“Like they’ll find you out here,” Bunny man said. “It’ll be another century or two before they find your bones.”
“You willing to bet your life on that?” she asked.
“I guess I am. It’s a quick way to make fifty G’s,” Bunny man said.
“Shut up,” Nixon said. “You run your mouth too much.”
“Fifty G’s? For killing a federal agent?” she asked. “You guys are cheap. If I wasn’t going to kill both of you tonight, I’d want to get you on Uncle Sam’s payroll.”
“Shut up, lady,” Bunny man said. “We’re done with you.”
The two men worked together to lift her out of the trunk and place her on the ground. She held onto both their shoulders to maintain her balance.
“You do realize how incredibly beta male it is of you to kill a one-legged woman in the woods?” she asked, needling them some more. “I mean, seriously, do you drink soy milk and avoid all types of meat?”
“I will hit you,” Bunny man said.
“Is that before or after you shoot me?” Shields asked.
Then Shields tumbled to the ground, breaking her fall by landing on her shoulder.
Nixon cursed and grabbed her by her arms. “Could you give me a hand?”
Bunny man chuckled. “You look like you’ve got it all under control, Mr. Whole Milk.”
“If I had my leg, I could walk for myself,” Shields said.
“Shit, man, just give her the leg back,” Bunny man said. “It’s not like she can go anywhere out here.”
“Fine,” Nixon said. “Put it on her and grab your stupid bunny head and my mask while you’re at it. We don’t need to take any chances in case she somehow gets some help out here.”
“Out here,” Bunny man said. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Just do it, okay?”
Bunny man growled. Shields heard footsteps toward the car. A few seconds later, one of the men tried to attach her leg.
“How’s that feel?” Bunny man asked.
“It’s not on right,” she said.
Then he continued to tighten the strap.
“You’re not doing it right,” Shields said.
“Just get her inside,” Nixon said. “We shouldn’t have to wait long now.”
Shields walked with the two men up a short flight of stairs and onto what felt like a wooden porch. One of the men worked a key into a lock before the door flung open. A screen door rattled against the frame as they entered the house. Once the door was shut, Nixon removed her blindfold.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “I was beginning to—”
Nixon cut her off by sliding her blindfold into her mouth, serving as an effective gag.
“Got something to say to me?” Nixon asked.
Shields shook her head.
“That’s what I thought,” Nixon said before he turned to Bunny man, who didn’t have his mask on. “Take her to her room.”
Shields tried to say something, but her words were unintelligible due to the gag. She wanted to tell him that he didn’t look nearly as ugly as she imagined, but was actually glad that she couldn’t get it out. Now that she had her leg, she needed to switch her tactic from sassy to sweet.
Bunny man led her into the room and tied her good leg to the bedpost then ripped her prosthetic leg off.
“I bet it’s killing you not to be able to talk, isn’t it?” he asked. “Maybe almost as much as it’s killing you that you can’t walk without help.”
She shrugged and grunted.
“That look says it all,” he said. “I know you have some smart ass comment swimming around in your head. And yet, you can’t say it. But as my old man used to say, ‘Life’s a bitch and then you die.’”
She forced a smile and nodded.
“Don’t you go anywhere, you understand? That’d be bad for me.”
Shields remained quiet, wanting desperately to respond with something snide comment about Nixon that might endear Bunny man to her. But she couldn’t get it out and decided she’d save it for later.
He exited the room and closed the door behind him.
Nixon met Bunny man in the hallway. “Did you make sure she’s secure?”
“She’s not going anywhere for a long time,” Bunny man said.
Shields smiled as they shuffled off down the hallway. She stretched as far as she could and was able to get her fingers on her prosthetic leg. After dragging it over to her, she used one of the sharper metal pieces on the side to saw away on the zip tie binding her hands together. It took a couple of minutes of careful work before she freed her hands. Immediately, she removed her gag and then released the secret compartment that held her weapon.
She checked to make sure it was loaded and grinned. Shields reattached her leg properly—and waited. After ten minutes elapsed, she decided that was more than enough time.
“Mr. Bunny man, can you help me? I have to use the bathroom.”
Shields stood behind the door and waited.
CHAPTER 41
Airspace over Hyde Field
BLACK DIDN’T HAVE MUCH time as the plane continued to descend. As he quickly ran through his options, none of them seemed to matter much in the end. Either way, he was likely to die. If his co-pilot didn’t shoot him first, the terrorists in the back would finish the job. But if he crashed the plane, Shields would certainly die.
At least the president will survive.
Black reduced his airspeed some more and ran through his checklist on final approach.
“Got your seatbelt on?” Black asked.
The co-pilot glared at him. “Don’t get any funny ideas.”
Black increased the plane’s airspeed, jolting them back in their seats. He then rolled the plane hard to the right, surprising the co-pilot. Black grabbed his gun and put two shots in the man’s head, killing him almost instantly.
In the back, Kazadi and Zahid shouted along with the others. Black leveled out the plane and circled back around toward the runway. He reached back and locked the door to the cockpit before grabbing the intercom microphone.
“Terrorists and miscreants, this is your captain speaking,” Black began. “We’ve had a little mishap on our final approach for landing that requires a cleanup in the cockpit. Once we touch down and come to a complete stop, feel free to send someone up front to take care of this mess. In the meantime, sit back, relax, and dream of dying a martyr’s death in a hail of bullets. We’ll be on the ground shortly.”
Black circled the airfield once more before taking another pass at landing. He heard pounding on the door, Zahid demanding that it be opened. Taking the microphone, Black delivered another message.
“If you want to survive this landing, I suggest you get me proof of life for my fellow agent by having her captors call your former colleague’s phone. I have it up front with me and will complete the landing sequence once I’m satisfied that she’s safe and will remain so. Is that clear?”
“I’m going to gut you,” Kazadi shouted through the door.
“Mr. Kazadi, please keep in mind that your life is in my hands,” Black said as calm as an airline pilot. “Any attempt to gut me will result in certain death, not only for you but also for your cabin mates.”
Black heard footsteps stomping away.
“Let me remind you that if you haven’t already done so, please buckle up and prepare for landing,” Black said.
The dead co-pilot’s phone rang and Black answered.
“Let me hear her voice,” Black said, dispensing with pleasantries.
Shields shouted in the background. “They’re going to kill me, but you have to keep—”
“Satisfied?” a man asked after yanking the phone away from Shields.
“Yes, I am,” Black said. “In fact, I’m very satisfied. You try to kill her or me, and the FBI will be all over your location. I’m sending this phone number and record of this phone call to the deputy director of the CIA. He’ll know what to do with it. So, whatever you’re pla
nning on doing, I suggest you release the federal agent you’ve taken hostage. It’s your only chance of surviving, albeit a very long time in a dark and dingy cell.”
The man on the other end cursed at Black before hanging up. Their intention was clear. She was going to die—and so was he.
At least, that’s what they believed.
Black found that playing to their overconfidence was oftentimes the best way to disrupt his enemy’s plans, especially when they held the upper hand. He was certain that once they touched down, they’d try to kill him in one way or another.
Black checked in with the tower again, explaining that he had to abort the last approach. He sought clearance for the same runway and was granted it.
A couple of minutes later, the tires barked as the Gulfstream 650 touched down on American soil. He checked in with the tower and taxied toward a row of empty hangars.
Zahid pounded on the door. “Last one on the right.”
The handle jiggled but held fast, bringing a smile to Black’s face. He continued to check the rest of the plane’s instruments while holding a gun. As he guided the jet to the hangar, he considered all the ways that they might try to kill him—and he came up with a contingency plan for each one.
The only one he wasn’t certain he could survive was if they all tried to storm the cockpit. He could use the co-pilot as a shield, but wasn’t sure how long a siege he could withstand, even with the dead man’s weapon as a backup.
Black applied the brakes and brought the plane to a stop. He quickly texted Robert Besserman with a brief explanation of who he was and why the phone call needed to be researched by someone at the agency or at the NSA.
Then Black waited.
He heard the door to the plane open but not much else. Craning his neck, he tried to see back behind the plane when he heard several cars roar up to it. The vehicles’ headlights gleamed off a stack of oil barrels inside the hangar.
“What are they doing?” he wondered aloud.
Then just as he noticed the cars wheeling around, he saw one of the men drenching the ground in oil leading away from the plane. He looked up at Black, ensuring he was seen.
“What the—”
Black watched as the man struck a match on the side of a box and flung the flame at the gasoline. He sprinted for one of the vehicles and dove inside. The tires squealed on the tarmac as the trio of SUVs sped off.
The flame on the ground swelled, and Black realized his time was short.
He unlocked the cockpit and noticed the cabin was already ablaze with a raging fire. Spinning on his heels, he rushed back into the cockpit and shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER 42
Washington, D.C.
THE GALA AT THE Kennedy Center proved to be the star-studded event that President Young hoped it would be. A-list actors, hall of fame professional athletes, musicians, and academic leaders jammed the seats for an event hosted by Sam Clyburn, the hottest comedian on late night television. Red, white, and blue buntings hung over the railings in the upper levels, while patriotic music played in the background.
President Young worked his way through the back concourse, shaking hands with several politicians and other foreign dignitaries on hand for the event. He stopped for a minute and chatted with Nevada senator Harold Williams, who was there with his wife Linda, a former Olympic track star.
“This turnout is incredible,” Williams said as the two men shook hands.
“Well, it’s only that way because you’re here along with your beautiful wife,” Young said.
“Oh, stop it, Mr. President,” Linda said.
Young grinned and winked. “Seriously, I appreciate you both taking the time to be a part of this tonight. You two have been some of my biggest public supporters and I appreciate it.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Williams said. “But I still want to get together with you in the next couple of weeks before I introduce some new legislation on gambling.”
“Call my office and I’ll make sure we find the time,” Young said.
He continued to meander to his private box before settling into his seat. The buzz in the room was palpable, which was what he’d hoped for. He reached over and grabbed his wife Madeline’s hand, giving it a squeeze. She looked at him and grinned before patting him on the shoulder.
“This is going to be fantastic, Noah,” she said.
“As long as Sam Clyburn is moderately funny, I don’t see how this night can go any other way,” Young said.
He leaned back in his seat, taking in the last few moments of the crowd filing in before the house lights dimmed. A spotlight appeared in the corner and followed Clyburn as he strode onto the stage.
“Good evening, everyone,” said Clyburn, clad in a shimmery blue suit with red and white accents. “It’s so nice to see you all here for this exciting night. Now, many of you know me as Sam Clyburn, but tonight, as you might be able to tell, I’m Uncle Sam.”
His comment drew a few polite laughs before he introduced a pre-recorded skit he’d made. On the screen behind him, a video played, depicting him running through the White House looking for the president only to find David Salisbury’s dog Abe sitting in the chair of the Oval Office.
“We always wondered who was really running the country,” Clyburn said. “Now we know.”
The crowd laughed more than at his first joke, which put Young at ease. He’d already seen the sketch, giving it his approval. But he was pleased to see others were amused by it as well, even if it was a joke at his expense.
Clyburn continued by introducing the night’s first award recipient. Charlotte Lofton was tapped to receive an award for her work with a nonprofit that dug wells in remote areas of Africa. And while there were many organizations involved in that work, Lofton’s group also utilized the coverings above the wells to affix wireless internet transmitters. The crowd gave her a standing ovation after a short video played explaining how her idea was revolutionizing small villages and connecting them to the rest of the world.
For the next half-hour, the cycle of Clyburn introducing recipients, showing a video about why they won, and giving them an award continued. Young watched from his private box, mostly interested in how everyone in the facility was reacting. If they had a good time and he came across as a thoughtful leader, he hoped he might be able to parlay those warm and fuzzy feelings into some campaign donations for the next election.
However, a tap on his shoulder interrupted his musings about the future.
“Sir, the head of security needs to speak with you,” a Secret Service agent said.
Young furrowed his brow. “Is everything all right?”
“Come with me, sir,” the agent said.
Young excused himself from the box and followed the man into the hallway, where Clint Rollins, the head of the Secret Service was awaiting him.
“Clint, what’s the meaning of all this?” Young asked. “You do realize this is one of the biggest nights of the year for me.”
“Sir, I promise you that I wouldn’t have bothered you unless it was an emergency,” Rollins said.
“An emergency? Tonight?”
“Sir, we have a report that a group of terrorists have landed at Hyde Field and intend to attack this venue tonight.”
“So, set up a perimeter and make sure it doesn’t happen,” Young said with the wave of his hand. “That’s literally your job.”
“Of course, sir. We’re doing everything to employ law enforcement officers around the city to deploy an effective perimeter, the kind they won’t be able to penetrate.”
“Nothing’s impenetrable,” Young said with a growl. “Haven’t you been around long enough to find that out?”
“My job is to keep you safe, Mr. President. And that’s what I intend to do. I can assure you that the perimeter we set up around this building won’t be besieged by any enemy of this country who intends to do you harm.”
“But what if they do?”
“It’ll be
chaos, sir.”
“What other mitigation actions do you recommend?” Young asked.
“I believe we need to cancel this event and evacuate you immediately.”
Young put his hands on his hips. “You’re talking out both sides of your mouth now. You have an impenetrable perimeter but it could be penetrated and endanger everyone here. Now, which is it?”
“Better to be safe than sorry, sir. To act out of an abundance of caution is a much better alternative than losing you. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Young narrowed his eyes. “Not if I intend to maintain the presidency. Do you know what would happen to me if this event was cancelled? I’d give Clyburn more material than he could handle for the next five months. Now, I’m not going anywhere, so I suggest you figure out a way to stop those bastards before they get here. The last thing I want is to put this place in a panic.”
“We’d remove you quietly, sir.”
“The sole purpose of tonight is to honor Secretary Geller for her heroism and avoid a public relations nightmare,” Young said. “If I’m not there to give her an award as well as a platform for her to tell her story about what happened in Africa, my administration is going to be toast.”
Rollins shrugged. “My job is to make sure you remain safe.”
“Are you ordering that I leave with you now?”
“Sir, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
Young sighed and took a step back. “Is this an active threat or simply an alert?”
“At the moment, it’s an alert. But if it gets to—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Young said. “Thank you for the update. I’m going to return to my seat and continue with this event unless this imagined threat of yours becomes a real one.”
“It might be too late by then, sir.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Young said as he patted Rollins on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”
Young turned around and marched back to his seat. Madeline cocked her head to one side, scrunching up her face. He understood what she meant by her expression.
State of Conspiracy (Titus Black Thriller series Book 8) Page 18
