Brad Thor - Takedown

“It depends on what you were doing. What if you weren’t a suicide bomber or planning on flying a plane into a building? What if you had other plans?”

Harvath looked back out his window and asked, “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” replied Herrington. “I just saw all that stuff happening on TV and it gave one of those uh-oh feelings.”

“Old habits are hard to break.”

Bob smiled.

“That’s better,” said Harvath as he decided to change the subject. They were both a little too on edge. “Now, am I going to be able to get that shot of Louis XIII you owe me at this place we’re going?”

“Probably not. For that we’ll need to find you some high-end gay bar. But maybe there’ll be some cute Navy guys there you can hook up with.”

Harvath gave his friend the finger and Bob laughed.

Below 34th Street the traffic began to back up and Herrington started giving the driver directions.

Fifteen minutes later, as they crawled down 28th, the cab’s radio erupted with terrified voices shouting in a language neither Harvath nor Herrington understood.

When Scot asked what was happening, the driver stammered, “The Queensboro Bridge!”

“What about it?”

“It just exploded!”

LONG ISLAND EXPRESSWAY

Tim and Marcy didn’t mind driving the girls into the city. In fact, they actually preferred it. This way, the girls could have a few drinks and not have to worry about who was driving home.

As they drove, they could see that the five-o’clock traffic coming out of Manhattan was bumper-to-bumper as people fled to places like Fire Island, the Hamptons, and Montauk Point. Tim looked over at Marcy, and she could immediately read his mind. “Thank God we won’t have to be sitting in that,” she said.

The girls had given them the entire rundown on what they planned to do. First they were going to hit SoHo for shopping and then meet up later with some of their friends for dinner at a trendy new restaurant in Chelsea. After that, there was a hot new club in Midtown they wanted to hit, but they didn’t want to be there too early. Heaven forbid they be the first ones there. So, it had been decided that if upon the initial drive-by there wasn’t already a line in front, they’d kill time at a spot they all liked on 56th called Town. They’d have a glass or two of wine and then try the club again later.

Though Marcy had been cool about letting the girls listen to whatever they liked in the car, she facetiously begged five minutes of forgiveness as she changed the radio over to WCBS to get a local read on traffic. She wasn’t a worrier by nature, but with what was going on in the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens, Marcy wanted to make extra sure they were steering well clear of any potential tie-ups.

According to WCBS, it looked like smooth sailing down to the Williamsburg Bridge and across into lower Manhattan, so Marcy switched the radio back to Power 105 and focused on the drive.

The girls laughed, gossiped, and lamented their last summer of real freedom before graduating from Yale-all the while acting as if the two adults sitting up front weren’t even there. That was okay with Tim and Marcy. They were more than used to being ignored.

When they hit the Williamsburg Bridge, traffic began to tighten up. Marcy put up with it for as long as she could, but it was maddening. Once she had enough space to slide over into the left lane, she signaled and made her move. About six car lengths later she could see why traffic was moving so slowly. An ugly, paper-bag brown utility truck labeled Birchman Landscaping was going at least fifteen miles an hour below the speed limit while everyone else was trying to do at least twenty over.

Marcy rolled her eyes at Tim and he responded, “Don’t even say it.”

“Just watch,” replied Marcy as she pulled alongside the truck.

Sitting inside were two dark-skinned males. Probably Mexicans.

“I told you,” she said.

“Give it a rest, Marcy. It takes all kinds to make up the world.”

“I know it does. The Germans are the fast drivers. The Italians the crazy ones, and the Mexicans are the slow ones.”

“I resent that,” replied Tim. “I’m Italian.”

“And that’s why I’m driving. I rest my case.”

Tim smiled. Marcy would never change. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “That truck’s got to be the ugliest color I’ve ever seen.”

“You’d think landscapers would be a little more creative, wouldn’t you?”

“Paint some flowers on that thing, or something.”

Now it was Marcy’s turn to smile. Sometimes she thought Tim had missed his calling in life. He really was pretty artistic. Although she figured that must come with being Italian. Caravaggio, da Vinci, Michelangelo…all Italians.

“Oh, check this out,” Tim added. “You work for Birchman and you not only get an ugly truck and matching uniforms, but they give you matching watches as well.”

Marcy looked out the passenger-side window and saw the men looking at their watches. “They must be late for their next appointment. That’s why they’re in such a hurry.”

Tim stifled a chuckle. He couldn’t help it. Though Marcy was often a little too off-color for his taste, she could be pretty funny. It used to bother him, but they’d been together for so long now that he’d come to accept it as part of who she was.

Marcy pressed down on the accelerator and as she passed the landscaping truck said, “How do you like that?”

Tim leaned forward, trying to see what she was looking at out her window. “What?”

“There’s another one of those landscaping trucks stuck in traffic the other way.”

“Where?”

“We just passed it.”

“Boy, would I like to have a piece of that action. Their trucks are everywhere.”

“And at this time of year they must be making a killing.”

Moments later, an enormous explosion detonated behind them. The girls screamed as the windows shattered and Marcy lost control of the SUV. There was the horrible, wrenching sound of metal on metal, followed by a deafening crash as everything went black.

LAKE GENEVA, WISCONSIN

Jack Rutledge had always been of the mind that pilots and presidents shouldn’t be seen drinking; at least not in the afternoon. There was something too unnerving about it. So even though he would have enjoyed a nice vodka and tonic right about now, and despite the fact that he was technically on vacation, he stuck to his Arnold Palmers.

As he sipped his half lemonade, half iced tea, he reflected that there were few places in the United States he enjoyed as much as Lake Geneva. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t discovered it sooner. His old college roommate, Rodger Cummings, a successful real estate developer from Chicago, had bought a home here three years ago and already the president had been to visit six times. It had been his retreat during the rigorous campaign-the place he came for a day or two of rest to get away from it all, and continued to be his preferred getaway; more so than even Camp David.

The area was referred to as the Hamptons of the Midwest and though it was an extremely beautiful place to visit in the summer, the president found that there really was no bad time to visit.

His love of Lake Geneva was a bit ironic as just across the lake from where he now stood was the home of the deceased industrialist, Donald Fawcett, who had orchestrated his kidnap several years ago. It was also the home in which two United States senators who had conspired with Fawcett had met a very grisly end.

Watching the sailboats and assorted pleasure craft crisscrossing the lake, the president was glad he’d taken his old roommate up on his most recent invitation. There was something instantly soothing about arriving here. The lake seemed to have a profound effect on him and allowed him to put the cares and concerns of being the leader of the free world on hold as he focused simply on being Jack Rutledge the man.