“That’s right. I’ve checked call logs, visitor records, official movements, off-site meetings. Maybe I’m not looking in the right places. Anything you can scare up with your algorithms or whatever, let me know.”
“algorithms. yer cute.”
“Need me to open up a portal to get you on my system?”
The light rippled within the Vault, and he realized that Joey had replied inside his own computer, projecting her answer onto the wall before him.
“dummy,” it read, “i’m already in.”
Vera II smirked at him.
He typed, “Oh.”
“i’ll look into it after class. any luck picking your spot?”
“Yes. Can you do some route analysis? I need specs on wind factor, visibility, height above target, distance, ease of access, stability, etc.”
“not remote. haveta be onsite for that. happy to fly to d.c. it’d get me outta this final.”
“Not safe. I’ll figure it out.”
He deleted the rough draft, erasing their correspondence.
He stood up and paced around some more, doing his best not to think about the bottle of Tigre Blanc waiting for him in the freezer. A few fingers of ice-cold vodka might take the edge off the upcoming phone call he had to make.
He plucked his RoamZone off the desk, glowering at Vera II. “All right, all right.”
He dialed.
As it rang, he continued walking in tight circles.
Candy McClure’s voice came like a purr across the line. “I thought you’d never call. Here I am, all dolled up and nowhere to go.”
“I need you in D.C.”
“I’m already here.”
“Why?”
“I saw the press briefing, too. Bennett just announced precisely when he’s gonna be on the mark. I knew you’d jump at it. You’d better hope Bennett’s not playing you.”
“I thought about that. But I don’t think he’ll pull out of a congressional testimony. He’d lose more political capital than he can afford right now.”
“What do you need?”
“Secret Service protocols designate three primary high-alert routes from the White House to Capitol Hill, ranging from 1.9 to 2.3 miles. They’re all circuitous, so we can’t count on the straight shot up Pennsylvania Ave. Right now that stretch of blocks is under heavier surveillance than anywhere on the planet. I can’t risk being seen in the area again, not until the day of. I’ve identified three potential perches. Can you go to them and get me a comprehensive set of data for each hide?” He told her the measurements he required. “I need it down to the inch.”
“I was thinking to the millimeter,” she said. “But if you want me to work sloppy, I can back off my game.”
“I’m down to ninety hours, and I still have to procure the weapon. I need this ASAP.”
“I’m out the door,” she said. “But, X? One more thing to consider.”
“What’s that?”
“If I can predict you, they can, too.”
Orphan A sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, hands folded. The four surviving Collins cousins had departed earlier that morning, but Wade remained hunkered down on the Pelican case, hefting various weapons. He refused to leave. He wanted to be right here at command central, manning the fort so he’d know the instant his shot at revenge came through the line.
His face was red from crying, blood vessels blown out around his nose and eyes. He was the only person Holt had ever seen whose sobbing conveyed not grief but rage.
There was no more Sound. Only Fury.
The authorities had identified what remained of his cousin’s and brother’s bodies and leaked a story about a drug heist gone bad. The speed and deftness of the cover-up was particularly impressive — amazing what got done behind the scenes when the commander-in-chief was tugging the marionette strings. People who said the government was inefficient didn’t know the right parts of the government. The media was having a field day with the incident, calling it Watergate-gate.
Wade and his cousins failed to find it amusing.
Holt’s disposable phone vibrated.
Wade’s hands stopped moving at last, the pistol at rest between his massive palms.
Holt looked at the text, the sender ID nothing more than a redacted space. FRIDAY. BE READY.
Holt rose and handed Wade the phone as he passed him. Resting by the front door was a black duffel bag that had arrived earlier this morning. It was zippered shut and secured with zip-ties.
Wade read the message and rose from his perch.
It seemed, for a time, that he kept rising.
“I’ll round up the boys,” he said. “You get us within range of him. That’s all you need to do. Just get us within range.” He wiped at his nose. “Can you do that?”
Holt crouched over the duffel, flicked out a folding knife, and severed the zip-tie. He tugged the duffel open and dumped its contents by Wade’s feet.
Scattered on the floor were emergency-response-team jackets, Secret Service badges, department-issued combat-utility uniforms.
Holt grinned. “Wolves in wolves’ clothing.”
44
Shock-and-Awe Charm
When Mia opened the door, she noted what Evan was holding and her face froze with surprise.
It wasn’t the expression Evan had been hoping for.
He stood there dumbly, Peter’s wrapped present tucked under an arm, a bulky gift for Mia front and center. He offloaded it to her, and she struggled a bit under its weight.
“It’s — wow, cool — a … um, first-aid kit.”
“It’s actually a Black Hawk medical pack, designed to SEAL-team medic specs. I packed it with essentials — syringes, field dressing, alcohol pads. I guess the morphine vials are a little much.”
She hefted the immense olive-drab pack onto an accent table, displacing a mound of LEGOs. “Maybe so.”
“There’s a sternum clasp and cinch straps for the sides to help maintain load integrity during stress maneuvers. Not that, you know … But I figured after Peter’s injury…” He read her eyes and stopped. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”
“No. But you’re so bad that it actually makes you good.”
“Pity factor?”
“No,” she said. “More like shock-and-awe charm.”
“I’ll take it.” He followed her inside, the condo filled with the scent of fresh-baked pie. The TV was on in the background, a commercial featuring a silver-haired couple toasting with umbrella drinks while a rugged voice ran down a list of horrifying side effects. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone. Traveling for work.”
She started clearing dirty plates off the kitchen table. “No worries. Been busy here, too.”
“I brought something for Peter, too. Is he—”
“Evan Smoak! Check it out!” Peter shot out of his room. He rotated his right arm in the socket, showing off the healed shoulder even as he streaked toward Evan. Then he saw the wrapped package and froze: Flying Hug Interruptus. “What is it? What is it?”
Evan handed it to him, and Peter sat on the carpet to unwrap it. The half-moon plaque came clear. “It’s … um…?”
“A plaque,” Evan said. “From the White House gift shop.”
“Like, the actual White House?”
“The very one.”
Peter went to lift the plaque, but it came apart, a clean break splitting the brass patina. “Oh, shoot. It’s broken.” He looked up at Evan, his charcoal eyes wide. “What happened?”
I cracked it over the head of an MPD officer.
Or it shattered from the overpressure of a frag grenade in my hotel room.