by Vince Flynn
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commando. An even more dangerous scenario that he faced was the threat of reprisals by terrorists. Coleman had killed his fair share of international outlaws over the last decade, and plenty of groups out there would love to get their hands on him. What better way to settle a score, if you’re a terrorist, than to kill the leader of America’s elite counterterrorist force? Even now that he was retired, things hadn’t changed all that much. He was still under specific instructions to report any surveillance to the counterespionage people at the Naval Investigative Services. Coleman’s pager started to vibrate. He glanced down at the small screen and recognized the number for Seamus’s secure phone. After the seven-digit number came three more numbers.
These three numbers made Coleman deeply concerned. They told him that something was very wrong, and that they needed to talk immediately.
Coleman sat motionless for a half a minute or so while he pondered what his next step would be. After picking a plan, he turned off the TV and headed for the door, grabbing his keys and a dark leather jacket on the way. As he made the trip to the basement, he began guessing what might have gone wrong. He knew of Michael’s intention to use the tape, but beyond that he had no idea what had transpired over the last sixteen hours.
Coleman reached the storage lockers in the basement and walked past his own, stopping at the one used by the elderly gentleman on the first floor. He pulled out a small black flashlight and inspected the wax seals that he had dripped onto the hinges. Both were intact. It took him less than a minute to pick the small lock. Once inside the closet, he moved a stack of boxes and grabbed his stainless-steel trunk. Coleman decided it was time to clean shop. No sense leaving anything behind for the feds to find. He set the trunk down in the hallway and then relocked the door to the storage locker. Next he bent down, opened the steel trunk, and retrieved a mobile scramble phone that was identical to the one O’Rourke had. He hoisted the tan briefcase under one arm, the trunk under the other, and started for the front door of the apartment building. Across the street, in the apartment building that faced Coleman’s, Skip McMahon and the other FBI agents sprang to life. Coleman had left the house earlier in the day and gone for a jog, but other than that, he had remained in his apartment. McMahon was wearing a black Baltimore Orioles baseball hat and had a pair of large headphones covering his ears.
Through the array of directional microphones they had aimed at the apartment, he heard Coleman turn off his TV. Next he heard the jingle of keys and then the door opening and closing. McMahon snapped his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “People, get ready. I think our boy is on the move.” The other two agents joined McMahon at the window. One of them checked in with each of the three cars that were located on nearby side streets and asked for a status report. They waited a full minute and Coleman still hadn’t exited the front door of the building.
McMahon brought the walkie-talkie back up to his mouth. “Sam, do you see anything in the alley? Over.” The agent parked at the end of the alley peered through a pair of night-vision goggles. His eyes hadn’t left the rear door since McMahon had alerted them that their subject was on the move. Sam spoke blandly into his walkie-talkie, “That’s a negative, over.” McMahon tapped his foot. “Come on, where are you?”
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He adjusted his baseball hat and continued to stare at the front door.
“Come …
on… come…on.” As McMahon finished dragging out his last phrase, Coleman came out the front door. “We’ve got him,” he said instantaneously over his radio. Squinting slightly, he continued, “He’s carrying a briefcase and another large metal case …. He’s headed for his car. Get the cars warmed up and alert dispatch.”
McMahon watched Coleman get into his Ford Explorer and shut the door.
He slapped one of the agents on the shoulder and said, “Watch the fort while we’re gone, and tell dispatch we might need a chopper. Let’s go, Pete.” McMahon and the other agent ran for the door. They flew down the back staircase and out into the alley.
McMahon jumped into the passenger seat of Special Agent Pete Arley’s Chrysler minivan, complete with child seat and a box of wet wipes on the dashboard. Arley yanked the van into drive and roared down the alley as McMahon helped coordinate the other three cars in the immediate area. The caravan of cars moved from the Adams
Morgan neighborhood into the area surrounding Howard University. Coleman’s Ford
Explorer was covered in every direction including up. An FBI surveillance helicopter had moved into position and had already painted the roof of Coleman’s truck with a laser dot.
The group of cars turned onto Michigan Avenue and passed Trinity College and the
Veterans Administration Hospital. Coleman knew what he was doing. By driving past the college campuses he was picking off the FBI cars that were trying to keep pace with him on the side streets. Michigan Avenue was the only thoroughfare in this part of town. All of the other streets dead-ended into one of the campuses.
He was not trying to lose them yet. He was only trying to make their job difficult. The former SEAL retrieved a small, handheld bug sweeper from his pocket and checked to make sure the audio warning mode was off. He started by the steering wheel and swept the entire dashboard of the car. From there he swept as much of the car as he could from the front seat. Coleman put the sensor back in his pocket and readied his scramble phone.
Next he turned up the radio and faded the speakers to the back of the truck. If any bugs had been placed in the backseat or rear cargo area, the loud music would render them useless. Coleman checked his rearview mirror one more time and then dialed the number.
After several rings Seamus answered, “Hello.”
“What’s up?”
“Michael has been taken.”
“What do you mean taken? By whom?”
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“We don’t know, but we think it may have been Nance.” Coleman swore under his breath. “Did Michael use the tape to blackmail Nance?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it. I’ve been out of the loop since last night. I think you’d better bring me up to speed on what’s transpired since then.” Coleman listened while Seamus rapidly relayed an extremely abbreviated version of what Michael had done with the tape of Arthur’s confession. Seamus then went on to explain Michael’s disappearance, Liz’s subsequent conversation with Stansfield, and finally, the one-hour time limit and ultimatum she had given the director of the CIA. Coleman processed the information as rapidly as possible and asked few questions. When Seamus was nearing the end of the story, Coleman looked at his watch and saw that they were coming up on the two-minute mark. Although these little wonders of technology that he and Seamus were using were touted as trace proof, Coleman had learned over the years to trust no piece of technology completely.
Not wanting to go over the two-minute threshold, Coleman asked for the number Seamus had been using to contact Stansfield, then told him he’d call him back in ten minutes.
Coleman hung up the phone and checked his rearview mirror for any recognizable cars. He bit down hard and began running through his options. If they didn’t get Michael back quickly, they were in a lot of trouble. Nance had to be dealt with.
In a barely audible voice Coleman said, “If I get the chance, I’m going to end this thing my way.” The maroon Audi stopped at the security gate and a pair of watchful eyes peered down at the driver from behind the bulletproof glass of the guard booth. The guard had been notified by his employer that this certain guest was to be allowed entry without inspection. Mike Nance had learned a lot from Arthur Higgins over the years, and one of these lessons was to hire his own private security people. The Secret Service would more than likely disapprove of some of his activities, and tonight was a perfect example. The heavy gate began to slide back on its tracks, and the guard nodded for the driver of the car to proceed. The Audi sped down the long, newly paved driveway and took the right fork about a quarter of a mile from the h
ouse. Jarod pulled the car up to the main entrance and popped the trunk. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he exited the car and walked to the rear. Jarod lifted the trunk and studied O’Rourke, who was curled up in the fetal position. The Congressman looked through squinted eyes at the strange man who had abducted him. Although he felt sluggish, the drugs had not affected his mind. The thirty-minute car ride in the darkness of the trunk had given him time to figure out, with relative certainty, what was happening. Only one person could be behind this. Garret was too big of an emotional wimp to have the balls to do something like this by himself, so it had to be Nance. Michael knew his only hope was if Liz had made it back to the house and called Tim and Seamus. If she hadn’t, Michael had no doubt that Nance would shoot him full of drugs and get him to sing, just as he and Coleman had done with Arthur. He had to buy some time until they found him. The grandfatherly-looking man was silhouetted by a pair of lights that hung next to the entrance of the house. He pulled a medium-sized, matte black combat knife from inside his trench coat and leaned into the trunk. The knife slid in between O’Rourke’s legs, and with a quick jerk the plastic ankle cuffs were cut.
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The man transferred the blade from his right to his left hand and helped Michael out of the trunk. O’Rourke felt the increased effects of whatever had been pumped into him as soon as his feet hit the pavement.
His legs were unsteady, and he staggered slightly to the side. Jarod hung on to him by the arm and prevented him from toppling to the ground.
The two of them proceeded toward the front door, and after about five steps Michael regained enough of his balance that he could walk without assistance. When they reached the house, the door opened from the inside, revealing a grinning Mike Nance. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Nance was wearing a pair of dark wool slacks, a white button-down, and a blue cardigan. O’Rourke stared at the smug grin on Nance’s face and fought back the urge to reach out and smash in his face. He took a step forward, but the stranger holding on to his arm prevented him from taking another. O’Rourke froze as Jarod dug two fingers into the pressure point under his right arm. Michael’s whole right side buckled under the penetrating pain, and he slouched in a convulsive jerk.
“Now, now, Congressman, behave yourself.” Nance waved his finger at O’Rourke as if Michael were a little schoolboy. “You don’t want to upset my friend.” Nance nodded for the two men to follow and started down the hallway. Jarod loosened his grip slightly and prodded Michael forward.
The three men went down the hall and entered the large game room.
O’Rourke looked to his right and saw Stu Garret standing behind the bar with a drink in his hand. O’Rourke glared at the President’s chief of staff, and Garret averted his eyes.
Nance pointed toward Michael’s mouth and said, “Jarod, you can take off the tape.” The shorter man reached up and yanked the gray duct tape off O’Rourke’s mouth. Michael ignored the slight sting and kept his eyes fixed on Garret. Nance spoke from a discreetly safe distance. “Congressman, we have some unfinished busness from this morning.”
O’Rourke stared at Nance in disgust and said, “I finished my business with you when I
broke your nose.” Nance turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
He reached up and gently touched his swollen nose. “Yes, I suppose I owe you for that, don’t I?” Turning back to face O’Rourke, Nance said flatly, “Jarod, would you please break Congressman O’Rourke’s nose for me?” Michael had no time to react. The man standing next to him grabbed his handcuffed wrists and forced them down. Jarod’s free hand raised up like a tomahawk and came crashing down in a karate chop across the bridge of Michael’s nose. There was a loud pop as O’Rourke’s nose moved a quarter of an inch to the left.
Michael stumbled back, his head reeling. O’Rourke had had his nose broken twice before while playing hockey in college, but he never remembered it hurting this bad. He
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gritted his teeth in an attempt to try to fight back the pain as blood streamed out of his nostrils and over his upper lip. Nance walked back over from the bar and proclaimed, “I
don’t like resorting to violence, Mr. O’Rourke, but I do believe in an eye for an eye. Your behavior this morning was very uncivilized.”
“And I suppose killing Erik Olson was civilized. Spare me your bullshit.” Michael wiped some blood on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. Nance nodded to Jarod, and before Michael could react, a fist slammed into his lower back, sending him crashing to the floor.
Grimacing from the agonizing pain in his right kidney, O’Rourke pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at Nance’s shoes. Michael had never been one to take things lying down, and he reasoned the longer he kept them from asking some real questions, the better his chances were.
Slowly, he brought his head up. His eyes rested on Nance’s white shirt.
O’Rourke felt his mouth filling with blood, and as he got to his feet, he spit it at
Nance. A large glob of blood and saliva splattered Nance’s face and white shirt. O’Rourke had less than a second to enjoy his small victory. He was instantly knocked to his knees by another punch to the kidney. Nance, infuriated by the indignity of being spat on, stepped forward and slapped Michael across the face. The slap barely moved Michael’s head. O’Rourke paused to gain his breath and then looked up at Nance. Through clenched teeth, he forced a smile to his lips and asked, “Who taught you how to hit like that, your mom?”
Nance’s complexion turned a shade darker and his hands started to tremble as he fought to control his anger. In a half yell, he barked, “Jarod, teach this man some respect!” O’Rourke knew more pain was on the way so he rolled from his knees to the floor and away from his assailant. When he completed the turn and stopped by the back of a couch five feet away, he looked up and saw Jarod approaching with his stun gun extended. Michael saw something pop from the end, and then every inch of his body spasmed as electricity shot through his veins.
While he squirmed on the floor, he felt himself losing consciousness.
His vision sparkled and then went dark. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the faint ringing of a phone.
Stansfield paced behind his desk while Kennedy relayed possible action scenarios one after another. This was one of Irene’s strong suits.
She was a master at taking problems, plugging in different variables, and predicting probable outcomes. The Operations Center in the basement was humming like the bridge of an aircraft carrier headed into battle. Charlie Dobbs looked down at the floor from his crow’s nest and watched his people move with speed and precision. He was wearing a
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headset and pressed the speed dial for Stansfield’s office. The director answered and
Dobbs said, “The choppers are warmed up and the tactical teams are ready to roll. We also have the real-time thermalimaging on-line.”
“What do you see?” Dobbs looked at the high-resolution, fifty-inch screen that was mounted in the wall behind his desk. “The only thing to report is the arrival of a car.
Otherwise everything looks pretty quiet.”
“What kind of car?” asked Stansfield.
“It’s hard to tell with the thermal imaging, but it looks to be a sedan of some type. A
couple of my imaging analysts are running computer enhancements on the stuff right now. They should be able to tell us more in about ten minutes. The car arrived just after we came online.
One person got out. They retrieved something from the trunk and went into the house.” Stansfield’s eyelids tightened. “Did you say the trunk?”
“Yeah.”
“What did they get from the trunk?”
“I don’t know.”
“How big was it?” Dobbs sighed apologetically. “Thomas, we can’t tell with the nighttime thermal imaging on the KH-11. If it was daytime, I’d know more, or if it was one of the new KH-12s, we’d have no
problem, but the thermal imaging has a lower resolution.”
“Get your boys on it right away! Tell them to forget about the make of the car for now. I want to know how big the object was that was taken from the trunk, and let me know if anybody else arrives or leaves the ranch. I’m going with the tactical teams. Give the pilots the location of Nance’s place and tell the men to load up. I’m on my way down.”
Stansfield hung up and looked at Kennedy. “I want you to stay here and coordinate. If
Scarlatti calls, give her the number for my mobile phone and have her call me directly.”
“Are you going out to Nance’s?”
“Yes. I’m going to handle this thing personally.” Stansfield exited his office and told his bodyguard to grab the mobile phone and follow him.
Stansfield slid his access card into the slot for the executive elevator and watched as his bodyguard strapped a black nylon pack around his waist that contained the director’s secure mobile phone.
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There was a knock on the door and all three men turned their attention from the body on the floor to the entrance of the room. The voice of Nance’s assistant called out from behind the oak door. “Sir, the President is on the line and would like to speak to you.”
Nance scowled at the door. “Tell him I’m not available and that I’ll call him back.” The assistant cleared his throat. “He was rather insistent that he speak with you immediately
…. In fact he seemed a bit irate.”
Nance pointed at O’Rourke, who was still passed out on the floor.
“Jarod, keep him quiet. I’ll be right back.” As Nance started for the door, Garret followed. Nance stopped abruptly. “Wait here, Stu. I can handle this on my own.” Nance left the room and went to his private study. He pushed the blinking light on the phone and said, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Jim. What is it that you wanted?” The President screamed into the phone, “What in the hell are you up to now?”
“Jim, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
