by Joseph Flynn
“Good to meet you, Karl.”
For just a second, McGill thought he was about to receive a salute.
Then Karl’s civilian training overrode the impulse. “You, too, sir.”
He led Deke into the building. Leo looked over his shoulder at McGill.
“You’re a silver-tongued devil, boss.”
“You can never have too many friends, Leo.”
The driver nodded. “Got some Alison Krauss ready to play. You want to take a listen while Deke’s busy?”
“Sure.”
McGill had come to appreciate bluegrass and country music under Leo’s tutelage.
But Alison had just started “Paper Airplane” when Deke came sprinting out of the condo lobby. McGill had never seen the man scared before. McGill and Leo both reached for their guns and exited the car from opposite sides, looking for a surprise attack.
They’d found no threat by the time Deke arrived.
“Get back in the car. Leo, get us over to the university.”
McGill knew he meant Georgetown University.
Where his eldest child, Abbie, studied. McGill’s heart froze. He and the others threw themselves into the armored Chevy. Deke turned to look at McGill as Leo accelerated like the NASCAR driver he once was.
Holding up a hand to forestall questions from McGill, Deke said, “Abbie’s okay, but …”
He told McGill and Leo what had happened at the Winstead School.
The scene of the mass murder was little more than a mile from Abbie McGill’s dorm room.
Deke said, “Abbie’s detail has her safe in her room and the campus cops have locked down the grounds, but Metro PD says the killer, a guy named Abel Mays, is still free and unaccounted for. I thought we’d all better get over to Georgetown until the cops bring Mays down.”
McGill agreed wholeheartedly.
The fear he felt for his own child had to make room for the heartbreak he knew other parents must be feeling right now. Losing someone you loved or even a person you simply knew to some sonofabitch gunning down people wholesale, you wanted to …
Bring the bastard down? Seemed like he should suffer more than that.
McGill realized he was crumpling something in his hand. Karl Vasek’s business card. They’d just bailed on his new client. He would make no apology for that. Family came first, always. But if Zara Gilford was right, her husband’s life was in danger.
McGill called Karl Vasek, asked him to keep an eye out for Jordan Gilford.
Warned him that Mrs. Gilford thought Jordan’s life had been threatened.
Madison Drive — Washington, DC
Jerry Nerón wore black nitrile gloves, the same kind cops used at crime scenes, when he got out of his Ford. He saw the guy in the green Toyota SUV sitting in the driver’s seat with his head canted forward now, chin on his chest, like he’d just nodded off. Napping after a hard morning of mass murder. Jerry’s contempt for amateurs swelled.
Well, the jerk was about to get his. That and a little extra.
One more name to add to his body count.
Jerry’s black Smith & Wesson semi-auto with color coordinated sound suppressor all but disappeared as he held it against his black slacks. Approaching the Toyota SUV, he saw that the safety button on the driver’s side was up; the door was unlocked. Maybe the bastard had intended to go for a walk. See if he could jack up his score. With no one out on the Mall, though, he’d decided it was siesta time.
Inattentive prick hadn’t even noticed Jerry sitting in the car right in front of him.
Jerry didn’t give things any more thought than that. He yanked open the driver’s door of the Toyota. The guy never moved. Jerry shot him twice in the head. He grabbed his brass and slammed the door before any gore could leak out onto his shoes.
He went over to the passenger side of the SUV. A compact automatic weapon lay on the seat. An easy grab for the homicidal driver if he’d felt the urge. Well, the guy was all done with that. But Jerry still had his contract to fulfill. And now he had an HK-MP5K.
The MP meant the model was supposed to be limited to military and police personnel.
A former special forces op from a Central American ally had trained Jerry on an assortment of weapons, including the one in front of him. He knew how it functioned.
Damn fool behind the steering wheel had probably bought it online.
Oh, well, Jerry thought. He’d put it to good use.
Five minutes later, after spotting a lone runner in the distance coming his way, Jerry stepped out onto the running path as if he were the only other fool in town out to stretch his legs on a miserable day. He held the automatic weapon against his leg, its length not much greater than the S&W with the suppressor.
Jerry knelt on one knee as if to tie his shoelace, inconspicuously placing the HK behind his lead foot. He looked up and saw the oncoming runner, now staring at Jerry, was his target, Jordan Gilford. The expression on Gilford’s face suggested he might suspect something was wrong.
Jerry didn’t give himself away. He returned his attention to the shoelace he’d untied moments earlier. Made sure he double-knotted it as he heard the footsteps draw closer. He looked up when he heard the running sounds stop.
Jordan Gilford stood no more than ten feet distant. He wiped sweat from his eyes and squinted. He was looking at the weapon partially hidden by Jerry’s foot. It took him only a second or two to complete its outline in his mind. Pretty damn quick for a civilian, Jerry thought.
Jordan Gilford turned to run back the way he’d come. He didn’t scream in terror. He didn’t plead for mercy. He simply tried to outrun his fate. Jerry admired the man’s courage, but he picked up his weapon and cut him down anyway. Shot Gilford across the middle of his back. No question the organ damage, blood loss and shock would be fatal.
Jerry had been taught to shoot automatic weapons in short, controlled bursts.
He’d ignored that lesson and fired the clip dry.
Just as he assumed the fool behind the wheel of the Toyota would have done.
He returned the HK-MP5K to the passenger seat of that vehicle.
His job all but done, he got back in his Ford. He would dispose of the S&W semi-auto and the suppressor where they’d never be found. The car would be abandoned with the key left in the ignition. And then he would be on his way home to Miami.
A master tailor, having outfitted another distinguished customer.
An important man who would further Jerry Nerón’s well deserved reputation.
The Oval Office — The White House
White House Chief of Staff Galia Mindel hurried past the president’s personal secretary, Edwina Byington, telling her, “No interruptions … except for Mr. McGill.”
She entered the president’s office without knocking.
Patricia Grant looked up from the notes she’d been making while reviewing a list of the most urgent infrastructure repair projects the country needed to address. Next to each project were the names of the senators and members of Congress who represented the states and districts in which the repairs were needed. She was trying to work out the grouping of politicians most likely to see that it was in their interest as well as the country’s to start rebuilding the skeletal structure of the United States. She’d be asking many of them to break party discipline to vote for the construction and repair projects. She thought she could prime the pump, so to speak, by paying presidential visits to the towns and states that would benefit and gin up interest. Tell the local citizens that not only would their roads and bridges be safer, their electrical grids would be smarter, their Internet connectivity would be faster — there would be thousands of well-paying jobs created as well.
In the face of popular support, the president reasoned, demands for austerity budgets would weaken. That or those who held fast to ideological positions would be voted out of office.
Domestic policy was the president’s morning focus.
In the afternoon, she’d work on the speech she
intended to give saying she would no longer allow China to buy Treasury bills, and the money owed by the United States to China would be repaid on an expedited basis. Patricia Darden Grant had decided she would tolerate no further Chinese cyberattacks on U.S. governmental departments and commercial companies without a vigorous response. If throwing off the shackles of indebtedness to China wasn’t enough to jolt Beijing, the next step would be —
Swept from the president’s mind the moment Galia rushed into her office, a look just short of panic on her face.
The chief of staff started to speak but her voice caught in her throat.
Tears fell from her eyes.
All of which scared the hell out of the president. It took all her self-control to put on a calm front. “What is it, Galia? What’s happened?”
“Madam President, there’s been another school massacre. Right here in Washington at the Winstead School. Initial reports say eight dead and three wounded, two of them critically.”
“My God … were there classes today? It’s Saturday.”
“The shooting occurred at a spring football practice. The dead and wounded were coaches and players.”
The president could no longer maintain an impassive facade. She covered her mouth with a hand. For a moment, tears welled in her eyes, too. But she knew immediately that she couldn’t afford to indulge an emotional response. It was her job to take command of the situation.
Her face tightening, the president asked, “Was the shooter killed?”
Galia shook her head. “The police are searching for him now.”
“He’s not in custody?” The president’s mind made an intuitive leap. “Winstead isn’t far from Georgetown University. Abbie.”
Jim’s eldest child. Her stepdaughter. The world began to spin.
Galia reached her, placed a hand on each of the president’s shoulders.
“Abbie McGill is safe. Her security detail has her protected. The campus is locked down. Mr. McGill is on his way there.”
Patricia Grant couldn’t restrain her tears now. The sense of relief was too great.
“Thank God.”
But gratitude was also a luxury she didn’t have time for at the moment.
She straightened her posture, cleared her throat and said, “I’m all right now, Galia.”
The chief of staff stepped back. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have FBI Director Haskins offer Metro Police any assistance they need. Tell the Secretary of Defense to help with surveillance, if need be. I want the man who did this in custody before nightfall.”
Galia had taken both of those steps already, but she said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please tell Edwina that I’d like to speak with my husband as soon as possible. Abbie, too.”
“I will, Madam President, but knowing Mr. McGill —”
Edwina buzzed the president’s intercom.
“Mr. McGill and Abigail for you, Madam President.”
Chapter 3
J. Edgar Hoover Building — Washington, DC
FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt sat at his desk with his eyes closed and fingers pressed against his temples. He moved them in circles, forward and back. He felt the blood flow in his head increase, the tension inside his skull recede and his headache diminish. Less than an hour earlier, he’d gotten the news about the shooting at the Winstead School from Director Jeremiah Haskins and the order, “Give Metro Police Chief Gorman a call and tell her the Bureau will provide whatever help she might need.”
“Yes, sir.”
Haskins provided all the details of the shooting that he had.
He finished by saying, “Goddamnit, why can’t people settle things with a fistfight any longer?”
Or even a well-reasoned, clearly articulated discussion, DeWitt thought.
The director told DeWitt to let him know what Chief Gorman said.
“I want to update the White House as soon as we know anything of substance. Mostly, I want to tell the president that the cops have taken this SOB off the street.”
“Yes, sir.”
DeWitt had dispatched Special Agent Abra Benjamin to work with Metro PD. She was the most competent field agent he knew. Excepting himself. Technically, he was a poobah, an administrator of significant rank. But he still thought of himself as an investigator.
Right now, though, he had more investigations to run than he wanted.
He hadn’t taken a day off in the past two months. He was doing his damnedest to find out where Tyler Busby was hiding. Busby was the corporate raider and art collector who had supposedly lent the better part of his collection to Washington’s new art museum, Inspiration Hall. Only the supposed masterpieces Busby had provided to the museum had turned out to be forgeries.
Several pieces donated by fellow billionaires Darren Drucker and Nathaniel Ransom had also turned out to be fakes. But interviews with both men led DeWitt to conclude they’d been Busby’s victims not his coconspirators. Interrogations of crooked art dealer Duvessa Kinsale and her father, the financial swindler and master art forger now known as Giles Benedict, had confirmed the innocence of Drucker and Ransom.
Kinsale and Benedict were talking for all they were worth because they knew the most important matter on DeWitt’s plate wasn’t forged art. It was finding out who had participated in the plot to blow up Inspiration Hall while the president made an unannounced visit. Presidential assassination conspiracies always got top priority.
Kinsale and Benedict were hoping to avoid the death penalty.
And shorten their inevitable prison terms to something less than life.
Director Haskins had asked for and received sole authority to find, arrest and bring to trial all the culprits involved. He wanted a clean resolution, one that would stand up to the judgment of both the media and history. He told the president he wouldn’t stand for an ambiguous or contested conclusion that led to a muddle of conspiracy theories. He’d delegated operational control of the investigation to his most trusted subordinate, Byron DeWitt.
The deputy director had conducted a dozen interrogations of both Kinsale and Benedict. He’d used every technique he knew from charm to menace. Nothing could get either of his prisoners to admit they knew where Tyler Busby might be hiding. At that point, DeWitt was tempted to use physical coercion.
If he went down that road, though, he’d taint the investigation.
Discredit any information he might obtain.
Rather than make a mistake of historical proportions, he turned Kinsale and Benedict over to the U.S. attorneys who would prosecute them. Maybe the lawyers could scare the father and daughter in ways he couldn’t conceive. He hoped so.
If they failed, he’d have to accept they really didn’t know Busby’s whereabouts.
With all the satellites, drones, wiretaps and computer hacks available to the U.S. government, it didn’t seem like anyone should be able to disappear these days. Even if you went off the modern communications grid, you’d have to live your life indoors or literally underground not to be spotted eventually. A fugitive couldn’t even rely on a new face to conceal his identity anymore. Somatic recognition software had gone far beyond simply comparing facial features to images in a database. These days, subjects could be identified by posture, gait, arm swing and even the shadows they cast.
All those characteristics as they pertained to Tyler Busby were on video files possessed by the FBI. A public figure for decades, an archive of the way Busby looked, moved and even scratched his head lay at DeWitt’s fingertips. So where the hell was he?
The answer was simple. Somewhere no photographic lens might snoop.
Not in a cave, a mud hut or even a bunker, DeWitt would bet. He was holed up in posh digs with all the luxuries his billions could buy. Still, someday Busby would get the urge to step outside and feel the sun or a freshening breeze on his face. Maybe a spy camera passing overhead would snap his appearance and forward the location to the Bureau.
A camera or a human asset. There were
people looking for Busby, too.
Some of them were on government payrolls, domestic or foreign. Others had been given the word of a bounty on Busby that hadn’t been shared with the general public. That had been DeWitt’s choice. When monetary rewards were announced publicly, they generated not only multitudes of false leads but also, in cases with geopolitical weight, like an attempt to kill an American president, active disinformation.
Stories that would be disseminated to lead investigators away from their target.
Doing everything he could at the office, DeWitt tried other methods in the few hours he got to spend at home, on the days he got to go home. A Buddhist, he meditated on his situation, hoping to open his mind to a consciousness that transcended words and thoughts. So far, enlightenment had eluded him as persistently as Busby had.
When meditation didn’t work, he tried distraction, and he had a doozy. Who killed Senator Howard Hurlbert? The successful effort to take the life of a U.S. senator was considered to be almost as important as the foiled attempt to kill a president. More so by some people in the current shrill partisan times. In any event, the murder of Senator Hurlbert was a federal crime, and on whose desk did the investigation land?
His. If he came up roses on both cases, nabbing Busby and Hurlbert’s killer, he’d be the most famous G-man since Melvin Purvis, the special agent who tracked down Baby Face Nelson, Pretty Boy Floyd and John Dillinger. Of course, Purvis had run afoul of his boss, J. Edgar Hoover and wound up dying by a self-inflicted gunshot wound, possibly accidental.
If DeWitt swung and missed on both cases, he didn’t see becoming suicidal, but his career with the FBI would certainly be kaput.
Not that such an outcome would necessarily be a bad thing.
If the director kept dumping ten-ton cases on him, one after another, he might even —
Answer his ringing phone again.
A United States Park Police officer had been put through to him. She said her name was Tara Lang. She told DeWitt, “We’ve got a body out here at the C&O Canal National Historical Park you need to look at.”
