Foreign and Domestic_A Get Reacher Novel

by Scott Blade

  They watched a black Ford Taurus pull up with the lights off. The driver killed the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. Li met Cameron at the front of the car and said, “You boys need my help?”

  Cameron looked her up and down and then again in reverse order. She’d dressed quickly and sped all the way over. He knew that because he’d called her, and in only twenty minutes, she was there. She’d probably used the sirens embedded in the grill. But how she managed to look so good in that short amount of time, he had no idea.

  She wore black slacks, a black long-sleeved top, and a black hat with the bill turned to the front, none of that backward crap. She managed to look deadly and sexy as hell all at the same time. Cameron smiled.

  He said, “We couldn’t be more grateful.”

  Cord said, “Did you bring a gun?”

  Li reached back to the pancake holster behind her and pulled out a Ruger SP101 double-action revolver, stainless steel with a black pistol grip.

  Cameron said, “A three fifty-seven? That’s quite a piece. You know how to shoot it?”

  Li said, “I can shoot you with it.”

  “Why didn’t you wear a vest?”

  “I don’t have one. I work support, remember?”

  Cameron stayed quiet.

  Cord said, “You two can flirt later. Let’s hurry. My shoulder isn’t getting any better.”

  Cameron said, “You stay in the truck.”

  “No way! I’m going in with you!”

  “Forget it! You’ve been shot. You won’t be any help. Besides, someone needs to stay on the street. Once we start firing, this block will be crawling with agents and cops. You’ll need to make sure that none of the bad guys get away.”

  Cord started to protest, but the pain in his shoulder and ribs hurt like hell. So he said, “Just get in there and save that family!”

  Cameron said, “Get on the phone and start calling people.”

  “Take the Beretta. Leave the MP5. You’ll never make it up the street with that gun. Not in this neighborhood,” Cord said.

  Li said, “Why don’t we just get all of these other agents to storm the house with us? They're already here and armed.”

  Cord said, “These guys aren’t worried about getting away alive. They’re willing to die, and they’ll kill Raggie and Claire. And the agents on this block are sworn to protect these other families. They’ll secure their own first. We don’t have time to explain things to them. It may already be too late.”

  Cameron said, “It’s not.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “If the president had been shot, this street would already be up in arms. No one’s outside. Everything is quiet. Nothing’s happened yet.”

  Cord said, “And it won’t. Rowley won’t do it.”

  Li said, “How do you know?”

  “I know. But that won’t save his family. Get in there.”

  Cameron nodded and left Cord the MP5.

  Li followed, and they jogged up the street, weapons concealed.

  Cameron said, “After this is over, I’m taking you out to a nice dinner.”

  Li said, “After this is over, you’d better.”

  Chapter 51

  THE PRESIDENT SHOOK HANDS WITH KERRY FIFE, his Chief of Staff, like he hadn’t seen him in decades even though they had just spoken on Skype fifteen minutes earlier. The handshake was for the cameras.

  The president’s advisor to the western region of North Africa was with them as well as the vice president. A fourth man who walked up late to the group was the West Ganbolan diplomat to the United States. He’d come to greet the president and thank him for his visit as their people mourned the loss of the president-elect.

  His boss was President Sowe, who was the runner-up in the election and the previous president. By West Ganbolan law, when a president died in office, his Minister of Defense became president. But when a president-elect died before he was sworn in, then his strongest opponent in the election took office. In this case, it was the last president.

  President Asher wasn’t a fan of Sowe, and everyone knew it. In fact, Asher downright hated Sowe. Sowe was a vicious and brutal dictator. He was behind the assassination of Biyena, and everyone knew it. But the region needed a leader, and the US couldn’t publicly interfere with the sovereignty of another country unless it was planning to go to war. No one wanted a war in Africa. No one was interested in a little country that had no value and no resources. Nothing was of interest in winning a war there except a victory for democracy.

  Asher was advised to just play nice and go along with the old regime. It was better than a civil war that would suck the neighboring countries into its vacuum. So Asher shook the man’s hand.

  The commentator on CNN went on and on about the drop in approval ratings that Asher was taking for supporting Sowe, but Asher’s advisors had warned him that sending troops there would be even worse. Americans didn’t care about West Africa.

  AT THE TAIL END OF AIR FORCE ONE, Rowley stared at the crowd of reporters and onlookers. His assistant director, a tall man named Renth, was standing five feet from him, asking about the flight. Rowley didn’t pay him any attention or respond.

  Renth asked, “Everything okay?”

  Rowley said, “I need to speak to him.”

  “He’s on camera right now—”

  Rowley didn’t wait for him to finish—he just walked away. He walked under the wing of the plane for what seemed like an eternity as the cameras flashed and recorded video. He looked to the left at the crowd. No one was watching him. They were focused on the president. Anchormen and women stood with microphones in hand, staring into large cameras at an audience of millions—faces they’d never see and people they’d never meet.

  The sky was three-quarters dark blue and one-quarter bright red and orange from the last hours of sunlight left. Clear skies with no cloud cover stretched into the pending darkness. The top of the airport peeked out in the distance behind the cameras and the reporters.

  Rowley had been born fifty-six years ago in June. He’d been born left-handed and was one of ten percent of Americans who were left-handed. The Secret Service employed 3,211 special agents, which meant that he was part of a group of 321 agents who fired their guns with their left hands.

  He walked toward President Asher, his right hand clasping and pinching the place on his lapel where his flag pin had been only twenty-one minutes before. He raised his left hand and rested it near his gun, outside of the bottom of his jacket. He kept his mind clear. He thought about nothing but Raggie.

  Everything around him grew blurry—except for Asher. He looked at Asher with shark eyes.

  Rowley walked under the wing and past the two agents near the staircase. Then he passed under the nose. He sidestepped from behind an agent who stood directly under the cockpit of the plane. The agent stared at him from behind and said nothing. Another agent stared at him, and Rowley could hear one call out to the other. They were the world’s best trained armed guards, and their protective instincts were kicking in on high. He knew it, but he didn’t stop his approach to the president.

  He cleared a third agent and a fourth and a fifth. He walked up behind Asher and then peered over his left shoulder for a split second. In that second, he saw the First Lady’s face and then the president’s youngest daughter standing next to her.

  He thought of Raggie.

  He turned his head back and opened the flap of his jacket to expose his gun and holster.

  He stopped five feet from President Asher.

  Chief of Staff Fife looked at him strangely.

  Asher was speaking to the diplomat from West Ganbola, still shaking his hand. The guy’s face was blank, and he seemed to care less about his handshake with the president.

  Rowley cleared his throat and pulled his gun out of the holster.

  In a split second, the agents standing around the president both reacted and stood down—their first instinct was gun and then their next thought was Rowley. Th
ey didn’t know what to do. There had been no training in the classes or in any manual on how to react to their boss pulling a gun on the President of the United States.

  Rowley said, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Asher turned and looked at Rowley. He said, “Gib, what’s going on?”

  Rowley paused a beat and looked at the faces of the other men, his gun in his hand but down by his side. He clicked the safety back to safe and flipped the gun in his hand, butt first. He pulled his Secret Service badge and ID out of his inside jacket pocket. He held them both out to Asher.

  He said, “I hereby resign my position as director of your Secret Service. I ask that you accept my resignation immediately. I ask that you have the agents take me into custody as I have broken the law.”

  Asher looked at Rowley and then over his shoulder at the other agents. Everyone looked more confused than he was.

  He said, “Gib, this isn’t the place.”

  Rowley said, “This has to happen now, sir.” He looked back at the agents and nodded at them.

  One of them approached and removed his hand from his gun. None of them drew their weapons, but the two agents closest to him kept their hands on their weapons. The agents further back near the plane stared in confusion. They prepared for something to happen, but they had no idea what was going on.

  The press corps was out of earshot, and the plane noise was too loud for them to pick up anything even with their advanced microphone technology. But everyone knew something was happening. The news commentators started to look around, speechless. Some stared at each other while others just watched and said nothing.

  A Secret Service agent stepped up to him. He didn’t put handcuffs on Rowley, but he took his SIG Sauer and badge. He pocketed the badge and stuffed the gun into the waistband of his trousers, then he placed his free hand on Rowley’s wrists in a kind of securing gesture.

  The agent looked at the president.

  Asher nodded, and the other agents came in close. They gripped Rowley under his arms and walked him off to the west, away from the press and the plane.

  Asher looked at the other men and shook his head. He didn’t know what had just happened or what to say.

  CHANG THREW THE REMOTE VIOLENTLY AT THE TV. It shattered into three pieces. The batteries flew out and rolled across the floor.

  Raggie and her mother held each other tightly. They weren’t sure about what had been supposed to happen, but they both knew it hadn’t happened the way Chang had wanted it to.

  They sensed that the next thing to happen wouldn’t be good.

  Chang stood with his back to the rest of the room. He said nothing for a long moment.

  Lane stepped forward and said, “Now what?”

  Chang turned and said, “Do it!”

  Lane turned to Grant and said, “Do it quick. I want to be out of here in five minutes.”

  Grant smiled, stood up from the sofa, and nodded.

  Lane reached behind his pants and pulled his Beretta M9 from its holster. He reached into his right inside jacket pocket and pulled out a long black object.

  The first person to recognize it was Daftshaw. He leaped to his feet and said, “No! No! Come on! We don’t know nothing! Let the kid go! She’s just a kid!”

  Lane smiled and secured the suppressor to the end of his gun.

  Grant said, “Shut up, mate!”

  He shoved the cop down hard against the coffee table. Daftshaw fell backward and landed on the coffee table. He was a little overweight by department standards, and his heavy weight shattered the glass top and got him stuck in the table frame. He struggled to get back to his feet.

  Raggie and Mrs. Rowley screamed as Lane pointed the Beretta at them.

  Grant then brandished a suppressor for his own gun and fastened it.

  Daftshaw repeated his protests over and over. He struggled and fought to free himself from the table.

  This was Grant’s favorite part of the job. He moved the M9 in a slow movement to point it at the cop.

  Daftshaw stared at the hole at the end of the suppressor, and then he squeezed his eyes shut.

  Grant pulled the trigger in rapid succession. Once. Twice. Three times. The bullets burst out of the muzzle in soft sequence, each time making a sound like a loud purr. The gun fired three shots. One in the center forehead and two in the chest—tight proximity.

  Raggie and her mother screamed.

  Max broke free and ran from Raggie. He galloped away and up the stairs.

  Raggie called out, “Max!”

  Chapter 52

  CAMERON AND LI CREPT UP THE FRONT YARD to the side gate. The outside motion lights shot on like watchtower spotlights searching for escaping prisoners. Li’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest, and she froze. Cameron felt stupid for a split second for not noticing them before.

  Cameron whispered, “Come on. Just the motion sensor.”

  They moved into the side yard and walked on the grass until they reached the patio.

  Li stayed low and was barely visible to anyone who might be looking because she was so small to begin with. Cameron was a different story, but he could get low enough. They maneuvered through a clutter of patio furniture—four table chairs, two lounge chairs, a table, two side tables—and a cheap barbecue grill on wheels.

  They moved close to the house and pressed their backs against the wall. Cameron wasn’t familiar with hand signals, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if Li knew them. She’d studied hard for the Secret Service test, and her whole life had been focused on that. She didn’t have a military background, but Cameron was certain she’d probably studied everything she could get her hands on for that test. She was the type to go the extra mile, to turn the corner and keep going. She wasn’t the type to question herself or ever look back.

  He whispered, “Stay here. Wait thirty seconds. After I’m out of sight, breach this door. Right through the glass.”

  He gestured to a set of double French doors. He said, “Make it loud, and then take cover.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Cameron said, “Back door. Remember—thirty seconds after I’m out of sight.”

  Then he stopped and turned back. He said, “Don’t shoot the glass. Save the ammo for the bad guys.”

  She said, “What do I use?”

  Cameron reached down and grabbed a garden gnome. He said, “Throw this as hard as you can.”

  Li said, “Okay.”

  Cameron turned and crept around the side of the house. He started counting in his head. He turned another corner on the side of the house. He looked through the windows as he passed. The lights were off until he got to the backyard. He stopped and froze with his back hugged tightly to the corner. He peeked slowly around it and saw the lights from the back of the house shining out across the grass. Long rectangles of light stretched out into the darkness.

  He looked up at the sides of the house and traced the brick to the roof. He saw the motion sensor lights at the top, staring down into the yard. The moment he set foot back there, everyone in the house would know he was there.

  He waited and counted. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

  Li went early.

  Crash!

  Cameron heard the window shatter and then something in the kitchen—like knives or silverware—crashing to the ground. The sound echoed through the house and outside around the sides to where Cameron was. It ricocheted off of the privacy fence like a bullet.

  Cameron leaped up from the corner and scrambled forward. He stopped dead five feet from another set of double French doors at the back of the house. He spun forty-five degrees and dropped to one knee. In half a second, he lifted the MP5 and took aim into the house through the windows.

  His eyes quickly scanned the scene through the glass doors—Left! Right! Back left again!

  Two men stood in the room, and two females crouched down tight together—Raggie and Mrs. Rowley. One of the men had no right arm, and something was wrong with his ears. No, his ears were
missing. He was unarmed. No problem. The other man—Grant—had the same Beretta M9 from before, but this time, it had a long suppressor on the end of it. Both men faced the direction of the kitchen.

  Where were Lane and Graine? Cameron wondered, and then he thought, The kitchen.

  In the old westerns that Cameron’s mom had made him watch as a kid, the good guy would’ve duked it out with the bad guy—or, in this case, the bad guy’s main henchman.

  Not Cameron’s style.

  The girls were clear enough for a kill shot.

  A bullet fires fast. Out of a Heckler and Koch MP5, it travels out of the barrel at a speed of eleven hundred feet per second, but a second isn’t the shortest measurement of time.

  Cameron liked numbers, always had, and he knew a lot about them. He wasn’t good with physics—he only knew the basics that everyone knew. Not that he didn’t find physics interesting. One thing he did know about physics was a thing called Plankc time, which was the measurement of Plankc units. It had something to do with measuring the speed at which light travels in a vacuum. The thing that was important about it—right then in that moment—was that light speed could be measured in the smallest known measurement of a second, known as an attosecond.

  An attosecond equaled to ten to the negative eighteenth power. The way Cameron had always thought of it was that an attosecond was to a second what a regular old second was to thirty-two billion years. Very, very short and fast!

  Cameron couldn’t move at the speed of light, but it sure as hell felt like he was. He switched the fire selector to three-round burst and squeezed the trigger in a period of time that felt to him like an attosecond.

  Three bullets exploded from the gun, and a cloud of fire and smoke burst from the muzzle. The bullets shattered the glass and rocketed across ninety-nine feet of space. They ripped three 9mm holes into Grant’s back and head. A fine red spray puffed out from the other side of him along with parts of his lungs and facial muscles and teeth, staining the Rowley’s white carpet and splattering a white wall.

  Raggie and her mother screamed, and the African guy with no ears spun around to stare at Cameron. Aside from Shepard back in Red Rain Indian Reservation, Cameron couldn’t remember the last time he had seen someone so scarred.