“Even in the capacity as acting President,” Melissa Ryan said, “you can still nominate an acting Vice President. The senate would have to approve, but under present circumstances I believe they’ll be glad if anyone wants the job.”
“Who?” Drake glared at Palmer. “Am I supposed to nominate you?”
Palmer shook his head. “No,” he said. “I prefer to work outside the bounds of that office. I’d say we kill you now, but neither the Speaker of the House nor Senate President Pro Tem want the gig — and Lord knows we don’t want your Secretary of State filling your shoes. Admiral Ricks, on the other hand, would make a fine choice. He will take over as acting president upon your resignation and withdrawal from public life, calling for a special election so the people will actually have a chance to vote for the leader of the free world. You had a good run, Drake. Got a little booty in the Oval Office and got to play big man for a few months while your VP tried to get us into a war. But it’s over. It’s really your call how you go out. And, I have to say, at this point, your choices are limited.”
Epilogue
The muggy DC weather caused Quinn’s suit to stick to his skin as he exited onto the West Wing portico with Ronnie Garcia by his side and nodded to the uniformed Secret Service officer. Hot as it was, the air smelled of roses and freshly cut grass.
The Black Dragon was safely ensconced in a Pentagon lab. The Chinese hadn’t liked it, but at least they had not threatened a war. Sources in the Middle Kingdom said that General Sun had found himself in prison shortly after Song had called in to report.
Like the East German Stasi, the IDTF found itself disbanded in a single day. The FBI had already started investigations on senior leadership and many of the younger agents were all too happy to flip and testify against their bosses.
Grateful to be alive and breathing the humid air, Quinn used his left hand to peel away the necktie that Palmer had forced him to wear to the meeting in the Oval Office. His right arm was in a sling.
Senator Gorski had used her clout with the select committee on intelligence to pave the way for Win Palmer to be named as acting National Security Advisor. The position ordinarily didn’t need senate approval, but under the game of musical chairs that had become the presidency it seemed prudent to get some consensus from somewhere.
A free man for the first time in months, Quinn pitched the tie into the bed of a shiny black GMC pickup, hoping it would blow out when they reached the Beltway and got up to speed. He opened the door for Garcia and helped her up on the running board with his good arm. A patchwork of sutures hashtagged her cheeks and upper lip. Both eyes were ringed in black like she was wearing a bandit mask. She still couldn’t lift either arm much above her waist. Though she wouldn’t be doing pull-ups any time soon, her doctor said the chances of regaining full use of her arms were outstanding.
“Well ain’t this something?” Jacques Thibodaux said as he walked out behind them, wearing his wife, Camille, like a second skin at his side. He’d shattered his fist on Big Uncle’s jaw and his hand was now enveloped in a white cast up to the forearm. “I guess my brave little woman is the onliest one well enough to drive us into the sunset.”
“I’m not sure I can ever thank you enough,” Ronnie said to Camille from the backseat as she climbed in beside her husband. She didn’t mention Kim, who had been cleared to fly and was already in Russia preparing to bring Mattie back to Alaska — where Jericho and Ronnie would meet them.
“Jacques has told me stories.” Camille grinned. “I just tried to imagine what you would do.” She gave an embarrassed laugh, situating herself behind the wheel. “I can’t believe the President just resigned from public life.”
“Well, sugar,” Jacques said, “you been through enough to know he didn’t exactly resign. He and the guy who held Ronnie prisoner are spending a little quality time together in a black-site prison of their own while we see how much information they actually know.”
“What about the Chinese girl?” Camille said, turning to look at Jericho over her shoulder. “Have I been through enough to know about her too?”
Quinn chuckled, though it hurt his ribs. He still found it difficult to take a deep breath without grimacing. “As a matter of fact, she called this morning from the hospital in Beijing. They had to take a good portion of her foot because of the burn, but she doesn’t seem too upset about it.” Quinn smiled inside himself at the thought of the brave Chinese spy. “I guess the Ministry of State Security feels their agents need to have two good feet. She’s been given an early retirement to focus on her music.”
Thibodaux half twisted in the seat, peering over his broad shoulder with his good eye. “Where we gonna go now, l’ami?”
“I don’t know about you,” Ronnie said. “But this being wounded stuff makes me hungry. How about RT’s?”
Thibodaux slapped the back of his seat at the mention of this favorite Cajun restaurant off Mt Vernon Avenue. “Now you’re talkin’,” he said. “Puttin’ the brakes on the Muslim Caliphate does work up an appetite.”
“This is all just like some action movie,” Camille said, waiting for the Secret Service to open the gate that would take them past the bollards on the closed portion of Pennsylvania Avenue. She glanced in the rearview mirror, smiling to finally play a bigger role in this part of her husband’s life. “I heard someone on the news say Hollywood is tired of Islamic terrorists,” she said.
Jericho rested a hand in Ronnie Garcia’s lap and they exchanged a knowing glance. “So am I,” he said. “So am I.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In tactical training we are ever practicing to “shoot, move, and communicate.” I hope my books carry forward that same sentiment.
As usual, I’ve taken a bit of literary license with the small details, in an effort to tell a fast story without giving the bad guys too much real stuff without making them work for it. It is, for instance, a little more difficult to waltz into Seattle with a load of terrorists in your boat than I make it out to be, thanks in no small part to the good folks at Customs and Border Protection. That said, the border is a big place, and they can’t be everywhere.
I had a great deal of help in researching all the shooting, moving, and communicating. Aaron Gough provided insight into the Springfield Armory XDs, a pistol I don’t currently own. Ty Cunningham, my friend and jujitsu instructor, walked with me through the fight scenes, exploring the dynamics of real-time, nose-to-nose violence.
Thanks to Ben for all the help with Mandarin and to Dan for letting me use him as a sounding board.
Skipper Steve Arlow helped immensely by allowing me to spend a few days aboard his 65-foot boat in Southeast Alaska, exploring and imagining the possibilities.
Mike, Lori, Ray, Ryan, and Doug down at Northern Knives in Anchorage provided much entertainment as we discussed various blades and techniques. Scott Ireton remains a friend and valuable bike expert, as do Andy and Troy at the BMW shop in Salt Lake.
I consider myself a horseman, but I had my friend, Jill Marshall (who also happens to be an expert pistol-era) check my ideas for the buzkashi match, utilizing her expertise in dressage and other equine matters.
Earlier this year I bought a little Bond Arms derringer, thinking it would be perfect for Ronnie Garcia to carry. I didn’t know how right I was. I need to give a big thanks to Gordon Bond and my new friends at Bond Arms for the factory tour and in-depth discussion about the Snake Slayer.
My friend Dan Cooper continues to inspire me with tales of his motorcycle trips through Central Asia. I really want to be like him when I grow up.