“Ready?” he asked once he looked up.
Black nodded. “Is that Candy Crush? Because I can help you skip some levels.”
“You’re not allowed to touch my phone,” the guard said. “Maybe you can write down your secrets later.”
Black smiled and nodded, enjoying the fact that the man was fully unaware that he was being mocked. “It’s not easy with my hands like this.”
“Nice try,” the man said before shoving Black in the back.
Black stumbled forward as they rejoined the soldiers sitting on top of wooden crates that formed a circle. Kazadi and Zahid were reviewing their plans before noticing Black.
“Take him to the plane,” Zahid ordered. “Give him a bottle of water and let him relax. He has a long flight ahead.”
Black hadn’t flown a jet in several years, but had already started to review the takeoff protocol in his head. Most of it was coming back to him, and he was certain that everything would return the moment he sat in the captain’s chair. However, he wasn't allowed near the cockpit by the guard.
“You sit there,” the guard said, using his gun to nudge Black toward an open seat near the galley.
Black followed orders as he mulled the plan he’d concocted over in his head. It wasn’t his greatest idea, but under the circumstances, he had no choice.
Despite being ostracized by the rest of the soldiers, Black strained to pick up on English words related to their plan. There weren’t many, but he had a general idea of what they were going to do.
As for Black’s role, it was simple: Fly them to Washington. They wanted to use his credentials as a secret agent to assure safe passage into the country. He was almost certain they planned to kill him the moment they were safely at the hangar, something he had to do in order to free Shields.
But Black had his own plans.
CHAPTER 33
Washington, D.C.
RACHEL GELLER WIPED the mascara from her eyes and then washed her face. She reapplied her makeup, just hours after falling into bed immediately after returning home. Her body still ached from her time in captivity, and her brain was still foggy from the jet lag.
When David Salisbury approached her about speaking to a reporter, she regretted not telling him to deal with his own problems. But the guilt she bore from being stubborn and going against the president’s wishes made her acquiesce to Salisbury’s requests. Plus there was that dog, nuzzling up against her legs when Salisbury met her at the airport. She couldn’t be angry while little Abe was there.
Dave knew exactly was he was doing.
As much as she loathed his tactics in the moment, she still admired them. Salisbury was a master political strategist and always seemed to know how to strike the right note with whatever audience was before him. She also didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.
A news radio program played in the background as she listened in for what she’d missed in the Beltway. Most of it was partisan sniping about policies and future legislation, none of which would really help the majority of the American people. After being behind the curtain in the capital, she wondered if the federal government was all just theater. It sure felt that way—and seemed like a far cry from what the original founders intended the country to be. However, she played her role well, hoping to maybe be a fly in the ointment of whoever was really behind all of this. As a diplomat, she longed for the day when power struggles gave way to innovative solutions to make the world a better place. Growing up, she’d expressed the belief that it could happen with the right people in place, which drew mockery from all her friends and family. She was labeled a dreamer and an idealist, oftentimes dismissed for her visions of grandeur.
As she finished curling her hair, she considered the fact that they might all be right, that the American government was a ship too large to turn. And here she was being complicit with it all, playing her role like a good little girl. Yet in an hour, she’d sit in front of a television camera with the opportunity to shine the light on the truth, expose the dark underbelly of Washington politics that was neither red nor blue, but a deep shade of green marked by greed.
Would she let that chance slip away?
She smiled as she put on her lipstick.
If the president was mad about me making that trip before, I wonder what he’ll be this time.
She grabbed her coat and headed out the door.
* * *
GELLER SIFTED THROUGH her more pressing emails as her motorcade sped through the city. The interview with Michelle Ryland was originally scheduled to take place at the State Department, but Geller suggested that they conduct it at Mount Vernon before the historical property opened to the public. Geller pitched it as a more appropriate setting to talk about freedom, sitting on the porch of George Washington's mansion. But the truth was she didn’t want to do the interview moments after having to look at the rest of her staff wanting answers about what happened to their missing colleagues.
Her phone rang with a call from one of her staffers.
“I said I only wanted to take urgent requests,” Geller said. “At least let me get back on my feet back before having to deal with a hundred little requests.”
“I’m fully aware of your request, Madam Secretary,” her aide said. “But I believe this falls under that category.”
The aide quickly explained the situation the State Department had been dragged into, one involving women’s education in Afghanistan. She could decline and the Taliban would run roughshod over the area, squelching bright futures for young girls there. Or she could fight for the girls—and win—through participating by diplomatic methods. It was a fight none of her predecessors would engage with, and one her successors would also likely ignore. She sighed as she thought about what to do.
When the vehicles came to a stop outside Mount Vernon, Michelle Ryland was there to greet Geller.
“Madam Secretary, I’m so looking forward to our chat today,” Ryland said.
“I am too,” Geller said. “And I hope you’re ready because I have quite the story to tell.”
As Geller took her place in a director’s-style chair while looking out across the Potomac River, she took a deep breath. For the first time since she’d been back, she felt relaxed. Then she heard a dog bark.
It was Abe.
David Salisbury trudged up the grassy hill toward the back porch of the Washington mansion, Abe in tow. The Yorkshire terrier strutted up as if he were the sole reason for everyone gathering together.
Geller clenched her fists and tensed up the moment she locked eyes with Salisbury.
“Dave, I didn’t expect you to be out here today,” she said.
“Yes, well, I didn’t know if I’d make it since I was under the impression that this interview would take place at the State Department.”
Geller forced a smile. “Slight change of plans.”
“At your request, I understand.”
She nodded. “This is a far better setting to discuss American foreign policy than a stodgy office building, don’t you agree?”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I think it’ll play well to the viewers.”
She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Because that’s who this is all for anyway, right? Gotta make sure the American people see how hard this administration is working.”
Salisbury cocked his head to one side. “If I didn’t know any better, Rachel, I’d think you were being sarcastic.”
“You do know better,” she said. “And I was.”
“Why don’t we tamp down the attitude for the interview, okay?”
She shrugged. “What’s there to say? The president told me that he wants me to tell the truth about what happened in Africa. So, that’s what I’m here to do.”
“I just want to make sure you understand that this isn’t a soapbox for you.”
She feigned a frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, I know what you think about this town and a
bout the federal government,” Salisbury said. “You’ve made that explicitly clear. But you need to realize that this interview is about creating the narrative that this administration is deeply grieved by what happened in Africa but didn’t want to jeopardize any more deals or abandon the summit because of how important an alliance is for us to keep Americans safe. Saying anything else would be of great detriment to your political future. Are we clear?”
Geller bit her lip and nodded. She wanted to unleash her pent up frustration on him but thought better of it as she noticed Michelle Ryland struggling to walk up the grassy embankment in five-inch heels. In an exercise of self-control, Geller could wait. When the cameras started rolling, she’d say whatever she wanted to, even with Salisbury within earshot.
Ryland offered her hand and grinned. “Madam Secretary, it’s an honor to meet you.”
“Well, you never know who you’ll meet in this town when you start searching for the truth,” Geller said as she took Ryland’s hand.
Salisbury scowled.
“You know Dave Salisbury, don’t you?” Geller asked.
Ryland turned and shook his hand. “We’ve spoken on the phone but never officially met.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Salisbury said.
“Come,” Ryland said, gesturing toward a chair. “Let’s have a seat and talk before the cameras start rolling.”
The two women stepped away from Salisbury, leaving him seething.
Geller couldn’t wait to recount her story, one which Ryland would undoubtedly spin as heroic. But it was far from that. Geller was lucky to be alive. A Special Forces operative broke her out and protected her until she reached a prop plane, which barely escaped a dangerous thunderstorm. The whole ordeal was a harrowing adventure, one she wasn’t fond of recounting. However, if it gave her a platform to speak about the dysfunction of Washington, she could suffer through talking about it once more.
As Ryland peppered her with prep questions, Geller grew more and more comfortable with the reporter. She had a way of loosening up Geller, making her feel like they were old friends catching up over a cup of coffee instead of a national audience on primetime television.
After ten minutes of conversation, the production crew signaled to Ryland that they were ready to begin the interview. The two women sat down and remained still while the hair and makeup personnel made one final pass at them.
“Ready?” Ryland asked.
Before Geller could respond, her phone buzzed. She looked down at the message.
How do you want to handle the situation in Afghanistan?
Geller knew what she wanted to do. Then she glanced at Salisbury, who locked eyes with her. If she said what she wanted to say, she knew President Young would demand her resignation, maybe even before she made it back to the office. Young was more tethered to Salisbury than her, and there would be no doubt he’d be pushing for it. Young wouldn’t hesitate to take that recommendation.
She took a deep breath and forced a smile.
“Ready,” Geller said.
She swallowed hard and decided to abandon her plans to expose the reality of politics in Washington. She would hold her tongue and do it gracefully, maybe even force a smile as they hung a medal around her neck at the Kennedy Center.
The girls in Afghanistan need me.
CHAPTER 34
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT COULDN’T EVEN make it through one article in The Washington Post the next morning before he folded up the paper and tucked it away between some documents on his desk. He got up and paced around his office, stopping briefly in front of the mirror to see just how heavy the bags were beneath his eyes. The white was almost completely gone, covered up by redness, spidering in every direction. His joy was also gone.
Blunt could still remember the lunch meeting with Shields and her father, who’d joined them to discuss exactly what she’d be doing with Firestorm. Despite Blunt insisting that the former sheriff wasn’t authorized to know about the organization, he persisted. Instead of caving in, Blunt carried out the dinner by talking about mundane Washington politics as well as some techniques for fishing with night crawlers. The latter subject was what grabbed Sheriff Shields’ attention and distracted him long enough to finish the meal. Blunt texted Shields after the meal was over, inviting her to meet up later that night for dessert—and without her father. Blunt remembered promising Shields’ father that he’d take care of her. And it was a promise that Blunt had kept until this moment.
All signs led to her being abducted, which terrified Blunt. He’d grown fond of Shields, caring for her as if she was his own daughter—kind, caring, protective. That was part of the reason he was snooping around, trying to figure out how serious Black and Shields’ relationship was. Blunt felt like it was his paternal right to know, even if he didn’t really have any paternal rights. But the longer things went without her being found, the chances of finding her alive continued to shrink.
More than forty hours had passed since she was last seen by anyone in public, and Blunt had yet to hear from Edge, who he’d tasked with looking into her disappearance. But even he’d struck out in his initial attempt to gather any information, notifying Blunt as much in a terse text just before midnight. And if the investigator had been working in the morning, he hadn’t found out anything, something Blunt extrapolated from the fact that he hadn’t heard from Edge just shy of 8:00 a.m.
Blunt couldn’t take the suspense any longer, breaking down and calling Edge for any news. But he had none, urging Blunt to be patient.
“I’m going to find her,” Edge said. “But you have to let me continue to turn over every rock.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Blunt said. “With every passing hour, I’m afraid we’re in danger of losing her for good . . . if we haven’t already.”
“Sir, that’s a myth because most of the missing persons who are found within hours of disappearing never actually vanished. They either ran away or were lost, thus skewing the numbers. For me, the numbers don’t lie, but they don’t really change either. If a person’s truly kidnapped, there’s a fifty-fifty chance we get her back, even higher if she left on her own volition.”
“This isn’t assuaging my fears about Agent Shields’ situation,” Blunt said. “Considering that her chance of survival is already about the same as a coin flip makes me very nervous.”
“Look, that’s not what I meant,” Edge said. “What I meant was—”
“But that is what you said,” Blunt interrupted. “I don’t care what you meant. The truth just came out and we need to find her quickly.”
“I’ll keep pressing,” Edge said, “but I’m not going to make any promises.”
“Fine,” Blunt said with a growl. “Call me the moment you hear anything. And I mean anything. Good, bad, indifferent—it doesn’t matter to me. I just need to hear something.”
Jana knocked on Blunt’s door and eased it open. He gestured for her to enter.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later,” he said before ending the call.
The grin on Jana’s face stood in stark contrast to the way gravity seemed to have a stranglehold on Blunt’s. He scowled as he studied her.
“What’s got you in such a good mood this morning?” Blunt asked as he sat down in the chair behind his desk. “Did you finally meet someone on that dating app of yours?”
Jana blushed and shook her head. “I have news that I hope is far more interesting to you.”
“Than your love life?” Blunt asked, lines creasing his forehead. “You know I look forward to listening in on you and Shields talk about all the weightier matters in life.”
“You spy on us?” Jana said, her expression a mix of curiosity and respect.
“I call it eavesdropping,” he said with a grin.
“Call it whatever you like, but I think you’re going to like this.”
He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Please, sit.”
She sat down. “When I went to Chri
stina’s gym, I attached a device I created that downloaded all of the facility’s security footage for the past week and transmitted it to our servers.”
“How did you—”
She held up a finger. “Don’t ask. It’s not important. Anyway, I focused on the time frame around when she was likely to have left, and I noticed a van that went into the alleyway behind Vida Fitness a few minutes after she arrived. It left about a half-hour or so after she entered the building. I’m not sure any staff members were in on it, but they certainly didn’t seem concerned when the lights went out for about a minute. The gym guests were freaked out, running to report the outage to the front desk, but the guy at the front desk didn’t seem bothered by it at all. Then less than a minute later, the lights came back on—and that was just before the van peeled out of the alley and returned to the main boulevard.”
“And you think that van is how they got Shields out of the building?”
“It’s the only plausible explanation,” Jana said. “There’s a blind spot near the back exit, which is where the van was parked before it left. But I’ve gone through hours of other footage and it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Got plates for the van?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Jana said as she handed over a small piece of paper with the license plate number scrawled on it.
“Good work, Jana,” Blunt said. “This might be just what we need to get her location.”
Blunt didn’t wait for her to leave before he dialed Robert Besserman’s number to see if he could help.
“I need a favor,” Blunt said once Besserman answered the phone.
“Anything you want, J.D.”
“I need access to the FBI’s database so I can locate a van.”
“What’s this all about?” Besserman asked.
“One of my agents has been abducted—and I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”
“Read me the license plate number. I’ll have a team poring over footage within the hour.”
Blunt complied with Besserman’s request and hung up. With Shields in danger, Blunt wasn’t sure he could sit by and wait patiently. He wanted answers. And he wanted them yesterday.
State of Conspiracy (Titus Black Thriller series Book 8) Page 15
