William Tyree - Line of Succession

He returned to the machine and began again. His heart wasn’t in it. It was a futile exercise. Neither O’Keefe nor Eva understood that anyone with clearance to work on CENTAF’s systems could have rigged Marine One’s flight plan without leaving obvious digital fingerprints. Forensic IT work was difficult and labor intensive. It would take days or weeks to find anything conclusive.

O’Keefe walked to the other side of the table and stretched her arms high above her head and yawned. She yawned again. And a terrible idea popped into Nico’s head.

“At least switch off the lights,” he told her. “Screen glare’s killing my eyes.”

She did. Nico typed with a bit more force now. His cuffs knocked loudly against the keyboard. He kept this up for several minutes. Then, exasperated, he turned and held his wrists toward her. He rattled his cuffs for good measure. “I can’t work in these.”

“C’mon. Don’t put me in that kind of position.”

“You’re torturing me.”

“Melodramatic.”

“I’m in serious pain. Have a look if you don’t believe me.”

She took a peek at the skin of his wrists. It was indeed red from the cuff’s constant chafing.

O’Keefe pulled the key from her belt and freed Nico’s wrists. “Just get back to work.”

Nico turned back around and began pounding the keyboard again. Shortly, a site with Cyrillic alphabet displayed on the screen.

O’Keefe sat up. “That’s not one of our sites. What’re you doing?”

“Easy, spook. This is just a Hungarian site for coding geeks. I gotta download some spyware. And stop looking over my shoulder. It’s makin’ me all edgy.”

“How much longer?”

“Couple hours at least. Might as well get comfortable.”

O’Keefe sat in a wooden chair against the wall. She put her loafers up on the desk, looking sleepy. Nico began working again. He typed in a deliberate, rhythmic canter. Slow. But steady. Like a resting heartbeat.

Gangplank Marina,

Washington D.C.

8:11 a.m.

Rios was still asleep when his phone jarred him from a dream. A good dream. He was sailing down in the Florida Keys with nothing but blue ocean and sunshine ahead of him. Plenty of beer in the ice chest and nothing but chips, guacamole, homemade salsa and fried shrimp to eat. Samba played loud — too loud — over the stereo. His knees didn’t even hurt.

His Blackberry rang. The reality of a city under martial law came flooding back to him. He opened his eyes on the second ring and gazed at his right hand, remembering that he had used it to kill two men the day before. He sat up and saw the row of boats out the porthole, realizing that he was safe aboard the Little Santa Maria, at slip #74, just like always.

Except when he was traveling with the President. The President. He had not heard from First Team since Sunday. He grabbed the phone and answered as fast as he could.

“It’s Rios,” he said.

The man on the other end identified himself as the CSO from Homeland Security. Rios had met him once, maybe twice. While he technically reported to HS, they didn’t bother him too much. The President had always insisted that Rios run the show.

“You’re needed at the Willard,” the CSO said.

The Willard was one of the oldest and most prestigious hotels in Washington. It was near the White House. “Okay. What’s up?”

“VIPs will be taking occupancy tonight. Your team has already been notified and will meet you at the hotel. Instructions will be disseminated at that time.”

“Wait. You mean First Team?” Rios said. “First Team will meet me there?”

“Just show up,” the CSO said. The line went dead.

Rios was left looking at the receiver as the sailboat gently rocked beneath him.

“Who was that?” said the voice behind him.

Rios shot out of bed and spun around, fully naked, his heart sputtering. He found himself looking at Haley Ellis, naked under the sheets of his queen-size bed.

She looked hurt. “You actually forgot I was here, didn’t you? Last night was that memorable?”

Rios shook his head and looked for his pants. “It’s just…I’m not used to having company. It’s been a long time.”

“You usually kick them out before dawn?”

“It’s not like that.”

She groped the floor for her clothes. “This isn’t exactly business as usual for me. I was brought up a good girl and I am a good girl. Iraq didn’t even ruin me. I just want you to know that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I guess martial law makes you do crazy things.” Rios got his pants on and watched as she did the same. “Call it what you want,” he added, “but I had a good time last night.”

She turned and made eye contact. Goosebumps went up her arms. “Me too.”

He sat back down on the bed. They shared a slow kiss. He had to force himself to break away. His head hurt. They had drunk a lot of wine last night. And he was late. And a little scared.

8th Precinct, Baltimore

10:21 a.m.

O’Keefe awakened from deep REM sleep and tried to focus. A man looked down on her. He was shaking her shoulder gently. “Oh jeeze,” she said as her vision slowly came into view. It was Nico. He was standing over her, breathing through his mouth. His breath was heinous.

“How long have I — ”

“Two hours.”

“Oh God.” She groaned as she righted herself in the chair. Holy Mary Mother of God. She had fallen asleep while supervising a federal prisoner. She could lose her job for this. “I’m impressed you didn’t try to escape.”

He blushed, looking somehow guilty. “Actually, I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

She instinctively reached for her weapon. It wasn’t there. She looked down and saw her agency-issued cuffs looped around her right ankle. The other cuff was tightened around a support beam underneath the table. Nico held the key in his hand.

O’Keefe let out a long, sustained scream at the top of her lungs. Nico put his fingers in his ears, sat back and waited patiently for her to stop. Half a minute later, O’Keefe stopped the noise long enough to catch her breath. “I don’t get it,” she huffed. “How come nobody’s coming to help me?”

“They used this room to question suspects. It’s completely soundproof.”

“How’d you know that?”

“They’ve got old floor plans and office assignments on the precinct wiki. There used to be an observation window on that wall, but they bricked it up.”

Fear welled up in her. She hadn’t had a chance to look at Nico’s intel file. She hoped he didn’t have any latent mental health issues.

He saw it. “Hey now, don’t be scared. I’m a pacifist. Robin Hood criminal.”

“So why are you still here?”

“I just had to tell you how sorry I am. I couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do what? Bring yourself to help Eva?”

“No, no, no. I mean I literally couldn’t do it. I’m not a forensic IT expert. It’s a completely different specialty.”

“Maybe if you explained it in those words. I could talk to Eva for you.”

He shook his head. “We both know that if she actually gets to go back to the White House, she’ll hand me over to the Saudis the first chance she gets.”

O’Keefe folded her arms across her chest. “You think you’re in trouble. Just wait until the agency finds out that I lost an international cyber criminal. My career’s ruined.”

Nico nodded sympathetically. “I thought of that. Which is why I’m giving you a consolation prize.”

Nico handed O’Keefe a freshly printed stack of records. “Hector Joaquin Sanchez and Damien Griffith LaSalle.”

“Who?”