“Who’s your boss?” Jack asked, not expecting an answer, surprised when the man brandishing the weapon actually answered.
“Stewart Baxter,” he said, raising the shotgun and aiming it at Jack. “Now say good-bye, Jack Jensen.”
Gadanz moved forward to the edge of his seat and caught his breath as the television camera panned in for a close-up of the president hugging his illegitimate daughter while the bright lights from the press gallery below the jet flashed at them like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
When Dorn and Shannon finally leaned back from their initial embrace and the camera caught a full glimpse of the young woman’s face, a thrill coursed through Gadanz’s body. Shannon was a pretty girl, but she didn’t look pretty right now. She was sick, though she had no idea how sick.
She’d been asleep in the one-room hut of the small town nestled into a remote river valley of the Democratic Republic of the Congo in western Africa when she’d been injected with the filthy blood poisoned by the Ebola virus. It had been fewer than twelve hours, so she couldn’t know — yet. But the doctors would diagnose her condition very quickly.
Gadanz threw his head back and laughed demonically as Dorn hugged Shannon again for the cameras and smiled that winning smile. Despite being ambushed at Harpers Ferry as he was leading his assassins toward Washington, Liam Sterling had still gotten his primary target. President Dorn had now been directly exposed to the virus and would undoubtedly fall victim to it as well.
The blood that Karen Jensen had been injected with, in that same hut a few hours later, was rife with the virus as well. Gadanz nodded to himself as he watched. This part of Operation Anarchy was still moving forward perfectly. Sterling had still executed the most important piece of this to perfection.
Somehow Troy Jensen, his brother, and other bastards of Red Cell Seven had interrupted the plan. But Gadanz didn’t care. In fact, he was happy that, based upon the reports he was receiving, Troy was going to live. Very soon, according to Sterling, who’d managed to escape the ambush at Harpers Ferry and had already called Gadanz twice, Troy was going to wish he hadn’t survived. Troy was going to be faced with a terrible decision no absolute patriot and loving, compassionate brother would ever want to face. No one in their right mind would.
Gadanz felt the familiar pain in his head coming on, and he leaned forward and closed his eyes in advance of it, as he’d become too accustomed to doing. Perhaps it was finally time to see another doctor.
He hated doctors. They rarely had good news.
He glanced at the TV as the pain in his forehead intensified. They certainly wouldn’t have good news for Shannon — or the president.
He screamed as the pain in his head turned unbearable.
Troy lay on the hospital bed. Somehow the bullet he’d taken on Route 340 had missed all the major organs in his chest. He’d lost a tremendous amount of blood, and they’d given him a heavy dose of painkillers, but he was awake.
“My father,” he whispered as an attendant moved into the room.
When the man reached Troy’s bedside, he leaned down so he could hear better. “Sir?”
“My father is Bill Jensen,” Troy gasped. “Have you heard anything about him?”
“He’s in a hospital in New York City. From what I understand, he’s going to live.” The man had no idea if Bill Jensen would live or die, but he believed it would be better for Troy’s mental state if he received good news. And the man wanted Troy to live — for now — though not for the reason the hospital’s legitimate staff did. “I have something for you, sir,” he said, pressing a note and the vial filled with amber liquid into Troy’s weak hand. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
With that, Liam Sterling exited the premises. His latest disguise had worked beautifully.
CHAPTER 38
“Good afternoon, Henry,” Baxter said politely as he eased into the same chair he’d sat in the last time they’d met in Espinosa’s home study. The night they’d discussed the Order that made Red Cell Seven untouchable. The night Baxter had unleashed his ominous warning about sexual skeletons. “I appreciate you being available for me on such short notice.”
“Of course.”
Espinosa’s response sounded cordial, but Baxter knew the chief justice nominee wasn’t at all happy about this meeting. Beneath the calm exterior Espinosa was nervous, and justifiably so. The silent current running through this meeting was strained — which was exactly as Baxter wanted. It would make Espinosa pliable, like putty.
“That was a hell of a thing that happened in Harpers Ferry yesterday.”
“Yes,” Espinosa agreed, “it was.”
“I think we’re all safe at this point. But it’s still a good idea for the major players in town to lay low for a while.”
“Your boss didn’t lay low last night,” Espinosa pointed out. “That was quite a show he put on at Andrews.”
Baxter nodded. There was no denying David Dorn’s flair for the dramatic — and his understanding of how to use television. His approval rating had soared to almost ninety percent by ten o’clock this morning. No one seemed to care about his indiscretion in Vermont all those years ago. Only that he’d “manned up” and gone to meet Shannon at the airport as soon as she landed — as well as quickly defused another major terrorist attack. His tide couldn’t get much higher.
“It worked out well for him,” Baxter observed.
“It seems as if everything always does.”
Usually, Baxter agreed, though there was an issue this time. It turned out Shannon was very sick. She’d been taken from Andrews Air Force Base directly to Walter Reed Hospital and was now lying unconscious in the intensive care unit.
Now President Dorn had fallen ill, too. Doctors were running tests on Shannon and the president, and Baxter had left orders with his staff to call him as soon as the results were in. Baxter figured it was simply a bad bug, and Dorn would be back in the White House saddle quickly. Nothing ever seemed to slow the president down for long.
“Let’s get to the point,” Baxter said brusquely. “It’s time to—”
“First,” Espinosa cut in, “tell me how you knew to call and warn me the other day.”
“What are you talking about?” Baxter demanded, irritated at the interruption.
“How did you know what was going to happen? How did you know I could be a target for those people who were caught in Harpers Ferry?”
“I received a last-second intel report from the CIA,” Baxter lied.
It had been Shane Maddux who’d alerted him, but Espinosa didn’t need to know that. No one did. It seemed strange that Maddux would come to the rescue like that with the nugget of vitally important information, but so be it. Now was not the time for questions, and Baxter would never violate the personal loyalty Maddux had shown, giving the warning, by giving away his source. It had occurred to Baxter that Maddux must somehow be involved in the terrorist plot, but no one had died. Perhaps Maddux had actually had a hand in foiling it.
“Now,” Baxter said firmly as he pulled two pieces of faded paper from the manila envelope that lay on his lap and then another, fresher one, “let’s get to why I’m here.”
“Did you have Chief Justice Bolger killed?” Espinosa asked evenly. “Was that really an accident on Constitution Avenue? Or were you behind it, Stewart?”
“Goddamn it,” Baxter hissed, surprised at the insolence Espinosa continued to show. “Don’t interrupt me again, Henry.”
It didn’t really matter to Baxter that Espinosa had put two and two together and correctly suspected the White House’s role in Bolger’s death. Espinosa would never say anything to law enforcement, because he might come under scrutiny as well — Baxter would make sure he did, and Espinosa must suspect that, too. After all, Espinosa would have a hell of a motive for being involved in a conspiracy to kill Chief Justice Bolger, and Baxter could easily connect the dots to him for law enforcement — even if the trail was completely manufactured.