by Cindy Dees
Four agents closed ranks around him in a tight formation on the tiny landing. It was a good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic or he’d be flipping out right about now. The door burst open, and he jumped, along with the Secret Service men. He’d never seen this bunch so edgy. And that was saying a lot. They made tense a way of life.
“This way,” Haas directed the phalanx of men.
Carried along in the agents’ midst, he was swept out into the dim light of a subway station, miraculously cleared of anyone except a line of police officers. They must’ve been sent down here ahead of time to clear out the civilians.
A sleek, white subway train sat at the platform, completely empty. Haas and company hustled him onto the train and made him lie down on the floor. They all stood around him, facing outward, their weapons still drawn, while he got a cockroach’s-eye view of their shoes.
The train ride was short. It proceeded down a straightaway for just a few minutes, and then it angled off sharply.
“You can sit up now, sir,” Owen told him. The agent held a hand down to help him up.
He stood up and looked outside the window. He’d never seen any subway tunnel that looked like this before. It was narrow and dark, its walls barely wider than the train. “What is this? Some sort of maintenance tunnel or something?”
Haas nodded grimly. “Something like that.”
Gabe grabbed the metal pole beside him as the train lurched, slowing down abruptly. It stopped and the doors slid open. A tiny platform, only big enough to hold maybe a half-dozen people stood before the opening. Another stainless steel door gleamed dully at the back of the cement platform.
Haas stepped forward and keyed in a code on a number pad beside the door.
The other Secret Service agents stepped aside to allow him to proceed. They were finally starting to relax a bit around the gills. He stepped forward and followed Haas into a room that could practically be a carbon copy of the Situation Room at the White House. Television screens lined the walls, and a dozen clocks announced the time in different capitals around the world. A large conference table dominated the center of the room, and telephones ranged all around its highly polished surface.
Haas walked around the table to the far end of the compact briefing room and stopped beside a closed door. “There are quarters this way if you’d like to clean up or rest a little.”
He probably looked like hell. But he didn’t give a damn at the moment. “Can I make a phone call now?” he asked Owen.
“To whom?”
“Diana Lockworth. The woman who had breakfast with me this morning. She was at the parade and I want to make sure she’s all right.”
Haas spoke a little less emotionlessly than usual. “I think she may have been the one who shouted the warning to me that the bomb was incoming.”
That wouldn’t surprise Gabe. She’d struck him as highly intelligent and highly competent. It would be like her to have found the Q-group cell in that crowd of tens of thousands. But it also confirmed his worst fear. She’d been at ground zero when that bomb went off, and without the benefit of an armored car to protect her. He swore violently under his breath.
Haas’s eyebrows shot up at his rare outburst. “You’ll have to use a land line, sir. We’re too deep for a cell phone to work.” Haas stepped to the table and picked up one of the phones. He spoke quietly into it and then handed the receiver to Gabe. “The White House operator is standing by to connect you if you’ll give her the number.”
Gabe took the receiver Haas offered him, but paused when the big man spoke again.
The agent pitched his voice in a low murmur for Gabe’s ears alone. “She knew something about that attack, didn’t she?”
Gabe nodded once in silence.
Haas murmured, “I’d like to talk to her when you’re done, sir. I want to know everything she can tell me about what happened up there.”
Gabe nodded again. He’d entrusted his life to this man, and the guy’d just saved it. If he couldn’t let Owen in on his secrets, who else could he trust? Gabe pulled out his cell phone and read Diana’s number off its display to the operator. He waited impatiently while the call went through.
In a moment she announced, “I’m sorry, sir. All the circuits are busy. I’ll keep trying until I get through and then I’ll ring you back.”
“Thank you.” It figured. Everyone and their uncle was calling relatives to make sure loved ones were okay.
The phone rang on the table and he picked it up eagerly. “Diana?”
A deep male voice replied, “Sorry. It’s James Whitlow. You all right, son?”
For once, the term “son” didn’t sound like an insult coming from his soon-to-be predecessor. Always before, President Whitlow’s incessant use of the term had set his teeth on edge.
Gabe answered the guy’s question. “I’m fine, Mr. President. How about you?”
“As well as can be expected in the circumstances. I’m going on television in a few minutes. You’ll be able to see it as soon as they’ve got the bomb shelter up and running.”
Gabe looked around in surprise. So that’s what this place was. This facility had been mentioned in one of the dozens of briefings he’d gotten over the last couple of months to bring him up to speed on the nation’s security apparatus. As he recalled, this bunker was pretty outrageously outfitted. He could run the country from down here. For a long time.
Gabe asked, “Do you want to contact the families of the dead with condolences, or shall I?”
“The FBI won’t have a complete casualty list for another several hours, and then notifications to the next of kin will have to be made. It’ll be tomorrow before the condolence calls can go out. Looks like you’re stuck with the job.”
Gabe winced. It certainly wasn’t a duty he was looking forward to, but it was appropriate that he make the calls. After all, it was him the attackers had been after when they killed the bystanders. At least Whitlow wasn’t going to try to usurp this one last Presidential duty.
The president interrupted his grim thoughts. “My press secretary wants me to tell the nation I’ve spoken with you on the phone and that you’re completely unharmed and in good spirits. Any messages I can pass along?”
“Tell them my prayers are with the people injured in the attack, and that I share your determination to apprehend whoever did this.”
“I will.” There was a brief pause while he spoke to somebody nearby. Whitlow came back on the line. “As for your inauguration. How do you feel about rescheduling it for early this evening in the rotunda of the Capitol Building? My Secret Service people say that building can be made secure, but it’s still big enough for the press to be there and holds enough guests so it doesn’t look like we’re running scared. My people think the inauguration needs to be televised live so there’s no doubt about the handoff of power having happened in a smooth and timely manner. Wouldn’t want any crazy rumors to get started about your presidency before you’re even in office.”
Right. As if there hadn’t been rumors swirling around him ever since the first Q-group attack, compliments of his erstwhile running mate, Thomas Wolfe. “That sounds fine. I’ll pass the suggestion on to my people and have them get back with your people. But I don’t anticipate any problems with it.”
Ah, the joys of changing administrations, particularly when there was a change of political party involved. It had been a tough campaign, and the outgoing president had been bitter throughout the transition phase.
Gabe asked, “Where will you be during the swearing in? I assume our security teams want us in separate locations?”
“I’ll stay here in the White House until you’re sworn in. And then the job’s all yours, son. This mess reminds me of why I’m glad to be retiring from politics.”
Gabe mentally snorted. Come tonight, Whitlow would have to be peeled out of the Oval Office with a crowbar, kicking and screaming the whole way. As it was, he had no doubt his predecessor was tickled pink to get an extra five hours
on the job.
Gabe hung up the phone and turned to Owen Haas. “For lack of any of my other staff or advisors, I guess you get to be ‘my people.’”
Haas grinned, although it looked more like a crack in concrete than an actual facial expression.
Gabe continued. “Whitlow’s people want to hold my inauguration in the Capitol Rotunda at seven o’clock this evening. That okay with you?”
Haas shrugged. “Works for me. I’ll need to get a detail of men over there to start clearing the building ASAP.”
Gabe looked over at the other Secret Service agents huddled in a far corner of the room. “Would one of you guys call the White House and let them know the plans for tonight are a go?”
A burly blonde peeled away from the group and reached for a telephone. Haas gave a couple of short orders and several of the men sat down at other phones. Soon, they were in deep conversation with their people. Funny, but he didn’t have a blessed thing to do. He sat down at the end of the table and noticed a small slide-out tray under the table. He pulled it open. An elaborate TV remote controller sat there, along with various writing utensils and a pad of paper.
He pulled out the remote and pointed it at the wall of monitors. One of the televisions blinked on, startling Haas. Gabe grinned at the disgruntled agent. “Down, Tonto. I just want to see how the news networks are spinning the attack.”
Haas scowled and went back to his phone calls.
Gabe stared at the television screen as it replayed in slow-motion, full-color detail the last few moments prior to the attack. The voice-over and a digital arrow added by the network pointed out a blurry object sailing through the air, frame by painfully slow frame, toward his limousine. Hell of a move Owen made there. Gabe flinched as the satchel charge blew up the backup limousine in vivid living color. Good God, that was a hell of a blast! He watched the ensuing carnage in dismay, gruesome even after being edited for home viewing.
And Diana had been caught in that?
Holy Mary, Mother of God. He picked up the phone. Instead of a dial tone, a female voice said immediately, “White House secure operator. May I help you?”
“This is Monihan. Any luck getting through to that phone number I gave you?”
“Not yet, sir. We’ve gotten through to the phone once and it rang, but there was no answer. As soon as the party you’re trying to contact picks up, we’ll forward it through to you.”
“Thanks.”
Dammit, where was Diana? Why wasn’t she answering her phone? What had happened to her? His gaze swiveled back to the screen. He stared at the bloodied and torn bodies of dozens of victims lying on the ground in various stages of triage and evacuation. He was about to be the President of the United States, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t find out what had happened to the courageous, feisty, funny woman who’d been willing to sacrifice her life for him?
He picked up the phone again.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President-elect?”
This operator was slick. He replied, “I need the names of the victims of the bombing. One name in particular. Who should I speak to?”
“At the moment, that would be the Chief of the Washington Metro Police Department. By this evening, the Director of FEMA-the Federal Emergency Management Administration, and the Director of the FBI should have that information.”
“Connect me to the Chief of Police.”
Without comment, the operator patched him through.
“What?” a voice snapped in his ear without preamble. The poor man sounded harassed beyond belief, and Gabe felt a twinge of guilt for bugging him. But he was really worried that Diana hadn’t answered her phone. If she’d indeed been the one to shout the warning to Owen, she’d saved his life. He owed her. Big-time.
“This is Gabe Monihan. I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have an initial casualty list yet?”
The police chief sputtered. “Uh, forgive me, sir. Didn’t mean to be rude, there.”
“You’re authorized under the circumstances. I’d be more worried if you weren’t short with me. How’s it looking?”
“The fire’s contained. Six dead and about sixty injured. Some minor, some severe. Probably gonna lose another couple more before it’s all said and done. Good thing your man tossed that bomb under an armored car or we’d be looking at a whole lot more casualties. We still have some injuries trickling in to area hospitals. No suspects yet. We’ve got imagery of the bastard-pardon me-the perpetrator. It’s at the FBI lab now getting digitally enhanced so we can make out a face and put out an APB. We’ll get him, sir.”
“I’m sure you will,” Gabe replied smoothly. “I had a friend at the parade and I have reason to believe she was very near the blast site. Could you check her name against the casualty lists for me?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Her name’s Diana Lockworth.”
There was a short pause. “Her name’s not on my list. Either she wasn’t hurt or she hasn’t been reported through the hospitals to us, yet.”
“But she’s not one of the known dead?” Gabe asked.
“No. We’ve got names on all of them. Next of kin are about to be notified.”
Gabe sagged in his chair in relief. Thank God. “Let me know if there’s anything you need from me.”
The police veteran grunted. “A small tactical nuclear strike up the ass of this SOB when we find him?”
Gabe chuckled. “You got it. Keep up the good work.”
He hung up the phone as frustrated as before. Where in the bloody hell was Diana?
3:00 P.M.
D iana stared at the tiny black bore of the pistol pointed at her. Hard to believe that nearly instantaneous death could come out of something so small.
And then behind her, she heard the sound of hooves clattering on the hard ice. The police officer. The horse was coming at a dead run judging by the rapid, staccato sound of it. Albadian’s head jerked up.
Now!
She took two running steps and dived for the gun. Both her hands wrapped around the guy’s forearm and shoved upward with all her might. The force of her body slamming into his knocked Albadian’s feet out from under him on the icy street and he crashed to the ground. She collapsed on top of him, maintaining her death grip on his wrist. At all costs, she must not let go!
Four black, equine legs scrambled to a stop beside her, and she shouted in warning, “Gun!”
A male voice behind her bellowed in response, “Freeze!”
With all due respect, she wasn’t going to let go of Albadian’s wrist until that gun was completely out of his hands. The terrorist continued to struggle beneath her and she hung on grimly. He tossed her back and forth, shaking his arm furiously to dislodge her.
Something heavy landed on top of her, pancaking her against Albadian. Another pair of hands came up beside hers, grasping Albadian’s wrist powerfully.
The cop shouted, “Drop the gun! Now!”
Although the command didn’t seem to impress Albadian, the arrival of two more cops on horseback and the sound of sirens drawing near finally took the starch out of him. He went limp beneath her. Neither she nor the cop on top of her moved, however, until several more policemen came running up, weapons propped in their fists in front of them.
Someone stepped up and plucked the gun out of Albadian’s hand. The first cop rolled off her, and she followed suit, rolling onto her back, breathing hard. Lord, that had been a close call.
She looked up and blinked as a pair of pistols pointed at her this time.
“Hands over your head, lady,” a policeman ordered.
She complied promptly. “My name is Captain Diana Lockworth. I’m Army Intelligence, and that’s the guy who just threw the satchel charge at Gabriel Monihan. If one of you would like to reach into my left coat pocket, my wallet is in there with my military ID.”
One of the cops did as she suggested gingerly, then stepped back to open the wallet. He announced, “There’s a military ID in here. Defense Intelli
gence Agency building access card, concealed weapons permit.” He looked down at her sharply. “You packing?”
She snorted. “I wish. Do you think I’d have been wrestling around hand to hand with that jerk if I were?”
The cops grinned. One of them held a hand down to her and helped her to her feet. “Care to tell us how you know who this guy is?”
“I saw him lob the backpack at Monihan’s limousine. Speaking of which, is Gabe-I mean President-elect Monihan-okay? Did he get away safely?”
One of the policemen replied, “Nobody knows a damn thing. His limo drove away from the scene so it wasn’t hit too bad, and there’ve been no calls to the cops for an escort to any hospitals. He’s probably fine.”
She closed her eyes. She’d done it. Gabe was still alive.
A cop interrupted her profound relief. “And how did you end up chasing this guy?”
“He had a moped. I grabbed another moped one of his accomplices abandoned at the scene and took off after him. But we were on identical machines and I couldn’t make up the gap between us. When he hit the ice and had to slow down to almost walking speed, I remembered your precinct was ahead of us. I swung in to your parking lot and snagged a horse that could go full speed or close to it on the ice. By the way, I need to thank whomever I borrowed the horse from.”
One of the cops smiled. “Give him a few minutes. When he’s checked Red over and knows his horse is okay, he’ll be friendlier-especially after he finds out why you took his baby.”
Diana nodded solemnly. “His horse is responsible for capturing this guy. I couldn’t have done it without Red.”
She turned around and caught the tail end of a policeman carefully reading Albadian his rights off an index card. Good. These guys were going by the book every step of the way on this arrest. She watched the mob of armed policemen finish trussing up Albadian until he could barely move. They taped plastic bags over his hands so they could be swabbed for exposure to explosives later, then they handcuffed his wrists and shackled his ankles. Finally, they tucked Albadian carefully into the back seat of a squad car.
