The agent immediately ordered two men away, speaking through his military-grade communications device. The line was unhackable; the GPRS coordinates masked beyond anyone’s ability to crack.
“A short hop to the White House,” Marnich said as they approached one of three identical black Escalades. The President would choose the vehicle at random before Jeff Franks would order the convoy to form an equally random procession and speed back to the White House. Coburn climbed into the back of one of the cars as Franks spoke constantly through his comms.
“All secure. Eagle One is ready. Once we’re clear of the hotel, all personnel back home. Check in.”
Every Secret Service agent checked back in the correct order and using the right code words, signaling their understanding that they should all immediately vacate the hotel and head back to the White House as per protocol, and that no one had been compromised. Franks climbed into the car.
“Go.”
The Escalade roared. Coburn hung on as the powerful vehicle tore across the empty first subfloor of the hotel’s parking garage and hit an up-ramp, passing another check point. Marnich sat to one side of him, Franks to the other. Fleetwood drove with Tyler in the passenger seat.
Safely in the car, Marnich filled him in on the dreadful events of the night. It didn’t sound right, didn’t seem plausible. Coburn, struggling with the news, tried to peer around Marnich’s bulk as they bounded out of the garage and onto the open street, but the man didn’t stand on ceremony. He blocked the President’s view of the scene across the street, at the same time blocking anyone else’s view of him — not that the Escalade didn’t have black-out windows and rocket-proof cladding, but the Secret Service could never be too careful.
“God, Jonathan,” Coburn whispered.
Marnich checked his watch and glanced over at Franks. “We ready?”
Franks tapped the driver’s seat. “Green lights all the way. Hit it.”
Coburn peered ahead, gazing at the slightly undulating concrete roadway that led all the way to the great, wide, blockaded expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue bordering the back of the White House, amazed to see every set of stoplights suddenly turn green. The Escalade’s driver punched the accelerator, sending the car spurting forward. Coburn fell back, momentum driving him into his seat. The first set of green lights flashed by, marked on both sides by the bland façades of buildings whose windows literally blazed with light, government buildings, shops, restaurants and hotels. The heart of DC would not rest tonight.
The driver let out a loud curse. Coburn forced his body forward, staring amazed as the few remaining sets of stoplights ahead suddenly changed, all hitting red in less than a second. The driver slammed on the brakes as Franks shouted, “Don’t stop!”
“How the hell did that happen?” Marnich cried.
Cars popped out across the intersections ahead. The Escalade’s driver had no choice but to slow down. Then the growing streams of cars began to swerve and plunge into one another as the stoplight sequences went crazy. Fender benders littered the road. The sound of screeching metal vied with squealing rubber as a nightmare pile up of vehicles began to block the road ahead.
“Shit.”
Franks thought fast and hard.
“Sorry, Mr. President, but this is no fucking coincidence.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The restaurant was truly unique, and Jonathan Gates’ favorite haunt these days. The inner decor was the perfect mix of blond woods, intimate tables and intricately carved ceiling scrolls. Gates certainly did not surprise himself when he chose it as the place to take Sarah Moxley on their first date. It was a comfortable retreat for him, a home from home, an office away from work, only a few minutes from his workplace and the White House itself. Gates had organized more than one power lunch here, partaking of politics and fried green tomatoes, the food good enough to distract even the most resilient of campaigners and lobbyists.
As Sarah Moxley took the seat opposite, he knew there would be no shop talk tonight. Despite her position as a reporter for the Washington Post, she had never once prodded him for information or brought up a story she was working on. It was one of the many good reasons that had brought them to this point.
“You look lovely tonight,” Gates said, once his four DoD bodyguards had retreated to a respectful distance.
“I do like the ‘no tie’ look,” Sarah replied. “I take it that means you’re ‘off duty’?”
Gates poured the wine. “President Coburn is directly across the street, giving a rousing after-dinner speech. What do you think?”
“That you would rather be here.” Sarah clinked glasses and tasted the Burgundy. “Wonderful.”
Gates signaled the waiter. “Let’s take a look at the menu. The Perlau is superb here, by the way.”
“With head-on shrimp?” Sarah winced as she read the menu. “Maybe not.”
“Well, I’m sure the chef would…” Gates made a slicing motion with his knife. “You know.”
“Still.” Sarah hid provocatively behind her menu. “Black-eyed pea cake for me please.”
Gates nodded, feeling a sudden bloom of affection for this woman which he carefully concealed. Despite his position, the US Secretary of Defense was a vulnerable man, even if only on an intimate level. Slow and steady was the right way to go with any potential affair of the heart.
He made a quick decision, one of honesty. “In truth, Sarah, I must say I’m not entirely yours tonight. A situation developed this morning about which they are keeping me fully briefed at all times.” He paused. “A group of particularly dangerous inmates took over a prison earlier today and continue to hold the authorities at bay even now.”
“Really? It wasn’t on the news.” Her eyes twinkled.
Gates raised his eyebrows. “And never will be. I mention it only to explain if I start acting…” he shrugged, “Odd.”
Sarah laughed out loud, then covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ll be sure to watch out for that.”
The appetizers were served, followed by entrees. The quiet atmospheric buzz of the restaurant and the absorbing company he kept, not to mention the wine, began to put Gates at his ease more than at any time since his wife had died. He enjoyed the mix of clientele, the sight of the passing businessman alongside the idling congressman, the intimate couple. And of course the tourist crowd. Gates found himself posing for more than one passing photo, and not once did any of his guards have to step forward.
“Is there always another crisis?” Sarah asked as she finished off her entree.
Gates nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Everything is always in crisis,” he said. “The country wouldn’t run right otherwise.”
“I understand,” she said, and Gates knew that she really did. Out of chaos, and out of the sharply challenged minds of men and women, came order.
Another couple stepped in through the front door of the restaurant, letting in a quick gust of cold air. Gates flicked a brief glance their way, more out of habit than curiosity, and didn’t immediately understand the plain fear written across both their faces. The scene held his attention as they entered the dining area.
Sarah frowned at his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” Gates half-turned toward his protective detail, but then the couple parted and a lone man stepped between them. He was dressed as a tourist: jeans, jacket, white training shoes, even the black rucksack slung across his back wasn’t unusual in the Capitol. But what might once have been a wool hat fitted over his head had now been pulled down so that it covered his face. Skull-like eye sockets glared straight ahead. The right hand held a big pistol, possibly a Magnum.
It was aimed at Jonathan Gates.