Brad Thor: State Of The Union

The two men then worked in silence, digging shallow graves and burying the bodies behind the secluded lodge. They were not alone. Perched high above, on one of the area’s heavily wooded trails, someone was watching.

EASTON, MARYLAND

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS-10 DAYS

Frank Leighton was scared. In fact if the truth were told, the man was absolutely terrified.

The call had come in the middle of the night, the voice more machine than human. It sounded tinny, canned somehow, as if it was coming from far away. But it wasn’t the sound of the voice that had shaken him. It was the message.

It took Leighton several moments to clear the cobwebs from his head-his sleep had been that deep. And why not? He was retired after all. Sleeping with one eye open while guarding against the cold knife blade that could be slipped between his ribs by a supposed ally, or listening for the telltale whisper of an anonymous assassin’s bullet fired from a silenced weapon, were all part of his past. Or so he had thought.

Twenty-five pounds overweight and fifteen years out of the game, Frank Leighton took a quick shower, shaved, and then combed his head of thick, gray hair. The years hadn’t been kind to him. When he looked in the mirror and said to himself, “I am way too old for this,” he was telling the God’s honest truth.

The initial spurt of adrenaline that had come with the phone call had long since passed, so Leighton decided to brew a pot of coffee while he considered his options. It was a short period of reflection, as he had no options. That was exactly the way the protocol had been designed.

When the coffee was ready, Leighton filled his mug to within two-and-a-half inches of the rim, then grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet above the refrigerator and filled the mug the rest of the way. “The breakfast of champions,” he thought to himself as he took the mug and headed past a butler’s pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as his home office.

While he waited for his computer to boot up, he gazed at a picture of his sister, Barbara, and her two kids. Maybe he should call her. Warn her. She still had the cabin in Wyoming. They would be safe there. He wouldn’t have to tell her why. She would trust him. She would do what he asked. It was important for them to be safe, at least until he could complete his assignment.How in the world, he wondered,had things come to this? And after all these years.

The opening of his web browser interrupted Leighton’s pondering. He went to the American Airlines website and ran through all of the international flights leaving from Washington that morning. When he found the flight he wanted, he began the process of booking the ticket. He had no idea if the old Capstone Corporation credit card still worked. It was the only way to reserve and pay for the flight, as he no longer kept large stores of cash in the house. That was something he had left behind in his old career, his old life.

If the card still was still active, the little-known bank in Manassas, Virginia, would accept any expiration date he entered into the computer. Leighton had no need to fish the card, or the false passport that matched the name on the card, from its hiding place within the old lobsterman’s buoy stored in a corner of the boathouse behind his home. When one’s life has hung by a delicate thread for years upon end, certain things are never forgotten. He entered the credit card number by heart and waited while the American Airlines site processed his request. Moments later, a confirmation number and seat assignment appeared on the screen.

Leighton knew that a same-day ticket purchase was going to raise a lot of red flags, so transporting a weapon was out of the question. He would have to wait until he got there. Once he arrived, he would have access to more than enough firepower, and money-if everything had been left in place.

It had to have been. The fact that the Capstone credit card still worked, hell, the fact that he had even been called after all this time was reason enough to believe that he would find things just as he had left them fifteen years ago.

But what the hell was going on?Could it be a test? If so, why test him? Surely, they had younger, more capable operatives-operatives who were actuallyactive. None of this made any sense. If you were going to run the world’s most important horse race, why drag in old warhorses from the pasture for it?

Frank Leighton’s mind was overflowing with questions and as they began to get the better of him, he slammed an iron door on his misgivings and secondguessing. He reminded himself of what they all had been taught, the one thing that had been drilled into them over and over again-The protocol will never be wrong. The protocol is infallible.

As he pulled himself together and shut down his computer, Leighton thought again about calling his sister. If his mission didn’t succeed, at least she and the kids would have a chance. Then he thought again. No, he couldn’t call her. Despite how much he wanted to, the protocol was explicit. There had been no indication that this was coming. Nothing. But at the same time, it was one of the eventualities they had been told to be prepared for-something coming out of the clear blue sky.

After Leighton had thought about it some more, he rationalized that there was one person he could call; someone like him-someone who would have been contacted as well. They wouldn’t have to discuss details; the tone of their voices would say everything.

He retrieved his cache from the old lobsterman’s buoy in the boathouse and brought it back inside to his bedroom where he quickly packed a small suitcase full of clothes. After throwing in what looked like an oversized PDA, he opened the manila envelope from the buoy and spread its contents across the top of his dresser.

The passport was going to need some tweaking. He would need to update some of the stamps and of course, change its expiration date. He’d need to do the same thing for the driver’s license. The credit card and false business cards were slid into various pockets of the sport coat he had hung on the knob of the closet door.

Other items, like the pre-European Union currency, which was no longer of any use, were dropped into a metal wastebasket. An old coded list of names, addresses, and phone numbers was recommitted to memory and then dropped into the wastebasket as well.

Now was the time to place the phone call. Leighton walked back into his kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed. He felt like he was in one of those nightmares where everything moved in slow motion. The ringing of the telephone on the other end seemed to take forever. Finally, on the fifth ring, there was what sounded like someone picking up. Relief flooded through him. If the man he was calling was still at home, maybe he hadn’t been activated. Maybe this was all some sort of mistake. The feeling, though, was short-lived as Leighton realized he had reached the man’s voice mail. He didn’t bother leaving a message.

Nothing but the assignment mattered now. He could trust no one. Everyone and everything at this point was suspect. He retrieved a bottle of starter fluid from beneath the kitchen sink and doused the contents of the metal wastebasket. There could be no trace left behind. Leighton set the wastebasket outside on his stone patio, struck a match and watched as the assortment of papers went up in flames. When he was positive they were burned beyond recognition, he used the lid of his kettle grill to choke out the fire and after emptying it, returned the wastebasket inside.

Two hours later, having expertly altered his false passport and driver’s license with the drafting supplies he had held onto for just such a purpose, the house locked up and the suitcase in the trunk of his car, Frank Leighton pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the airport, committed to his assignment and the havoc he was about to let loose upon the world.