by Angel Payne
Nichols tossed back his head, full of its famous thick hair, on the laugh that had charmed millions of women into voting for him. Hell, even Ethan had voted for him, but not for the laugh or the hair. The man was a worthy leader. It made the necessity of watching his every move, not to mention those around him, that much more important. The Secret Service detail, bumped to ten agents because of the unusual circumstances, had already acknowledged his diligence with respectful nods.
They still had no idea about the extra reason for his extra attention: the opportunity to get at least one of them alone for thirty seconds. He’d rehearsed his briefing well. It was the only refrain that kept filling his head.
Cameron Stock is in collusion with a paramilitary radical named Ephraim Lor, who isn’t on set today because he knew you’d run a security check. The two have been developing a plot involving hundreds of targets across six states, and the CIA has reason to believe that it’s going down soon. You have to get the president out of here now!
“What do you think, Sergeant Archer?”
He hadn’t thought to pray for a face-to-face with Nichols himself but the man himself filled the bill, strolling over with an expectant smile on his face.
“About what, Mr. President?”
Nichols chuckled. “Well, am I ready for prime time now? Are my ‘subterfuge moves’ filled with enough sexy stealth to satisfy you SOF boys?”
“Looks pretty good from where I’m standing,” Charlie murmured.
“Ooooo, baby. Presidential hotness!” Bella swiveled her head in one of those oh yeah, girl moves that only women could pull off until interrupting herself with a giggle. “Mamma mia. Now I just flirted with the president. Thank God the press isn’t here yet.”
Ethan took advantage of everyone getting distracted by the mirth to dare a step closer to Nichols. He was conscious of Stock’s eyes on him, though none of the mercenaries from earlier seemed to be here. That was either really good or really bad. Right now, he had to bet on the latter.
“Mr. President, please listen.” He issued it fast and low. “Things here aren’t what they seem here. You might be in—”
“Mr. President, we’re ready to run through the next part of the scene,” Stock called.
You might be in danger. I have nothing to back up that allegation except a map of the western states rendered in rainbow dots, along with a phony TV producer who isn’t even here and a whole battalion full of comrades who’d back me up on this if they could, but they’re still passed out on sleeping gas and—
Shit. Maybe it was better that he couldn’t babble to his heart’s content.
Nichols, thank fuck, wasn’t a stupid man. He studied Ethan for another second, his face reflecting concern. “Why don’t we sit down and talk after I run this next shot with Cameron?”
A sliver of pressure slid off his chest. “That would be great. Thank you.”
He drew in a long breath. Okay, all he had to do was sit tight for a few more minutes. Maybe that would be the extra cushion T-Bomb needed to get here, too. Or any of Colton’s teams. Or even a junior ROTC troop who’d made a wrong turn while out on maneuvers. He’d work with what he could get.
They’d moved to a set depicting a fictional command center. Ethan gave a bittersweet grunt. The set design team had made some upgrades to the computer consoles based on Rhett’s recommendations. His teammate would’ve been proud to see them.
Stock approached the president and his leading lady. “At this point in the plot, you two have made your way to the main missile deployment tower inside Vandenberg Air Force Base.”
“That’s just north of Santa Barbara.” Bella recited it like a dutiful schoolgirl. “Where my character, Raven Ryder, has spent the week working with horses traumatized by the war.”
Nichols earned another tick of respect from Ethan for reacting to that with a serious nod. Several people, Ethan included, had tried telling Bella that unless the world had decided to start fighting wars with ceremonial parades, horses were now safe from PTSD. Nothing had worked; the detail had stayed.
“Okay,” Stock went on, “we’ve already scripted the setup into early scenes of the show. To recap, terrorists have gotten in, knowing that an arsenal of warheads is parked beneath the base, stockpiled there by the military in case thwarting a nuclear attack by North Korea ever becomes a necessity. But they’ve also learned that a second round of firepower is in place, designed to launch after the first warheads have been deployed, enough to take out all of North Korea and half of China if need be.”
Nichols shook his head and laughed. “Your writers are very creative, Mr. Stock. I’ll give you that.”
Only from years of controlling his emotions did Ethan not act on what he observed next. While Stock walked Bella and him through the first steps in the scene, Nichols turned his head and threw a furtive glance at the floor. It lasted three seconds but it spoke three thousand volumes of meaning.
It said that the plot was more real than anyone thought. That there really was a nuclear stockpile beneath Vandenberg.
If that wasn’t enough to grab his heart and strangle it, the next moment would get the job done.
Stock punched a button in the “fake” computer console, igniting the large monitor in the wall about it with a “fake” image. That picture was the same layout that Franzen and Colton had showed Ethan last night, the map showing damn near everything west of the Rockies covered in multicolored dots.
Raw dread drove him forward by a silent but steady step. All ten of the POTUS protectors shifted with him. He caught the eye of the one nearest to him, letting his clenched jaw do the talking for him. Something wasn’t right—but if he gave them the high sign and made them shuttle off Nichols now, no matter what the plausible reason, Stock would jam in on his own alarms. God only knew what shit that would rain on Franzen and the guys, let alone whatever scheme Stock and Lor were mixing.
He had to keep his fucking wits about him. Had to watch and listen. The appearance of the colored candy map, here and now, led him to believe that the second laptop was going to make an appearance soon. If the two were linked, he had to learn how. And if that link meant the success of Lor and Stock’s plans, he had to shatter it, with or without help.
“Ooohhh, look how pretty that is,” Bella murmured.
“The scariest things often are,” Nichols answered. Without knowing the entire scope of what he looked at, the man already sensed the danger of the “plotline” Cameron proposed. “All right, so…the story is, the bastards have gotten in and redirected the missiles at the country instead of away from it.”
“And the sexy-ass president is here to save it all!” Bella did a girlish victory dance, then shrugged. “Hey, I’m already going to hell. I might as well enjoy it.”
Nichols carved an approving nod through the air. “Okay. That works.”
Stock’s light blue gaze twinkled. “Figured you’d approve, Mr. President.”
Nichols braced his hands on the set’s large, round map table. “So brief me on how that happens.”
Stock wiggled a couple of fingers, motioning a prop handler forward. As Ethan watched the guy approach, he thought the staffer looked more like one of the minion soldiers in civvies. When he saw what the guy carried, he realized his impression wasn’t wrong.
Holy shit.
The second laptop?
Stock took the leather case from his man, hoisted it onto the table, and unzipped it. Inside, there was another case. Industrial. Aluminum. So distinct, even Nichols let out a guttural “Goddamn” of awe.
“Are you sure that’s a prop?” the president charged. “It looks exactly like the real thing.”
Stock nodded. “Pretty good, eh? I keep thinking the same thing myself. But once you get inside…” He filled in the rest of the sentence with an appreciative whistle.
“The real thing of what?” Bella asked.
Stock draped an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “The slang term for it is ‘the football.’” He lifted expectant e
yebrows back at Nichols. “They still do call it that, right?”
Nichols managed a shrug. He was considered a handsome guy, too—a job hindrance more than a help, which Ethan really understood—but right now, every inch of his face was taut with tension. Ethan also commiserated on that front right now. “Uh, yeah,” Nichols finally answered. “It’s as good a word as any.”
“A football?” Bella darted a glance between them, expecting someone to cave and let her in on their tease. “Even I know that’s not a football, gentlemen.”
“It’s called that because of its portability,” Nichols explained. “The real one travels with me most of the time, though it stays in a secure location, guarded twenty-four and seven, because it gives me access to our nuclear arsenal from wherever I’m at in the world.” He swiveled his gaze to the Secret Service guy with whom Ethan had shared a cautious glance a minute ago. “And Rob is about to confirm to me that the real one is still safe so I’m not forced to have your boss arrested for treason.”
After the agent nodded at Nichols to confirm the real football was where it should be, the president visibly chilled and traded a fresh smile with Stock.
“I think you’ll appreciate the bells and whistles on our special version of the pigskin,” the man said. He opened the aluminum lid, reached inside, and pulled out yet another console, showing that the unit wasn’t a laptop, but instead a bulletproof case for a sleek tablet. Ethan moved a little closer, feigning curiosity, until Stock’s glare of warning froze him. He got near enough to see that the console resembled a bigger, marginally more sophisticated version of the handheld gaming devices Rhett and Rebel were always battling each other on.
Stock unplugged the unit from the case and walked it over to a “work station” in the set. Unlike the other workspaces, there was no keyboard at the spot. The director hit a button that made the surface slide back, revealing a docking station beneath. Once he parked the tablet in the dock, two things happened. A map of the country, with major cities detailed, flashed onto the large screen overhead. On the pad itself, a handprint identification cue appeared.
“Well, well, well,” the president murmured.
“Nice, eh?” Stock concurred.
“Shit,” Ethan muttered. Shit, shit, shit. The gut that had helped steer his team out of harm’s way on countless occasions, that growled at him when situations were wonky, let out a full roar now. His logic backed up the warning, beating at his brain so hard that it vibrated down to the base of his throat.
If all of these consoles weren’t props…
If Lor and Stock had managed to recreate the nuclear football in tablet form…
Holy fuck.
Stock pulled the pad back out, making both screens go black again before telling Nichols, “You’ll have visuals tonight during the show. Some of them might not sync up but don’t worry; we can fix them to look right in post-production.”
“I’ll bet you will,” Ethan spat under his breath.
“Right now we need you to practice handling all of this as if you really know it. Get comfortable with the feel of things and—”
“Nobody’s getting comfortable with anything, Stock!”
Dan Colton’s voice, coming from overhead, was a Godlike bellow through the cavernous building. But if the command was the Almighty, the outbreak of chicks and chooks, a chamber-loading party from on high, was the most angelic sound Ethan had ever heard. His chest swelled with emotion and a shit-eating grin danced on his lips. The wild boys of the First SFG are awake, dickwads. And they’ve come to play. Hard.
“Put the tablet on the table—slowly—then raise your hands and step away from the president.” Colton still used the God voice.
“What the hell?” Nichols charged as three of his men ran toward him. On the way, they grabbed Bella and flung her back. Now off-balance in her heels, she shrieked and tumbled to her knees but was able to skitter into the shadows along with crew members who’d found safe corners.
Ethan breathed deep to calm his heart rate and refocus his attention. As much as he ached to join the agents, he held back. Unarmed and untrained in their protocol, he’d be dead weight, perhaps literally. As much as it sucked ass, he could do more good where he stood, with his hands up. “Mr. President, let them get you out of here. Now!”
“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”
Every God voice needed a Satanic sneer. It just blew chunks when the voice had an asshole monster attached to it. The King of Hell made his entrance now, emerging from the shadows in the form of Ephraim Lor. He moved with such sleek grace, Ethan wondered if any of the guys even saw him yet. Since there wasn’t a single step from above, he assumed he was the only one with a clear visual of the bastard, dressed completely in black—including the custom CZ pistol in his hand.
“Down, down, down!” Ethan yelled, hitting the floor himself.
Not fast enough. Fuck!
Three shots exploded. Three bodies thudded to the floor.
“What the fuck?” The stunned mutter belonged to Charlie, who’d smacked the deck a few feet away.
“Stay down,” Ethan told him.
“Dear God.” The stunned mutter came from Nichols.
Lor cocked his pistol again. “My apologies, sir. I am sure they were good men.” He paused and drew in a deep, long breath. “If anyone moves again, the next bullet I shoot shall be through the president’s skull. I presume that is clear to everyone?”
Nichols took a breath too, but his shook with fury. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
Lor tsked himself. “Where have my manners fled? My name is Ephraim Lor, Mr. President. You probably know me better as Enzo Lemare. I’ve produced this show for two years and helmed several more before that.” He spread out his free hand. “In short, I have had plenty of opportunity to walk the gilded sidewalks of this country, to drive its golden roads, to consort with its most pampered few—who over the years have certainly become the few.” The man’s stance stiffened. “It is time to, how do you all say it here, ‘level the playing field’ once more. It is time, Mr. President, for America to start over. When the people of this country watch six of its states decimated at the hand of their own leader, with the cities of his strongest opponents targeted, it will not be long before the rest of the land falls into chaos.”
Ethan was glad he was already on the floor. His senses became a bread pudding of stunned. When he, Colton, and Franz were talking last night, looking for a deeper commonality to the dots on the map, politics had never entered the discussion—nor, he bet, any of their minds. “Goddamn,” he uttered.
Nichols gave a more eloquent reaction. “Are you insane?”
“Sometimes burning the forest is the only way to save it, my friend.”
Lor finished that with a sad smile as five of his soldiers appeared and locked onto Nichols from behind. Ethan spat a dozen fucks beneath his breath as the assholes forced Nichols to kneel in front of the missile launch station. It would’ve been more but Ethan and Charlie were grabbed, too. Four of the mercenaries hauled them up, twisted them around, and slammed them facedown onto the table. The left side of Ethan’s face erupted in pain though it didn’t prevent him from picking out a new cry that erupted amidst the frightened voices in the shadows. Ava.
Shit!
While his chest cramped from the thought of her near any of this chaos, his head reconciled the sense of it. His headstrong little hellfire had likely been the one who’d guided Franz and the guys in here. She had the passkeys, codes, and layout knowledge they’d needed to get to the building then infiltrate it from above. That didn’t mean Ethan had to approve one goddamn bit of the decision. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hoping that the subtle movements from the catwalks would morph into his teammates descending on fast ropes any second. But as long as Lor’s gun was parked on the president’s face, they were as trapped as he was.
He prayed like hell that Kellan was somewhere up there. And that he had some decent sniper firepower in h
is hands.
“Can we warm up the set a little more?” Lor shouted. “Seems a little dim for our purposes. And Cameron my friend, after you get the tablet locked back into the console and reconnected to Vandenberg, I believe we’ll need to fire up that camera. Or do you think we should try for two angles for this?”
Ethan listened to the director stroll over to Lor. “Sure; what the hell? I own these guys for a minimum eight-hour call today. Not that there’ll be much for them to spend the money on around here later.”
Breathe. Focus. The second one of these asswads lets up on the pressure, you have to get free and haul ass to the president.
Nichols was proving his own backbone—and capacity for steely defiance. “Thought this thing looked a little too sophisticated for a prop,” he seethed.
“You are not a stupid man,” Lor countered. “Everyone, even your political opponents, knows that. It is why nobody will give a flinch of doubt when watching the footage of you ‘taking over’ our rehearsal to enact your scheme. It was why we activated five cells at once upon learning you’d be coming to this area for a visit. We worked together to manipulate the show’s scripts toward this plot finale, to get the necessary communication going with your office, and to build the station that would interface with the tablet.”
Nichols’s voice thickened with bewilderment. “So you’ve had the tablet complete for a while?”
Lor chuckled. “With our resources, that was the easy part. For the harder pieces, such as the plausibility and GPS locations of all the targets, as well as selling off the tablet to an advantageous buyer when we’re done, required some third-party partners and a great deal of patience.” He released a pleased hum. “Today, I can confirm that patience has its rewards. Yes, my friend?”
Stock’s grunt officially outted him as the bastard’s accomplice. “Right on. Sure. Whatever you say.”
“Stock?” Nichols’s amazement saturated his voice. “You’re drinking this Kool-Aid, too?”
“Pfft.” The director stressed it with a sharp chortle. “Hell, no. I’m just a selfish sonofabitch who negotiated the business behind all this. I’m going to have fun watching the show from my secure condo in Bora Bora. I’ll drop you a postcard if you want.”
