presumably at the bottom of the Potomac.
“What a clusterfuck,” uttered Jackson, his hands trembling. It was beyond an official Charlie Foxtrot; it was worst case. Hysteria had set in, and I-95 was backed up as people fled the city for fear of follow-on terrorist attacks. Black smoke wafted through downtown Washington like a warzone.
The news dubbed it the “Battle on the Mall” and compared it to the 1812 British invasion, except the enemy was nuclear terrorists. At least the media was framing it as a win for America: the military had foiled the biggest terrorist attack in American history. But the world still lay in shock and disbelief. If this could happen to the U.S.’s capital, then where was safe?
Christ, Jackson thought. What the hell happened? It was a simple show of force. Winters wasn’t supposed to fight back. Now what? Jackson was still processing the implications. He got the call from the Situation Room around 2 a.m., when the battle was taking place. At first, he didn’t believe it, and then rushed to the White House. Things got worse from there.
How can I use this disaster for good? he thought, crossing his arms and legs. Think, think, THINK! If this attack galvanized the American people against its enemies, it could be harnessed for good. But it would have to start with the president. I need to make him think it’s his idea. He imagined the president giving the Churchillian speech of his career, something akin to Sir Winston’s rousing “We Shall Fight on the Beaches” address, which he’d given to the House of Commons at the outbreak of World War II.
Yes, it could work, he thought, sitting back with a partial smile. America focuses on external threats rather than internal bickering, the president sets his legacy, and Jackson shepherds the United States into a new era of vigilance.
But there was still one big problem. At the moment, no one knew of Apollo Outcomes’ involvement, but they would. When they did, the trail might lead to him. Jackson turned pale and felt woozy. Clever people would figure it out in hours, if not sooner. The dead Sikorsky S-97 guaranteed that. Where did Winters get one of those? Jackson didn’t know the helicopter was in production, much less illegally sold to a corporation. Deal with that later, he thought. In the meantime, he needed to find a way to distance himself from Apollo Outcomes and tie Winters to all the terrorist attacks, present one included.
All is not lost. I can still salvage the situation, he mused. He could downplay his connections to everything. After all, he had taken extraordinary care not to ever be seen with the man, and everything Winters might accuse him of could be denied.
What did the old CIA used to say? thought Jackson with a grin. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counteraccusations.
Winters, you are going down.
Jackson resolved to blame it all on Winters, and why not? For if there was anyone to blame, it was that perfidious cretin. The evidence was overwhelming, but it needed marshaling for investigators to reach the appropriate conclusions. Manipulating bureaucratic agendas was Jackson’s forte.
Smiling, Jackson picked up his phone. “Give me the FBI Director.”
“Yes sir,” said the voice on the other end, as he was placed on hold.
I’ll turn this misfortune into a fortune, he thought. The original scheme of framing terrorists for the bridge assassination was unraveling, as the FBI began questioning the ability of any group to organize such a sophisticated attack. Worse, someone in the FBI was leaking this conclusion to the press, and now everyone was focusing on Russia. Jackson now needed everyone’s attention to shift one last time to Winters. The evidence would be overwhelming were it nudged into the light.
I need a new fall guy, and Winters is perfect, thought Jackson. The solution had both elegance and rectitude, giving Winters what he opulently deserved. And it would be easy. In the Japanese martial art of aikido, you use the enemy’s weight against him. Jackson would aikido Winters. He would put the FBI on the scent of the Sikorsky S-97, and that would lead them to Apollo and then, ultimately, Winters. If the Bureau veered down the wrong path, Jackson would lay breadcrumbs to get them back on the trail, and burn any investigator who got too close to him. Child’s play, he thought.
“Where’s the FBI director?” asked Jackson.
“Still waiting.”
“Try his other numbers.”
“I’m doing that, sir.”
Jackson’s mind drifted back to his escape plan. After the call, he would initiate a whisper campaign against Winters. A few leaked fake documents and accompanying deep background conversations with key journalists should do the trick. He would “accidentally” let slip something about a rogue mercenary company that attempted a shadow coup d’etat in the United States, and how he’d squashed it in the night. Unthinkable! Outrageous! Shocking! It was just the sort of claptrap the press ate up. Told enough times, it would eventually become reality in the minds of many.
But will it be enough to convince the president? thought Jackson with a frown. His own role with Winters was complicated, even though he’d covered his tracks expertly. Still, there were tracks. Jackson exhaled a worried sigh. POTUS possessed the worst sort of mind to influence—stubborn—and the man had a legendary temper that got in the way of, well, everything. Much of Jackson’s job was anger management.
“Sir, I’ve located the FBI director.”
“Excellent. Patch him through,” said Jackson with a grin. He was going to get ahead of the problem.
“Sir, he’s in the Oval,” said the assistant over the phone. Jackson’s smile disintegrated. “And the president wants to see you, too. He’s angry.”
Chapter 43
“Hey buddy, get up!”
Pain in my ribs woke me from a deep sleep. I was disoriented, having no idea where I was.
“Get up and get out of here. Now!”
Opening my eyes, I saw wooden rafters on the ceiling above, and smelled timber and varnish. Crew shells were stacked from floor to ceiling in steel frames, and small day sailers sat on trailers in the back. My back ached, as if I had slept on rope. A sail was my blanket, covering me from head to toe. The sun was high, and I must have fallen asleep in the boat house.
Pain shot through my ribs again, as another pain stabbed me in the side. “Ow,” I muttered for compliance’s sake.
“You and your girlfriend need to leave. I called the police. This isn’t a motel,” said a guy holding a canoe paddle. He was in his twenties and built like a lacrosse player but looked like a stoner.
Where’s Lin?! I thought, panicked. I turned my face into a mound of black hair. Lin was asleep next to me, also under the sail. I had no recollection of entering the boathouse, making a bed, or falling asleep. Exhaustion must have overtaken us.
“Hey, are you listening to me? You need to leave. The police are coming,” said the man, jabbing at my side with the paddle again, but I blocked him. I wanted to whip out my H&K assault rifle and stick it under the jerk’s chin to see if he would soil his preppy boxers, but I knew better. I couldn’t attract any attention during a nationwide manhunt for me, so instead I played the fool. Hopefully the guy was an NPR listener.
“Sorry, dude. So sorry. Chill. We’re moving,” I said, trying to act the wimp. I needed to convince him that I was a nobody with a no-one girlfriend.
“Hurry up. Out.”
“Come on, my honeysuckle,” I said softly to Lin, keeping up the act. Cautiously, my hands traveled beneath the sail-blanket and found her side. I held my breath, fearing she might awake disoriented, panic, and blow my head off. Yet I had to play the nobody for the canoe tyrant. Slowly, my hands made contact with her side; she was warm and firm.
