The man hit the table backward, his weight smashing through, fragments of glass exploding outward as his body crashed through the top and then the shelf before hitting the shag carpet with a thud.
Ranjeet stepped forward, said, “Oh shit, I’m sorry—”
Lou gasped. He coughed, then rolled to one side. Glass crunching underneath him as he reached into the back of his waistband—
And came out with a gun.
The pistol was big, chrome, and the hand that held it was speckled with blood swelling from a dozen cuts. The barrel trembled, but it was aimed at Ranjeet’s chest. The world had become a strange and terrible tableau that Ethan could see complete: Kurt with his mouth hanging open, Jack with hands on the sides of his head, Ranjeet frozen with one arm out, and Lou on the floor, curled up like he was doing crunches, the pistol in his right hand.
“You son of a bitch,” Lou said.
As often happened, Ethan found himself watching with the eyes of an academic, noting the classic battle for tribal dominance as it escalated from threat to violence. One of the things that was beautiful about evolution was that it was at once messy and neat—messy in that it depended upon the randomness of mutation, a million false starts and blind alleys unguided by an architect’s hand; neat because the rules were applied with inviolate certainty and brutal simplicity, genes and species tested against each other not on God’s chalkboard but on the bloody battlefield that was life, in situations just like this one—
All of a sudden he realized that Lou’s finger was tightening on the trigger. He was going to shoot a man over a disagreement and a flare of temper, shoot him dead in his own living room with his little girls upstairs.
Without giving himself time to think about it, Ethan stepped in front of Ranjeet.
Physically, he’d only moved three feet. But the shift in perspective was massive. Ethan found himself staring down the barrel of the gun. A view he’d seen in movie posters and the covers of mystery novels, but reality was very different.
Lou stared at him, his eyes narrow and nostrils flaring. “Get out of the way.”
He wanted to, he really did, but all he did was shake his head. Afraid that any move too sudden or forceful might shatter the situation, might cause this hothead to do something truly stupid.
“Daddy!”
The cry came from the hallway. A pretty child in polka-dot pants and a sweater with a dolphin on it stared at them, something breaking in her wide, scared eyes.
“Baby, go upstairs,” Ranjeet said. “Everything’s okay. We were just talking, and Mr. Lou tripped.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Everything is fine.”
Ethan stared at the dark perfect circle of the gun barrel, and beyond it, at the man’s face, angry and scared and in pain and ashamed all at once.
Lou lowered the gun. Jack and Kurt hurried over, bent to help him up. He moved gingerly and groaned. Shards of glass tinkled against the carpet.
Ethan opened his mouth to apologize, to say the whole thing was a mess, an accident, but his friend spoke first.
“Get out of my house.” Ranjeet cut his eyes from one of them to the other, landed on Ethan. If he was grateful, it didn’t show in his eyes. “All of you. And don’t come back. Ever.”
The liberals and the intelligentsia and the media believe they’ve won. Together they brought down a president. And in order to do it, all they had to do was play a video. Well, bravo.
Do I deny that I authorized the attack at the Monocle? No. But defending a nation of three hundred million people requires tough decisions.
The murder of those people was morally reprehensible . . . and I would order it again. I stand before you as an American, as a patriot, as a president, and I tell you that the actions of that night saved lives.
I have committed sins. I have done terrible things, and I have ordered others to do them in my name. I have spilled blood, some of it innocent.
But when I stand before God Almighty, I know that he will look upon my actions and judge them righteous. For every life it was necessary to take, thousands were saved.
Protecting America is not a job for the squeamish.
I have done wrong, and I would do it again. For you and your children.
God bless you all. And God bless the United States of America.
CHAPTER 15
“You look good,” Cooper said. “This government agent thing doesn’t work out, I think you’ve got a future as a rent-a-cop.”
“Screw you.” Quinn adjusted the blazer they’d boosted from the university security office half an hour before. “A polyester tie? Really?”
“That reflective strip down the side of the pants really brings the ensemble together.”
“And once again, screw you.”
The elevator stopped with a jolt, and the doors rattled open. They stepped into a concrete antechamber. A flyer taped to the wall had a profile shot of John Smith, chin up and staring into the future, the colors posterized into iconography, an illustrated style that made him look part politician, part rock star. The text read, “GWU WELCOMES ACTIVIST AND WRITER JOHN SMITH, AUTHOR OF THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM JOHN SMITH.”
Cooper and Quinn exchanged a smile, and then the two of them stepped into the underground parking garage. The deck was full, packed with economy cars sporting rusty side panels and bumper stickers for bands he’d never heard of. A few Volvos and Buicks bore faculty tags. They started up the ramp. Quinn pulled a black box from his pocket and took out two earpieces. Cooper tucked the tiny plastic in his ear. Two beeps sounded as the device synced. “Ladies?”
“Got you, boss,” Valerie West said in his ear.
“Clear as a cock in the face,” said Luisa Abrahams.
Quinn snorted a laugh. “As ever, you’re a delicate flower.” His voice was in stereo, the real man and the one in Cooper’s ear.
“Hey, you want delicate, I’m sure some of these coeds could help out.”
“I’ll pass. Anything unusual?”
“I’m monitoring all activity from his team,” Valerie said. “All SOP on their end.”
“Good,” Cooper said. He and Quinn parted ways as they rounded the corner, his partner walking up the center lane as Cooper moved to the front of the parked cars. It felt right to be back in action, relying on people he could trust with his life. The four of them had once been the top team in Equitable Services. Luisa was field ops, a five-foot-nothing who had faced off against men twice her size and possessed the most poetically filthy mouth he’d ever encountered. Valerie was a data rat who manipulated the stream of code that made up modern life. With Equitable Services on hiatus, they’d been reassigned to separate posts inside DAR, but both were too senior and too accomplished to be micromanaged; a short off-the-books gig should go unnoticed.
“Thanks again for the help,” Cooper said.
“Anytime, boss. None of us ever doubted you, no matter what they said about the stock exchange.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“Hey, it’s nice to have the band back together,” Luisa said. “I’m going quiet; sing out if you need anything.”
“Roger.”
Cooper stepped up on a narrow curb and crouched low, sliding past the cars. Fifty yards ahead of them a black SUV was double-parked facing the exit. The engine was running, exhaust fogging in the cold. The windows were tinted, but they’d watched Smith arrive, seen his second security guard get out with him. It would be just the driver in the car. Armed, no doubt, and probably very good.