Andrew Britton - The American

In other words, the only realistic way for Vanderveen to succeed was by remote detonation, which meant that he would be close by in an overwatch position. Kealey knew the man well enough to know that he would detonate the device regardless of whether the president was in target range; the public would believe it because of what they had seen him do to the Kennedy-Warren on national television, but proof enough for Ryan was the raised scar that resided an inch to the right of his own sternum.

He stayed on 7th until the National Air and Space Museum appeared on his right, then crossed the street onto the wide open space of the Mall. Heading northwest over the grass, with the dome of the Capitol Building framed high at his back, he smiled at the excited noises coming from a group of schoolchildren who were lined up at the glass doors to the Smithsonian. The smile soon faded, though, as he was too tightly wound to share in their enthusiasm. For all he knew, their bus might be passing Vanderveen’s position on its way back to their school…

He pushed the thought from his mind as he came up on 12th Street. It was better not to think about it. When he heard his cell phone ringing, he was grateful for the distraction, but not for long. “Ryan, it’s Harper.”

“John, listen-”

“No time, Ryan.”

He caught the urgency just as Rivers had done less than a minute earlier, and fell silent immediately.

Harper continued: “Naomi turned out to be lucky, after all. Our man has a driver’s license and a French passport in the name of Claude Bidault. The passport is real, but the actual owner reported it lost six months earlier while on vacation in Crete. Got that?”

“Yeah. Keep going.”

“Susskind finally hooked up with this guy Thompson in Norfolk. Using the Nichols ID, Vanderveen picked up 3,000 pounds’ worth of material at NIT exactly eight days ago. The arrogant bastard walked right under our noses twice at the same port… Anyway, he has a vehicle that we can’t account for. It’s a Ford Econoline van, white, maybe with a ladder rack on top.”

Ryan was already running. Standing on 12th when the phone rang, he had taken two long looks either way down the street, then decided to go north, for no particular reason he could think of. Harper’s voice seemed to bounce at his ear as he dodged the heavy crowds of pedestrians, most of whom were people leaving work for a quick lunch. Some of them shot him angry looks or curses as he pushed through the throngs, and the whole time the deputy director’s words were hitting him with the force of a sledgehammer: “…and Virginia tags, Ryan, RND-1911. HRT is moving out in plainclothes, but they-”

“Tell them to stay north of the Mall.” His mind was moving in a blur, trying to recall a white Ford van, but… No, he hadn’t seen one. He was sure of it. He said again, “North of the Mall, John. That’s where he’s gotta be. What’s happening at the marina?”

“That whole area is locked down tight. They doubled up on the barriers, and the CAT team is moving into place,” Harper said, referring to the Secret Service’s Counter Assault Team, a highly secretive group that managed to keep a low profile, despite the fact that they accompanied the president wherever he went. “They’ve been able to keep it pretty quiet so far.”

“That won’t last,” Ryan said, already breathing hard from the exertion of a full-blown sprint. He was passing cars in a flash, and there was a white van right there… But no, it was a Chevy. He didn’t break stride, racing past the parked vehicle as a number of pedestrians turned to gawk in his wake. He was scanning faces, too, looking for anyone who might resemble the description that Harper had just given him.

He made a quick decision. “Can’t walk and talk, John. Gotta go.”

“No, Ryan, WAIT-”

He cut the connection and jammed the phone into his pocket, slowing down for a second to feel for the Beretta and get a long look both left and right down Constitution Avenue.

Nothing. He stayed straight on 12th, running hard.

Jeff Storey, the agent in charge of the president’s detail, was floored by the message that he had just received. A terrorist, in the city with a van full of fucking explosives, and they wanted him to sit tight? It was beyond belief…

Storey had been a special agent in the Secret Service for nearly sixteen years, with the last four spent on the president’s detail, and the last two of those four in charge of that detail. He looked around nervously. Jesus Christ, the assistant director had said 3,000 pounds. The concrete bollards would stop the van itself, but the kill radius for that kind of weight was at least… what? He tried to remember. It had to be at least 1,500 feet, and from his position on the podium, Storey could easily make out the medium-sized print on the barriers where 6th turned into Maine. Sit tight, my ass, he thought. We’re sitting ducks.

Standing there on the podium, listening to the French ambassador lead up to the introduction of President Chirac, thinking about how easy it would be for a van to come barrelling down that street, Jeff Storey came to a decision. He was the one in charge of the president’s detail, not Joshua fucking McCabe, and there was no way that he was going to see the president dead on his watch. In sixteen years with the Secret Service he had never found the need to draw his weapon on the job, but he did so now. He was standing on the podium with a group of diplomats and aides, blending into the background with the others behind the three heads of state when he convinced himself it was time to act. As the Sig 228 came up and out of his holster, the eyes of the two agents standing next to him went wide, and there was no turning back.

The AIC lifted his sleeve to his mouth and said, in a calm but forceful tone, the words that caused the world to come crashing down around him: “Storey to detail! Hurricane! I repeat, Hurricane! ”

Moving behind the press pool with two junior agents in tow, Jodie Rivers looked up in surprise at the sudden movement on the podium. Her surprise quickly turned to horror, however, when she saw that Storey had grabbed the president roughly, and was pulling him back as the other agents surrounded the pair with their weapons out. The French president and his aides were looking on with confusion clear in their faces, as was the Italian prime minister, when the DSS agents assigned to each man came crashing onto the stage, following the lead of Storey and his detail.

The reporters and photographers on the gangplank were in a frenzy at the scene, cameras flashing everywhere as the people in the press pool tried to make sense of the situation. Their screamed questions went unanswered as a line of agents formed to block the president’s predetermined escape route, but the metal barriers came crashing down as the media let go of the last shreds of decorum. The thin line of agents was quickly overrun by the huge crowd of reporters and cameramen.

Rivers couldn’t believe what she was seeing. This was exactly why McCabe had ordered Storey not to do anything rash. “What the hell is he DOING!” she screamed, before realizing that the two junior agents standing next to her had even less of a clue than she did.

Back in the CT watch center, McCabe, Susskind, Landrieu, and Harper were also staring in horrified disbelief at the scene that was playing out live on MSNBC.

McCabe was the first to lose it, his face flushing a very deep red. “This is exactly why I told him to sit tight!” he shouted, unconsciously giving voice to the thoughts of Jodie Rivers. “We need to cut that feed right now!”

Harper’s face was pale, and he was shaking his head. “It’s too late. If Vanderveen saw that, he has nothing to lose by blowing it.”