Patrick Lee - Ghost Country

"That would take more time than we have. Why don't you take some advice from an old friend and fall in line here, all right? Get on the conference call and say you jumped the gun, and that it's all good. It's the only move you've got, anyway."

"I don't know about that," Garner said. "I was thinking I might just stand here and watch the minute hand tick a few times. If I don't show up on the call, that in itself raises a few flags. I don't imagine you and your people want any flags going up, if you expect to keep whatever you're doing secret for another four months."

Travis saw something flicker through Finn's expression at that line. Something like amusement. It vanished as quickly as it'd appeared.

"Here's your problem," Currey said. "From this point forward, your goal is to build a base of support against us. To do that, you need to convince rational people of something no rational person can believe without proof. If you had one of the cylinders, it'd be easy for you. You could show people what's on the other side. But you've lost that advantage now. So who's going to believe you? It won't carry much weight that you're a former president, when the people contradicting your claim include the sitting president and his entire cabinet, among many others."

Travis watched the resolve fade from Garner's eyes. Watched something darker take its place.

"It's over, Rich," Currey said. "All that's left is to acknowledge it. And the sooner, the better-at least for you. We'd be happy to leave you alone, once you've cooperated. It's not in our interests to stir up any headlines just now."

Garner looked at Paige, right beside him, then at Bethany and Travis.

"What happens to the others?" Garner said. "And don't bullshit me, Walter. I'll be able to tell."

"I know it," Currey said. There was a long pause, and then he said, "All right, fine. They die. They go to Rockport Army Depot on Long Island, they get interrogated by some friends of ours there, and then they get a bullet to the temple each. Sound like the truth? The thing is, that part happens regardless of the outcome. You can't help them. You need to take care of yourself, now. So do it. Get on the call and make it right. I'll get out of the way so you can."

The line clicked dead.

Finn pressed the button to hang up the phone, then held it out to Garner.

The wall clock showed thirty seconds left. In all likelihood, Travis knew, the other parties had already called in and were waiting.

Garner didn't take the phone. He looked at the three of them again, beside him along the wall. His eyes stayed on each one for a few seconds. Then he looked down, straight in front of himself. Travis saw his eyes track across the floor in an arc, just below the feet of the six gunmen. It almost seemed that he was getting a sense of the men, without appearing to do so. Travis wondered why. He did the same himself. He took in their posture. They were alert but not poised. Their weapons had dropped to their sides over the past couple minutes-but they could be aimed again in a quarter second, so Travis couldn't see how it mattered. Maybe Garner's assessment was only the manifestation of a wish that he could do something. Nothing more than that. Already he was staring down at his hands, folded before him. Looking hopeless. Looking like he'd made up his mind.

He took the phone from Finn.

"Keep it on speaker," Finn said.

Garner nodded.

"Sir, don't do this," Paige said.

She looked at Garner, but the man could no longer meet her eyes. He punched a number into the phone. It began to ring.

"Mr. President…" Paige said. Travis heard her voice crack. It had nothing to do with fear, he knew. It was simply disappointment to a crushing degree. Paige had known Garner for some time, and couldn't believe what she was seeing. Or didn't want to, at least.

The ringing stopped and a recording came on. It told Garner to enter something called a bridge code. He entered it. There was a tone and a series of clicks. Travis guessed the same recorded voice was letting the others on the call know that Garner had joined.

A tear overran one of Paige's eyes and drew a long track down her cheek.

Then the line opened and several voices were speaking at once, saying hello and asking if everyone was on.

"Gentlemen," Garner said.

The voices went quiet.

Garner took a breath. Continued avoiding Paige's stare. He let the breath out slowly.

"Gentlemen, I seem to have inconvenienced you for nothing. I've just spoken at length with President Currey, and I'm now confident that he has control of what I planned to discuss with you. It's not something any of us needs to worry about. And I'm sorry to cut it short, but that'll be it."

He turned the phone off. Lowered his head.

Finn looked more relieved than happy. Travis could almost see sympathy for Garner in his expression.

"You're a realist," Finn said. "I could always see that in you. There's no shame in it. You're a man who understands his options, that's all."

He took the phone from Garner.

Garner didn't look at him, but after a second he finally met Paige's eyes.

"You probably want to slap my face as hard as you can," Garner said.

"Don't tempt me," Paige said.

"No, I think you should do it. You'll feel better. So will I."

For a moment she only stared at him. His face was devoid of anything but pity, maybe for himself more than the three of them.

And then Paige slapped him. It had to be the hardest open-handed hit Travis had ever seen. The sound of it, loud and sharp as a whip-crack, echoed off the windows, the opposite wall, the stone floor of the hallway nearby. It rocked Garner's head sideways, throwing his balance off enough to make him take a step.

When he looked back at Paige, there was blood on his lip.

But he was smiling.

A strange kind of smile. Like he was in on a joke no one else understood yet. He turned to Finn. The smile hardened. Became colder.

Finn looked puzzled for maybe half a second.

And then he looked scared.

"I understand my options better than you do," Garner said.

If he'd said another word it would've been lost under the sound of the hallway door slamming inward. Travis snapped his head to the side and saw two men in crisp black suits coming through, with MP5 submachine guns shouldered. In almost the same instant he heard similar crashing impacts from elsewhere in the residence-two other teams coming in somewhere.

He understood at once why Garner had taken note of the six gunmen and their relaxed postures. They were plenty prepared to raise their silenced Berettas if any of their four captives made a move-but the sudden arrival of armed Secret Service agents was a very different matter.

The effect on the six men-not to mention Finn-was immediate. Their heads turned toward the sounds of the various doors breaking in. From where they stood-the six of them in their long arc-they couldn't see directly down the entry hall. Travis and the other three could: the living-room wall they stood against was an extension of one side of the hall.

But Finn's gunmen knew exactly who was coming. The part of their brains that would've told them to drop a hot potato had figured it out in about a hundredth of a second. The result, Travis saw, was a kind of neural tug-of-war between all possible reactions: killing the captives, finding cover, getting the hell out of this place. Not the kind of decision they could make in the almost comically small amount of time they had to work with.

At least one of the six opted for the first choice. The man nearest to Travis. The guy's Beretta began to come up toward the four of them, even as the Secret Service men in the hallway advanced at a sprint. They'd reach the living room soon, but not soon enough.

Travis threw himself forward at the man bringing up his gun. The two of them were lined up in a perfect face-off. Travis crossed the five-foot reach of space between them in the time it took the gun to come up to chest level. He got his left hand around the silencer, yanked the weapon down and away from pointing at the others, and punched the guy in the throat with all the force his weight and momentum could provide. Which turned out to be enough. The guy's hand came off the gun with a reflexive jerk. And then Travis was twisting, holding the pistol, going right past the guy and beyond the arc of the others. Not trying to check his speed. Not even trying to stay on his feet.