Max Collins - Executive Order

Several citizens were already on their cells calling 911, so Reeder didn’t bother. Instead he got out his phone and punched in Rogers’ number. She didn’t pick up.

He wove his way into the street through the small crowd of gawkers and finally stopped for a look down at the twisted, broken thing that just minutes ago had been Leonard Chamberlain. The man’s skull was smashed, exposing part of the brain that had held information meant for Reeder.

He stood there staring down at his dead friend, his fists clenching and unclenching, making a promise to the dead man, though Reeder’s face gave nothing away — he’d trained it not to. But within him motors were turning and guts were churning.

Someone was monitoring Reeder’s calls — someone who knew enough about him to see through the Fortress of Solitude reference that translated to Arlington National Cemetery. Someone who’d sent assassins to wait for them when they tried to meet.

Assassins who might have taken Reeder down, too, if Chamberlain hadn’t provided such an easy target.

Or maybe not.

Reeder knew that the hit-and-run slaying of a national hero — however much that designation might annoy and irritate him — would attract much more attention than the “accidental” death of a washed-up CIA agent... from the media, from the cops, even from the government...

Still, the longer this went, the deeper the shit got, and the more likely Reeder himself would become a target. He needed at least to make sure he wasn’t an easy one.

Sirens sang their banshee song as he got in his Prius, with no intention of dealing with cops. He would throw away his cell, but not until he had another. Even if someone was tracking him, he didn’t want to be cut off from the world.

Back on the other side of the Potomac, he drove past the Navy Yard and parked across from a two-story brick building on Tenth, just off M Street. The pawnshop and tailor still occupied the first floor, but Reeder wasn’t here to hock something or to buy a new suit, either.

DeMarcus Shannon, who lived and worked out of the second-floor loft, was a purveyor of products for buyers who wished both anonymity and discretion. The catch was that his business was cash only, but his customers preferred it that way, too.

After making sure the neighborhood seemed clear of surveillance — or black cars that might take a sudden run at him — Reeder headed across and climbed the metal stairs on the north side of the building. When he got to the fire-escape-style landing, he was greeted by a steel door and a video camera.

After some pissing and moaning from a seller who got nervous when the buyer was a cop of sorts, Reeder handed two hundred in twenties through the cracked-open door, and two cell phones were passed out to him. Then DeMarcus opened the door a little wider.

He was a slender, shaved-headed African American who looked younger than his thirty-some years; maybe it was the Washington Wizards warm-ups.

DeMarcus eyed Reeder warily. “You got yourself in the shit again?”

“Only waist-high, so far. Still... probably wouldn’t hurt if you took a long weekend out of town.”

The seller’s eyes and nostrils flared like a rearing horse’s. “I knew I shouldn’t do bidness with you!”

Reeder got another hundred out, then a hundred more, and handed the bills over. Then he passed the phones back to the seller. “Put your number in both of ’em. I’ll call you when it’s safe.”

As DeMarcus added a number to the contacts list of each cell, he asked, “What if you don’t call?”

Reeder said, “If I don’t call, I’ll be dead, and it won’t matter.”

Back in the car, Reeder called Rogers. Again she didn’t pick up but he left the new number. He started up the Prius.

He had people to warn.

“No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his well-being, to risk his body, to risk his life, in a great cause.”

Patti Rogers, behind the wheel, didn’t pick up either call that came in. When she and Lucas Hardesy parked in the ramp at MedSTAR Trauma Center, she finally checked and saw Reeder had tried but left no voice mail. The other number she didn’t recognize, but the caller had left a message. As Rogers and her colleague walked toward the main hospital building, she checked it.

“This number ASAP,” Reeder’s voice said. As usual there was nothing to find in his tone; a man whose specialty was reading people didn’t give much for others to work with. But to her the clipped brevity of it spoke volumes.

Reeder had more than one cell phone, and she knew (or thought she knew) them all; but she had never seen this number before.

To Hardesy, she said, “Go ahead on in — I’ll be a minute.”

Noting her checking her cell, he asked, “Something?”

“Reeder.”

“Cool,” he said with a nod and kept walking.

On the grass near the sidewalk to the entrance, she punched in the unknown number. Reeder answered on the first ring.

“What’s up, Joe?”

His answer was as long as her question was short: the old friend who was CIA, the scheduled meeting at the Fortress of Solitude, the car that had run his friend down, a description of the vehicle and where it was headed. She promised to do what she could.

“But, Joe — this is obviously a professional hit. If we or the locals manage to find the car, it’s not likely it’ll lead anywhere.”

“No argument. It’s almost certainly stolen, and’ll be abandoned somewhere — with maybe a piece of lint for the forensics guys to work with.”

“You’re calling on a burner phone.”

“Right. I tossed mine. They must have tracked my call to Len — it’s the only way that could have gone down. So hold onto this number. For now.”

“Jesus, Joe. What the hell’s next?”

“Oh, not much. Just keep the President happy and figure out who sent four Americans to their death to foster a war between us and Russia. Same-oh, same-oh.”

“Oh, Joe.” The phone in her hand was shaking. “This is... I mean, we’ve been through a lot, but...”

“I don’t mean to involve you beyond some simple law enforcement stuff. This call is just a heads-up.”

“But, Joe, if the entire CIA is flummoxed by this thing, how can you...?”

“Don’t know,” he admitted. “I may have to fall off the grid and go underground for a while.”

“I wish there was something more I could say than just... be careful.”

“ You be careful, Patti. Remember, these pricks didn’t come after me — they took my friend Len Chamberlain out.”

“And... you think they might try to hurt you through—”

“The people I care about, yes. Consider yourself warned. I’m on my way to try to talk Melanie and Amy into disappearing for a while.”

His ex-wife and daughter.

“Okay,” she said, “so I’m warned. Do what you need to, but remember to call me in off the bench if need be.”

They ended the call.

Hardesy was waiting for her near the information desk. He eyed her as she approached. “You okay?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Reeder. Some problems he’s dealing with.”

“Such as?”

She gave him the short version, which did not include the reason for Reeder meeting with his old buddy at the cemetery. The mission for the President was not to be general knowledge.

“Christ,” Hardesy said, eyebrows high. “Chamberlain was a CIA guy, huh?”

“Just a desk jockey. But they always have histories, those people. So where’s Willard?”

“Upstairs. ICU.”

They walked to the elevator.