The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  Stalwart pulled out his government-issued laptop, turned it on, and gazed out the window during the cheap computer’s lengthy startup sequence.

  He hadn’t bought business class airfare, but his frequent travels had given him more than enough airline miles for an upgrade, and he enjoyed the relatively ample legroom available during his return flight from Fort Worth to Reagan International Airport in DC.

  The retreating sun cast an amber glow against the high cirrus layer just a few thousand feet above the airliner’s cruising altitude, providing a rare visual treat during what was otherwise a thoroughly unenjoyable experience.

  Stalwart wasn’t exactly satisfied in his capacity as a government bureaucrat, but he didn’t regret having decided not to pursue an airline career at the end of his days flying fighters. He often got the question from civilians, however, who were curious why a pilot wouldn’t want to continue flying. Stalwart’s answer was usually along the lines of “Formula 1 drivers don’t retire from racing to drive a bus.”

  Plus, he sure as hell couldn’t fathom spending his life in airports and hotel rooms, two of his least favorite places, both of which were at the center of the daily reality for all airline crew members.

  With his computer finally awake, he typed his memo.

  Secretary Lewiston and Chief of Staff Armand,

  I wanted to report the results of my short-notice inspection of the Langston Marlin ASAT manufacturing operation in Dallas.

  As you are aware, LM has recently informed us of a technical breakthrough they believe will allow them to meet the adjusted ASAT program timeline. While they were rather coy about the sequence of events leading up to the breakthrough, and I wasn’t permitted to speak with the engineering team responsible for it, their claim does appear valid from an engineering perspective.

  They do appear to be in a much better position to achieve the optical tracking precision required for satellite targeting. The laser power is still insufficient for use against geosynchronous satellites, but appears to be on track to meet our targeting requirements against satellites in lower orbits.

  I am concerned that substantial supply chain management issues remain, however, which will undoubtedly be the substance of significant public criticism.

  Charlie Landers and I are both watching the issue closely, and will report any substantive changes. The new program schedule is due out by the end of the month, and I will forward it to you with my team’s assessments attached.

  Stalwart signed and sent the memo, silently grateful for in-flight Wi-Fi.

  A part of him disliked associating himself with Landers, but Stalwart knew that in many ways, the petty tyrant was the perfect co-lead for him. The little guy never had to be coaxed into playing the bad cop, allowing Stalwart to play the part of the sympathetic confidant to everyone whose feathers Landers ruffled.

  It was a long list, and Stalwart enjoyed unprecedented access to the giant contractor’s internal workings simply because he was, by nature, a nice guy, a personality trait that contrasted sharply with his counterpart.

  A familiar movement on the computer screen caught Stalwart’s eye. Secretary of the Air Force Lewiston, a notorious workaholic, had already replied to his memo: “Thanks much, Mike. I got us on VPOTUS’s calendar for 1 p.m. Mon—pls brief me at 0630; we’ll brief SecDef at 9.”

  Stalwart smiled. Even a blind squirrel finds an occasional acorn. A parade of briefings would culminate in a session with VPOTUS, the Vice President of the United States.

  In itself, a briefing with VPOTUS was not particularly noteworthy. Stalwart had frequent audience with senior figures in the government. He was happy, though, because the VPOTUS meeting would afford him the opportunity to get some real work done in the process.

  The bureaucracy was unwittingly helping him chip away at its very foundation.

  It was great fun, Stalwart thought. The old tycoon would undoubtedly enjoy a laugh when he heard the news.

  Stalwart’s flight finally ended, as did the bus ride to airport parking, and he was soon southbound on I-395. Weekend traffic was light, and it took almost no time to reach the Shirlington exit.

  Three minutes later, with his car parked on the third level of an aboveground parking structure, he ambled into the public library across from a 60s-retro burger joint.

  There was no wait for a computer at the library, and Stalwart opened a web-based Tor application.

  Tor had begun its existence as the Onion Router project, a strange name for a computer network aimed at preserving online anonymity.

  Funded initially by the US Navy and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA, the project got its name from the multiple onion-like layers inherent to the system’s message routing architecture. It was currently funded by the US government, more irony not lost on Stalwart.

  Tor’s purpose was simple: to hide a message’s origin and destination.

  The system wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t exactly anonymous, Stalwart knew. Plus, the fact that a particular bit of Internet traffic flows into and out of Tor reveals that the user was concerned – perhaps too concerned—about web privacy. Sometimes, this set off an alarm or two, depending on the contents of the message. After all, Tor was funded by the US government.

  That was why Stalwart sat at a public computer in a public library, and that was why his message was virtually undecipherable all on its own:

  An auspicious day for Whitey815.

  It wasn’t sent as an e-mail message to a particular address. Instead, it was a comment submitted to an obscure blog about dietary changes to enable better sleep.

  The comment was buried within hundreds of other spam comments containing links to adult dating sites and foreign currency exchange services. He was signed in to the blog’s forum as “stalwart452.”

  He didn’t expect a reply to be posted until the following evening, so he was surprised when the comment from “whiteboywhite” popped up almost immediately:

  Two steps ahead of you.

  Stalwart smiled. Whitey, the tall fair-haired Secret Service agent, was already scheduled to be on duty in the vice president’s security detail the following Monday, the 15th of August.

  Sometimes things just worked out.

  On the other hand, it probably wasn’t just dumb luck. The agent had probably reviewed the VP’s schedule for events of interest, and massaged the security detail lineup accordingly.

  Recruit good people and let them do their thing, Stalwart thought. The old man was no slouch, and he’d certainly picked a winner in Whitey’s case. In fact, Stalwart couldn’t think of any pick of Archive’s who hadn’t worked out just as nicely. Doing one’s homework usually paid off.

  Stalwart deleted the browser’s memory cache, closed the program, and wandered aimlessly through the library’s stacks, pretending to look for a book.

  After several minutes, he ambled across the street to the bistro for a beer. “Busboys and Beat Poets” was the place du jour for hipsters, young policy wonks, and upwardly mobile bullshit artists on the payroll at large consulting firms.

  While he didn’t quite qualify in any of the appropriate categories, Stalwart enjoyed the atmosphere, and he was ready to unwind a bit.

  44

  Somewhere on the East Coast. Saturday, 3:45 p.m. ET.

  Detective Thierrot woke up and looked around.

  He was no longer strapped to a bed, staring at the ceiling. He was now strapped to a wooden chair, staring at a wall.

  Thick leather belts restrained his arms, legs, and chest. His ass hurt, which made him think he’d been sitting in the chair for a while already. He had no idea who had moved him from the bed to the chair, or when.

  He looked around the room. But for his chair, it was completely empty, at least the portion of the room that Thierrot could see.

  A strong antiseptic smell assaulted his nostrils, as if the hard tile floor had just been mopped. It still looked damp in the hard light, shiny black tiles reflecting whitewashed walls
.

  He felt cold again, and realized he was naked. Looking at his body, he noticed what looked like EKG electrodes stuck to his forearms, chest, and inner thighs.

  To his right was a large one-way mirror.

  He was in an interrogation room.

  His heart hammered. He felt the familiar feeling of panic welling up.

  Breathe. Think. Keep it together.

  “Remember, resignation, Detective Thierrot.” The voice came from behind him.

  Thierrot jumped in his chair. The raw skin on his wrists and ankles protested.

  The man had said “ressiknation” again. It’s the same asshole as before.

  Think, man. Start a conversation. Get this guy talking. Thierrot began to speak, but felt the now-familiar mouthpiece obstructing his tongue.

  Suddenly, darkness fell again, as a black hood appeared from behind him and covered his head.

  “It’s usually best just to relax.”

  He felt a small tug on the electrode on his right forearm. The sensation repeated in two spots on his chest, then on his left forearm and both inner thighs.

  Thierrot heard a splashing sound, then felt wetness lapping at his toes, heels, and ankles.

  He knew what was next.

  He screamed and thrashed, but the chair didn’t budge.

  The first electric shock was the most intense pain Thierrot had ever felt.

  He felt as if every cell in his body was on fire. Every muscle cramped at once, and his spine arched in agony. His jaw clamped shut with the force of a vise, and an otherworldly noise came from deep in his throat.

  It lasted an eternity. He believed that he was experiencing the end of his life.

  Finally, the electricity’s death grip on his body and mind subsided. Thierrot slumped back into the chair, convulsing breathlessly, tears streaming from his eyes.

  “Yes, Detective Thierrot, when the time comes, I hope you choose resignation. This is not a pleasant experience for anyone.”

  The man sighed a long sigh. “First, though, we have much work ahead of us.”

  It began again.

  45

  Alexandria, VA. Saturday, 4:02 p.m. ET.

  “Are you comfortable, Senator?” Special Agent Alfonse Archer, FBI, handed Frank Higgs a television remote and a beer.

  “Uncomfortably so. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Things do have that vibe about them, don’t they? But you’re as safe as I can make you.”

  “That’s my fear.” Higgs smiled. He had grown to like Big-A over the past day.

  While he was too experienced in the clandestine world to really trust anyone, Higgs recognized Archer as someone who was probably quite trustworthy.

  Consequently, Higgs had answered the detective’s questions honestly, only demurring when asked to clarify a few particularly prickly points. Higgs cited national security in each case. Sometimes, it was even true.

  Higgs was justifiably concerned about further attempts to kill him. Archer had agreed to keep the investigation team as small as possible for Higgs’s safety, but conceded that an uncomfortably large number of people already knew of his whereabouts.

  To assuage Higgs’s fears, Archer had agreed to move him to another location. It would take several hours to arrange, and it would be a pain in the ass. “Don’t forget me at Christmas. I wouldn’t do this for just any senator,” Archer had joked.

  For his part, Archer wasn’t entirely displeased. He had obtained enough candid answers to help move his investigation along. He knew there was a lot he still needed to prod out of the senator, but he was a patient man.

  He knew the truth had a way of finding its way to daylight.

  Still, Archer’s work was more than cut out for him. There were three recent decedents in Higgs’s life, and another man—Ian Banes, the tall Brit wounded during the Maple Center shootout—was still listed in serious condition.

  That unpleasant reality was the result of a rash of gangster-style semi-pro gun-slinging episodes, which left messy scenes and no shortage of physical evidence to grind through.

  Things were far from tidy. Archer thought of the other Brit from the elevator shootout still on the loose, and wondered how he fit in. There weren’t any records, and the man hadn’t surfaced.

  Then there was the break-in at Sam Jameson’s house. The Air Force officer was missing, and the blood on the floor had come back a match. Sam had worn a stoic face when he left her alone with the investigators in the wee hours, but he was certain he had seen wildness and abandon in her eyes. She was going to be a huge pain in the ass for somebody. He hoped not him.

  And a dead priest. Couldn’t forget the dead priest. Why did the dead priest matter again? That’s right: a friend of the goddamned senator’s. That was four stiffs in one week.

  Archer shook his head. That’s one serious mess, Frank.

  There was something else bothering him. The second attempt on Higgs’s life had come within hours of the first, which itself wasn’t entirely unusual, except that hardly anyone knew the senator was being treated at the VA hospital.

  Maybe Higgs’s fear wasn’t unjustified. Maybe he really did have enemies on Uncle Sugar’s payroll.

  Archer dialed his department chief’s personal cell, using his own private phone. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. Archer was about to suggest two uncomfortable possibilities: The Bureau can’t protect a US senator, and the Bureau might have a mole.

  46

  Twelve miles southeast of Washington, DC. Saturday, 4:23 p.m. ET.

  Sam photographed the abandoned rental car. It had been wiped completely clean of fingerprints.

  The cloth covering the floor of the car’s trunk had been removed, but there was a dark red stain on the particleboard. Sam’s jaw clenched again.

  She felt herself flagging. She was sleep-deprived, hungry, and emotionally drained.

  But she willed herself to keep going. The first forty-eight hours after a crime were critical, and it had already been almost twelve hours since Brock had been shot, hogtied, and thrown in the trunk of a car.

  This car. She touched the stain made of Brock’s blood, her tears welling again. Please hang on, baby. I didn’t find you only to lose you.

  She cried for a while, out of pain, fear, and exhaustion. She let it wash over her. She didn’t fight it. She knew it would pass.

  After a while, calmness returned. She refocused her mind.

  It had taken almost no time for her to locate the rental car, but it took an hour to drive to where the car was parked, at an abandoned bus station in a dying town well outside the city. There was nobody around for miles, and if there were any clues about where the mongrel had taken Brock from here, she sure as hell hadn’t spotted them.

  This wasn’t unexpected. Only a fool would have kept the car, and it was obvious that the mongrel wasn’t a fool. He was fast, strong, efficient, cool, and experienced.

  She thought of his face, that scar, those crazy eyes. She shuddered. He was feral, a force of nature, but seemed completely in control at the same time.

  The eyes. Something about the eyes.

  It came to her suddenly.

  Of course! Why didn’t I think of this before? We trained this guy.

  She had taught an investigation methodology class. They had claimed the animal-eyed giant was an administrator, a pencil pusher, some budget guy who needed to know something about the process so he could defend the funding in the next round of bureaucratic posturing.

  I knew better. The guy was obviously a goddamned wolf.

  That was what, three years ago? Maybe four?

  We helped him learn how to clean up his own crime scenes.

  With the recollection came something much more important. A way to get close to the mongrel.

  She ran back to her car, started the engine, and rocketed back toward the city.

  Brock James was a tough guy who had been through more than a few tough situations in his life. But he had never
been shot.

  Being shot had many remarkable characteristics, chief of which was this: it was goddamned painful.

  He wasn’t sure if the bullet was still lodged in his thigh, or if it had exited through another hole in his leg.

  As far as he could tell, he was in the back of an SUV. He was still hogtied, so he couldn’t get a good look at his wound. He had no idea if he was still bleeding.

  But it definitely still hurt. More by the minute, in fact, as his body’s inflammation response took over and created a giant, hot mess around the injury to his leg.

  Brock wasn’t gagged, so he had tried to engage his kidnapper in conversation. He thought that if he became a real person in the man’s mind, it would be more difficult for the man to do him any further harm.

  That was entirely true in an academic sense, but Brock’s timid attempt at banter wasn’t well received. His kidnapper had simply turned on the radio loud enough to drown him out.

  Not one to overplay a bad hand, Brock had tried to think of something else. Unsuccessfully.

  So he bumped along in the back of the truck. He was naked, tied up, and bleeding. But he was alive. For the moment, at least.

  47

  Lost Man Lake Ranch, CO. Saturday, 4:23 p.m. MT.

  Protégé finished his workout in the well-equipped gym at the mountain retreat, and began making his way back to his suite to shower and dress for dinner.

  He couldn’t help thinking of the place as a resort, but Archive and his friends had conceived and constructed the sprawling ranch as a self-sufficient refuge in a time of catastrophe.

  One couldn’t hole up in this corner of the Rocky Mountains indefinitely, but it was clear that two to three dozen people could live quite comfortably for several months in the remarkable retreat the old man had constructed.

  Eccentric wealth had produced far less useful extravagances than the Ranch, as Archive and the others called it, but Protégé was taken aback by the sense of purpose and urgency that had accompanied the place’s rapid commissioning and construction.