Day Zero

by Marc Cameron

  “Tell me more about Palmer.”

  Ross shrugged, seeing where this was going. “There’s nothing to tell. He was President’s Clark’s closest advisor and confidante.”

  “But you were aware of his little stable of private agents?” Walter prodded. “His side work, so to speak.”

  “I knew he borrowed assets from me on occasion, with the approval of the President.”

  “Like Veronica Garcia?”

  “She worked for him from time to time, yes,” Ross said.

  “And now?”

  “What do you mean?” Ross said.

  “I mean does Veronica Garcia still report to Palmer?”

  “She works for me,” Ross said.

  “Who else works for Palmer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are his plans as of now?”

  “I told you”—Ross turned up her palms on the table—“I do not know.”

  Walter toyed at the corner of the folder in front of him.

  “Have you ever been punched in the mouth?” he asked.

  “I . . .” Ross shook her head. What sort of question was this? “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  Agent Walter took a long breath through his nose, as if considering her words.

  “Ms. Ross,” he said. “I want you to take a minute and consider a couple of things. Chiefly, I want you to think of what kind of power I must have to arrest the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.” He chuckled. “I knew you would make this harder than it has to be. . . .”

  “I’m not trying—”

  “You’re the nation’s top spy,” he cut her off. “You must know what comes next in this process.”

  Ross felt as if her tongue were made of cotton. “I can assure you, I do not—”

  “I’ll tell you anyway.” Walter held up an open palm to stop her. “We strip you of everything—clothing, sleep . . . and, most important for our process, we take away your hope. In time, you will tell us everything we need to know.”

  Ross clenched her jaw, arms folded across her chest, clutching herself. She would not cry in front of this man.

  “I’ll let you keep your clothing for a little longer,” he said, the crooked lips barely concealing a smirk. “As a courtesy to your position. We have to ease into these things. . . .”

  Fear gave way to anger and her head snapped up defiantly.

  Walter cut her off before she could speak. “Director Ross,” he sighed. “You’ve signed orders for humiliation treatment dozens of times. Don’t pretend this is something that flies in the face of some newfound moral code.”

  “I’m not a terrorist,” she spat. Her shoulders shook with rage.

  “Well.” Walter shrugged. “We’re not a hundred percent sure on that.” He moved to the end of the table as if to pick up the folder. Without warning, he punched her square in the face.

  The blow knocked Ross out of her chair and she landed butt first on the polished tile floor. A bolt of pain shot from her tailbone to her shoulders. Blood poured from her nose, running through the fingers of her cupped hand and covering the front of her T-shirt.

  Agent Walter brushed the hair out of his eyes. He stared at her for a long moment, and then flicked his fingers toward the camera above the door, signifying that he was ready to be let out.

  There was a mechanical buzz as the lock actuated. He pulled the door open.

  “Now, you can,” he said without turning around.

  Ross lowered her bloody hand, seething. Her lip was already beginning to swell. “Now I can what?”

  “Say you’ve been hit in the mouth.” He shut the door behind him.

  Virginia Ross used the chair to pull herself up. Once on her feet she began to tremble so violently she had to use the table to keep her balance. She’d been put in charge of the CIA because she was also an intuitive genius—and of one thing, she was certain. The IDTF hadn’t spirited her away to some black site where the rules of law could be thought of as gray at best. They had put her in a prison on American soil—and one of their agents had just struck her in the face. They never intended to let her leave there alive.

  DAY TWO

  ’Twould be an ill world for weaponless dreamers if evil men were not now and then slain.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING

  Chapter 34

  By six-thirty a.m., Garcia sat cross-legged with her back against the headboard of the hotel bed. Five hours of fitful sleep had chased away enough of her panic that she’d been able to take a shower. A white towel now sat piled around her wet hair like a turban. She wore a clean pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt that was loose at the waist to conceal her Browning Hi Power and tight enough at the chest to ensure no one looked down there anyway. Barefoot, she wiggled her toes, tapping a pen against her teeth while she considered the list in the spiral notebook that lay in her lap.

  Empty dishes from her breakfast of steel-cut oats, three slices of bacon, and toast covered in orange marmalade cluttered the room service tray next to her knee. The first cup of coffee from the little hotel-room coffeemaker had revived her just enough to stumble into the shower. The stuff that came with her meal was much better and actually made her feel something close to human again.

  The notebook held two dozen names and their associated contact information. The problem with ditching a cell phone so it couldn’t be used to track her location was that all the phone numbers and e-mail addresses got ditched as well. She hated committing sensitive information like this to paper, and would eventually drop the entire notebook in a burn bag, but for now, she had to decide where to start.

  The volume on the television was low, but the willowy brunette on FOX News seemed to shout every word that roamed across her teleprompter, from barked sound bites about the national debt to some slutty pop star’s latest vacation to rehab. Ronnie had picked up the remote to turn it off when the news anchor called in a hunky GQ model with “leaked” news about the arrest of the CIA director.

  “. . . Ross’s capture comes amid a massive series of intergovernmental probes,” the reporter said from his vantage point outside the US Capitol. “The Justice Department would make no statement regarding the investigation, but sources confirm that Director Ross is suspected of leaking sensitive, even top-secret, material to foreign agents.”

  “This is just incredible, Steve,” the shouting brunette said. “Do we know yet when she’ll appear in court?”

  “As I said, Leslie, the government has not commented officially,” GQ said. “We can only assume that some of the hearings will be held in camera or, in other words, closed to the public due to the extremely sensitive matters that are certain to come out. That said, we can confirm that Virginia Ross, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, has been arrested and is being held in federal custody at an undisclosed location.. . .”

  Garcia picked up the notebook and ran her finger down the back page, looking for a particular number. “Undisclosed federal custody,” she said to herself. She found who she was looking for, then picked up the burner phone.

  He would either be the perfect guy to call . . . or he’d throw her in jail.

  Chapter 35

  Above all the other aspects of protective work, Deputy US Marshal August Bowen enjoyed the chance to explore. A Montana native and former US Army scout, he was a tracker and hunter by nature. He liked the conquest of things that others might consider mundane. The back hallways, restaurant kitchens, laundry rooms, and basements of five-star Washington, DC, hotels—all proved to be new frontiers as far as Bowen was concerned.

  He had a pleasant face with deep dimples on either side of a well-trimmed goatee. At thirty-six, his beard was still dark, as his hair had been when he’d deployed to Afghanistan two years before. That trip had changed many things about him, the most noticeable being that his hair had turned gunmetal gray.

  Broad shoulders and a trim waist made his off-the-rack suit look more expensive than it really was. A clear pigtail ran from his ear to t
he flesh-tone wire clipped to his shirt collar, disappearing beneath his jacket and running down to the brick-sized radio on the left side of his belt. A second and third wire from the radio ran respectively up the back of the coat and down his sleeve to a small beige microphone pinned to his lapel and an activation button held in place on his left wrist with a rubber band. This “surveillance kit” allowed him to use his radio without going all Hollywood and putting his finger to his ear or raising his hand to his mouth every time he spoke. The suit coat also covered a pair of handcuffs, a X26 Taser, and a .40 caliber Glock 22 with two extra magazines.

  A voice came over the radio, crackling in his ear. “He wants to head to the courthouse in thirty minutes.”

  “Advance copies,” Bowen said. As the deputy out front of all movement, he’d need to go check with the deputy assigned to sit with the vehicles and make sure the exits were clear. After that, he’d scout the route to the courthouse ahead of the detail.

  Deputy US marshals worked with so many different agencies that they generally dispensed with cumbersome codes and signals on the radio, instead using plain talk that was understood by all, no matter the jurisdiction.

  Picking up his pace, Bowen moved down the bright hall that ran below the main lobby of the hotel. Absent the fancy carpets and mood lighting of the guest areas, these subterranean passageways were steaming hives of activity with thriving cultures that were far more interesting than the stuffy cigar bars upstairs.

  They also made excellent entry points for threats to the protectee, providing plenty of places to explore.

  The principal, US District Judge R. Felix Knudson, was new to the bench. His chambers were in Norfolk, but he was in town training with some of the more experienced judges. One of his first cases had seen him rule against a group of white separatists who had a compound near the North Carolina border. The ruling had garnered enough death threats that the Marshals Service was still in the middle of trying to discern if the letters were sent by genuine “hunters” who planned to make good on their threats, or “howlers” who talked a loud and bothersome game but were basically harmless.

  Of all the judges Bowen had protected, Knudsen had to be the easiest. He warned his detail well in advance of any movement and acted as though he realized they were genuinely concerned for his safety. He’d not been on the bench long enough to “turn purple” or “royal,” as often occurred to powerful judges and senators. It was a difficult thing, hearing nothing but yes to every question and hearty laughs at all your jokes, no matter how lame.

  Bowen wouldn’t know. Few people ever told him yes.

  Making his way down the hallway past the kitchen toward the alley exit where the vehicles were staged, he passed a smiling Hispanic woman wearing blue hospital scrubs. She stood beside a train of canvas laundry carts working at a huge blue-and-white sheet-pressing machine that was called a mangler—a little factoid Bowen would never have known had he not explored the back hallways of the hotel.

  “Augusto.” The woman smiled, raising dark eyebrows up, then down to flirt. “I take a break in five minutes. Why don’t we sail away on that boat you are always talking about? My husband, he would never be able to track us down.”

  “Ah, Josephina,” Bowen chuckled. “Mi Corazon es perdido en ti.” He used six of the dozen Spanish words he knew—and those from a Brooks and Dunn song. My heart is lost in you. “But I think I could not keep up with a woman like you.”

  Josephina was old enough to be his mother, but she gave him a sly wink that would have scared a lesser man. It was all innocent flirtation.

  As advance deputy, Bowen made it his job to know the backstairs staff by name. It took a little extra time, but gave him two dozen more sets of eyes and ears to help protect the judge.

  Saying good-bye to Josephina, Bowen worked his way down the hall, past industrial driers that hummed and thumped and filled the air with the pleasant smell of warm cotton. The hotel was built on a hill, so he exited the steel delivery doors at ground level, across the street from a Panera Bakery and a Starbucks. The Suburban and Lincoln Town Car they used for the protective detail were parked around the corner, but they would come this way en route to the courthouse in Alexandria. It was Bowen’s job to let them know the area was clear of any possible threats.

  It was still early and crowds of commuters ducked in and out of the bakery and Starbucks, getting their morning bagel and coffee fixes before heading off to work. A group of three youths in their early twenties hung out near the doorway to the coffee shop. Their swaggering demeanor caught Bowen’s attention as he crossed the street. They wore baggy jeans, loose NFL jerseys, and colorful tennis shoes. One, the tallest of the three, wore a ball cap turned sideways. But their clothing, their race, or the fact that there were three of them was not what aroused his suspicions. It was the way they looked at the people walking by.

  They were predators looking for someone to catch unawares. A hunter himself, Bowen watched a young woman just a few feet away from the boys, and recognized her as just the kind they would target. She had a messenger bag over her shoulder and a rolled copy of the morning paper under her arm. Her eyes were glued to the screen of a smartphone and her ears plugged with buds that piped in music to block out the noises—and threats—of the world around her.

  Bowen picked up his pace, watching the kid with the ball cap step out as the girl walked by. She was too close for Bowen to reach her in time so he shouted, trying to get her or, at the very least, Ball Cap’s attention before he sucker punched her in another senseless game of “knockout”—just to watch her fall.

  “Hey!” Bowen yelled as loud as he could, running now.

  Even wearing earbuds, the girl heard something and looked up in time to see the kid swinging at her with a doubled fist. The blow still came in hard, but it hit her shoulder instead of her head. She staggered sideways.

  His knockout sucker punch foiled, the kid turned to run, and came face-to-face with Deputy August Bowen.

  His two buddies just stood there, waiting to see how their friend handled a full-grown man.

  Realizing he didn’t have time to get away, Ball Cap bladed his body, bringing his right arm back as if to chamber it for a punch.

  Bowen had been a boxer since junior high school, and sent in a left jab before the kid even had a chance to make a good fist. The jab put him in perfect line for a right cross, which in turn set him up for Bowen’s left hook—a powerful blow that nearly took the kid’s head off. With punks like this a simple combination was all it took. Bowen didn’t even have to get clever. Reeling, Ball Cap’s main problem seemed to be trying to figure out which way to fall. Bowen helped him with a wicked uppercut that snapped his teeth shut like a gunshot and shut out his lights.

  The deputy turned to look at the other two, but they’d wisely decided to vanish somewhere between the cross and the left hook.

  Bowen flipped the kid over on his belly and handcuffed him, patting him down for weapons as a gathering crowd cheered and applauded. He got on his radio and briefed the protective detail supervisor, letting her know what had happened. She advised they would take the alternate route away from the hotel, and told him to hang back with his collar and fill in Arlington PD when they arrived.

  Bowen showed his badge to the victim, who seemed more shaken up than anything. She was anxious to stay and give her statement to the police. Scribbling something on a piece of her newspaper, she shoved it toward Bowen with a shaky hand.

  “Here’s my number,” she said, smiling. “You know, in case you need it for your report . . . or just want to call me. . . .”

  Bowen’s cell phone began to buzz in the pocket of his suit, but an Arlington squad car rolled up so he ignored it for the moment.

  He made his excuses to the girl and turned to hold up his credentials.

  “Knockout game?” the officer said.

  “Yep.” Bowen grinned. “And you can maybe add assault on a federal officer because his chin sort of hurt my fist.” He’d bee
n known to cross three lanes of traffic and pull his car over just to right the smallest of wrongs, but he’d prayed for the day he was around when some delinquent turd decided to play the knockout game

  Bowen winked at the girl as his phone began to buzz again. He looked at the officer, holding up the phone. “Sorry,” he said. “I need to take this.”

  “Hello,” he said, pressing the phone to the ear without the pigtail radio wire hanging out of it. He walked down the street a few steps.

  “Deputy Bowen.” The caller was female and spoke in the snapped speech of someone on a mission. “Do not say my name out loud, but do you recognize who this is?”

  “I do now,” Bowen said. Even when she was rushed, there was no mistaking the sultry tones of Ronnie Garcia, peppered with just a hint of Cuban spice. Hers was one of the few voices that, like the voluptuous Jessica Rabbit from the cartoon, actually belonged to the lips that made the noise. “Who else besides you and that boyfriend of yours would get all spy games on me?”

  “True,” Garcia said. “How are you?”

  “I’m well,” he said, chuckling at the pleasantries. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to ask you a favor,” she said. “But I have to warn you that it could get you into serious trouble.”

  Bowen groaned inside. Just being assigned the Jericho Quinn fugitive case had nearly gotten him relegated across the river to work the DC Superior Court cellblock—otherwise known as “Marshals Service Hell.” Still, dismissing the fact that Quinn had beaten the snot out of him when they were both still in the military, he was a good man and there were damn too few of those.

  “What’s the favor?” Bowen asked when he was well away from the Arlington PD officer and the growing crowd.

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone,” Garcia said. “We need to meet.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Come by the courthouse. I’ll be there most of the day after I finish up here.”

  “That won’t be possible,” Garcia said. “I’ll explain it all when we meet. Someplace public.”