by Joseph Flynn
“You’ve been studying political science again,” Patti accused.
“Only as it applies to you. As your henchman, I have to protect you in every way I can. I’ll tell Galia what Ellie Booker told me. When would be a good time to see her or should I ask Edwina?”
“I can tell you that. Tomorrow morning before the press conference.”
“Galia is conferring with the press?”
Patti nodded. “She’ll be talking about the schedule of presidential primaries.”
“That,” McGill said, “was a pretty slick move.”
Patti said, “Slick always looks good at first. But you have to see how it shakes out.”
Alice Tompkins’ House — Key West, Florida
Jackie Richmond entered Alice’s house only after taking a series of precautions. He passed by Mango Mary’s before heading to the house. The bar was still standing, front door tight in its frame, front window intact, Landshark Lager sign still alight. He stopped at a hardware store for a few necessary tools. He circled Alice’s block three times.
He didn’t seen any sign of slavers lying in wait.
Jackie entered the house by removing the window air conditioner in the kitchen from the outside and crawling through the opening. He took the Beretta M9 out of his waistband, waited for his eyes to adjust to the ambient light. There wasn’t much of it at the back of the house.
As he waited, he listened. The kitchen wall clock ticked. Farther into the house, he heard water dripping. The sink in the bathroom next to Alice’s bedroom. Damn thing had kept him up nights until he got used to sleeping with a pillow over his head.
Jackie eased into the dining room, half expecting to find the place wrecked, but it wasn’t. It was pin-neat, the way Alice always kept it. He moved into the living room. The curtains were drawn but there was a street light directly outside. He could see everything was orderly there, too. He was beginning to get the feeling Alice had bugged out.
Maybe not, but if he couldn’t find her and get her onto Irish Grace he was fucked.
Maybe not, but that was the way he felt.
He could just take his cash from Alice’s house and steal Carina Linberg’s Porsche. Maybe he could get away clean. Or maybe he’d get caught again because that particular car was his bad luck charm.
He checked Alice’s bedroom. Her bed was perfectly made, pillows arranged just so … but one of them was missing. There should have been two rows of three, the front row just off center from the back. But there were only two pillows in front.
Maybe a slaver had used one to smother Alice, Jackie thought.
He pointed the Beretta at the door to the bedroom closet.
Could Alice be dead in there, he wondered.
With her killer just waiting to pounce on his ass.
Jackie was getting ready to unload half-a-clip through the closet door when he heard a soft buzz. Softer than usual. The way Alice snored was musical compared to the ruckus he put out; he knew because his only ex-wife had recorded him. Alice, being a more practical sort, had simply bought ear plugs. No big fuss.
The sound of the sleeping bar owner came, he realized, from under the bed. He lowered himself to his knees without making any noise. Picked up the coverlet and there she was, sleeping like a baby on the missing pillow. Now, the question was how did he wake her up without giving her a heart attack or even pissing her off.
You made somebody mad it was hell getting them to be cooperative.
Best way he could think of was to show her the money.
He tiptoed back to the kitchen and looked at the fridge. Every burglar in creation knew about hiding valuables inside a refrigerator, but damn few wanted to move one and look under it. Jackie had done a little carpentry one day when Alice had left for the bar first. Moved the fridge and cut a hole in the floor, built a little homemade safe box that sat down into the crawl space beneath the house.
He tugged the fridge out of its usual niche, taking care not to make any noise. His money was right where he left it, all of it. On the way back to Alice’s bedroom, he stopped in the bathroom. Got a bottle of Alice’s preferred fragrance, Opium. He spritzed ten Ben Franklins and went back to the bedroom. He tucked the first one six inches away from Alice’s nose, and laid out a trail to the chair where he sat opposite the bed.
Five seconds after he sat down, he heard a sneeze. Another five seconds and Alice’s hand poked out from under the bed, grabbed her third hundred dollar bill. There was a pause while Alice tried to figure out who was reeling her in, but from her point of view she could see there was more money waiting to be had. Inside of a minute, she poked her head out for a look.
In a soft voice, Jackie said, “Bet you never had anyone wake you up like that before.”
The White House Press Room
The press room was filled to capacity. It wasn’t every day or even every month that the White House chief of staff deigned to talk with the newsies. She was pleasant enough about it when the need arose, but it was also clear that given a choice she’d prefer to have her teeth drilled. Without anesthesia.
The topic of Galia’s announcement, that she had been one of the architects of changing the presidential primary system, was enough of a draw to pull in every warm body with a press pass to the White House, but the word that John Patrick Granby, the secretary of state of New Hampshire, would be present heightened the drama to the point where the reporters were almost giddy in anticipation of what might happen.
Press Secretary Aggie Wu had tried to calm the media munchers down, saying that Granby had been gracious about his state being dethroned by Galia Mindel’s plan. Aggie said that Granby had even come up with a face-saving plan to make good use of the one-minute head start the Granite State still retained over New York, Illinois and California.
Not a reporter in the room believed that Granby was happy.
They were sure they would witness fireworks to make their day, maybe even their careers.
What the newsies did take to heart was the bulletin that James J. McGill would be present at least for the outset of the chief of staff’s remarks. He would be on hand strictly as an observer. Anyone who so much as said more than good morning to him would have his or her White House credentials reviewed and most likely yanked.
Aggie overheard some of the schemers among the media try to advance a plan in which the entire press corps would rise as one when McGill entered the room and say, “Good morning, Mr. McGill,” in the singsong cadence of a kindergarten class greeting its teacher.
The press secretary thought that was funny, and wouldn’t have objected if it happened. The president’s henchman, she knew, was quick with a quip. It’d be interesting to hear what his response might be.
Before unanimous consent to the prank could be reached, John Patrick Granby arrived. He was well into middle age with a gray widow’s peak, a red face and a barrel chest. His suit coat was unbuttoned and didn’t look as if it had enough cloth to cover Granby’s middle expanse. He wore a blood red tie that dangled unfashionably long.
The man could have used a fashion stylist, Aggie thought, but maybe he didn’t worry about such things. He didn’t seem to need the security of an entourage either. He’d come alone.
The newsies jumped out of their seats upon seeing Granby. Then they sat right back down when Aggie glared at them. She’d been a dragon press secretary long before anyone had ever heard of dragon mothers. Cross her and you never got called on to ask a question.
“Mr. Granby,” she told the chastened reporters, “will take questions after he and Ms. Mindel have made their statements.”
The New Hampshire secretary of state bowed to Aggie and took a seat at the side of the room. Two minutes later, James J. McGill entered the room, gave the press corps a friendly wave of acknowledgement, shook Granby’s hand and did him the courtesy of leaving an empty seat between them as he sat.
He’d always thought that sitting too close to someone the first time you met was a bad move. He also felt it
was strange that in a well air conditioned room Granby should have a sweaty palm. He leaned closer to Granby so they might talk quietly.
“Mr. Secretary of State, I need to have a word with Ms. Mindel before the two of you speak to the media, but if you have anything to say to her before that, you can have the first crack at her, if you like.”
Granby thought about that for a moment and bobbed his head.
“I do and I would. Thank you, Mr. McGill.”
McGill said, “You’re welcome,” and left it at that.
Other than watching Granby out of the corner of his eye. There were beads of sweat on the man’s brow as well as his hand, and he fiddled lightly with the end of his tie. McGill wondered if Granby was experiencing stage fright. He might have been comfortable speaking with local reporters in Manchester but ill at ease speaking in front of the national media crew.
Maybe, McGill thought, Granby was worrying about more than just flubbing his lines. He might have led Galia to believe he was going to be gracious about his state being usurped, but he was going to come out and blast her, make some sort of threat, hope to overturn the new order. If he was going to try that, he’d have a reason to be ill at ease.
Back home in Chicago, McGill knew, mayors had been known to kill the power to the microphones of any city council member who dared to speak out of turn. He didn’t know if that sort of thing would play in the White House press room. But he wouldn’t put it past either Galia or Aggie to make the attempt.
If things turned into a circus, he’d better be on his toes and ready to make a quick exit.
Galia entered the room. McGill saw that she held a sheaf of paper in her left hand. The text of her remarks, he assumed. Knowing Galia, he was sure she had committed the main talking points to memory. She was probably doing a quick review right now.
McGill watched Granby get to his feet and wipe his palms on the legs of his pants.
The guy was keyed up, no doubt about it.
Galia, though, smiled as she saw Granby approach, extended her hand to take his. The two of them exchanged words that were inaudible to McGill, but Granby must have said something that was at least intended to be funny because he saw Galia laugh politely. Then Granby graciously gestured to her to precede him to the podium where Aggie Wu stood ready to introduce them.
The moment Galia stepped in front of Granby his public mask changed to an expression of loathing — and McGill launched himself from his chair. Galia saw McGill hurtling toward her, the look on his face enough to make her knees wobble, and she reflexively backed away.
Granby pulled a thin transparent length of what looked like plastic wire out of his tie just as Galia bumped into him, and he draped it around the chief of staff’s neck. By now, everyone in the room was focused on the drama, most of them were also on their feet. Videocams recorded every frame of what happened next.
Secret Service special agents were moving in, but McGill was closer and going to get there first. Granby’s intent was clear: He wanted to garrote Galia and have the whole world see what he’d done. Galia reacted as most people would, she tried to escape the agonizing pressure on her throat by running away from it.
McGill knew that was exactly the wrong thing to do. You had to escape the trap by backing up as fast as you could, relieving the constriction and applying unexpected force against your assailant. McGill hit Galia and Granby, wrapping his arms around both of them, like Brian Urlacher crushing both a running back and his blocker.
The three of them went down in a heap, Granby’s hands losing their grip as the back of his head slammed into the floor. The impact of being caught between two bodies knocked the wind out of Galia, leaving her dazed and gasping for air. McGill tore the ligature away from her throat and discarded it.
As Galia continued to struggle to breathe, McGill turned his head and, hoping the White House physician somehow would hear him, shouted, “Nick!”
Charlottesville, Virginia
Damon Todd, Arn Crosby and Olin Anderson watched the freeze frame image of McGill yelling for help. It would go viral on the Web within the hour. Cable news and broadcast TV had it on the air about the same time. Newspapers across the country and around the world would carry the picture by the following day.
Of the millions who saw McGill in action, the three men in the cabin in the woods along the James River in Virginia would prove to be among the most important viewers.
“Sonofabitch is quick,” Crosby said.
Anderson nodded. “Strong, too.”
Todd went with his specialty. “His decision making was right. He knew that if he didn’t react immediately and effectively the woman would have died. That being the case, he didn’t allow himself to be inhibited in the least in his application of force. He slammed into the woman as hard as he could and —”
“We don’t know that,” Crosby said.
Anderson bobbed his head in agreement.
“What do you mean?” Todd asked Crosby. “Did you see McGill hold back in any way?”
“No, he went balls out, in context.”
Anderson elaborated. “Look at how he was dressed, in a suit and leather soled shoes. Started from a sitting position. Didn’t have much room to build up speed, quick though he was.”
Crosby continued the analysis. “A guy his age, he might have had a bit of foot speed in reserve over a short distance, but everybody starts slowing down after a certain point.”
“Including the two of you?” Todd asked.
They nodded together like bobble-head dolls.
“It’s inevitable,”Crosby said.
“Hand speed is another thing that slows down, but you can help offset that by experience,” Anderson added.
“What do you mean?” Todd asked.
Crosby said, “It’s like when you’re a kid learning to drive. You’re going down the street and don’t have a clue what the car in front of you is going to do. You’re just trying to stay in your lane and not sideswipe somebody or miss seeing a pedestrian stepping off the curb. The better your skills become, you start noticing the drivers around you, front, back and sides. You know if they’re paying attention, talking on the phone or jerking around some other way. You can feel if they’re going to cut you off or make a turn without signaling.”
Anderson asked, “You can do that, Doc, can’t you?”
“Of course,” Todd said.
The truth was he didn’t drive all that often and wasn’t comfortable in heavy traffic.
“Same thing applies when you’re going hand to hand with somebody,” Anderson said. “There are only so many moves someone can make on you and only so many countermoves you can make in reply.”
“But there must be infinite degrees of skill,” Todd said.
“Yeah,” Crosby agreed, “skill and experience. Experience is what lets top-end guys know what’s coming intuitively, get a head start on reacting, an edge, even if the other guy’s a bit quicker physically.”
“And your assessment of McGill in both areas?” Todd asked.
“Must’ve been a blur in his prime,” Crosby said. “Still looks like he hasn’t lost much.”
Anderson said, “We can’t say what techniques he knows just from seeing this one video.”
“But from the way he moves, we can make educated guesses at what disciplines he might be good at,” Anderson added.
“We’d have to watch this video a lot more to pin it down for sure, though,” Crosby said.
Todd said, “At the risk of sounding like an adolescent in a schoolyard, do you think you could take him? Could you teach me to cope with him?”
“What could we do against him?” Crosby asked. “Not knowing anything more than what we’ve seen today, all I can say is maybe we’d come out on top.”
“That’s disappointing,” Todd replied. “You were CIA, he was just a cop.”
Anderson addressed that point. “We were trained, and he was, too. Doesn’t matter where the training came from.”
Crosby
said, “More to the point, he hasn’t been locked up for years. He’s been free to practice; we haven’t.”
“As for you, Doc,” Anderson said. “We’d be better off teaching you how to shoot over long distances.”
Learning sniper skills had a measure of appeal for Todd, but he said, “I’d still like to acquire some martial arts skills.”
Crosby told him, “We call it close quarters combat because combat is on the mark, art isn’t.”
Todd wasn’t dissuaded. He told them he wanted to learn how to fight hand to hand, whatever label was attached to it. Having implanted post hypnotic suggestions in the two men’s minds that they should aid him in any reasonable way, they shrugged and said okay.
Told him the best way for any of them to start was to watch the way McGill moved over and over.
That’s what they spent the rest of the day doing, watching McGill, thinking about how to attack him and defend themselves against him. They continued to survey live broadcasts hoping to find videos with differing angles of McGill in motion.
The rescue of Galia Mindel wasn’t the only news that day, of course, and inevitably they saw some of it.
On one evening newscast, they saw the story of Lydell Martin, a trucker who had become an overnight success as an executive at his transportation company. The segment showed Martin as a bearded trucker and later as a clean shaven executive. It was said he had instituted efficiency programs at his company that had won him a six-figure bonus. The sad part of this Cinderella story, the anchorwoman told her audience, was that Martin hadn’t thought he’d been sufficiently rewarded and had been caught embezzling money from his employer.
Martin had been questioned by the police but had been released pending a company decision whether it would press charges or seek alternative reconciliation.
The broadcast went to commercial after that story, and Crosby and Anderson turned to look at Todd. Crosby said, “That’s the guy you said it was okay to let go.”
