Max Collins - Executive Order

Her eyes swung back to him, wide with alarm. “Tell me you at least had sense enough to handle Amy and Bobby first!”

Melanie meant their daughter Amy, a junior at Georgetown, and her live-in boyfriend, Bobby, who her middle-of-the-road Democrat dad considered half a communist.

He nodded. “She and Bobby are off to—”

She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me where, just that they’re safe.”

“They’re safe. An ability to make that happen is one of the perks of having real money.”

She sighed, calming herself. “And now you’re here. And Don and I get an unscheduled vacation.”

“All expenses paid,” he said, risking a little smile. “Look, Len and I were circumspect when we talked... but they were waiting for us, anyway. It doesn’t get more deadly serious than this, Mel. I need to know the people I love are safe. And, uh... I’ll need that package I left with you.”

Nodding, her expression somewhat dazed, she said, “Donald’s study. Come along.”

He followed her out of the living room and down a corridor toward the back of the house, past the dining room to a closed door.

Melanie led him inside. No feminine touches here — the dark-paneled, book-lined study was strictly male: wall-mounted flat-screen that overpowered the small room, a two-seater black-leather sofa, a massive oak desk that a window must have been removed to get in.

To one side of the window behind the desk was a painting of the Capitol that at Melanie’s touch swung open on unseen hinges to reveal a wall safe. She twirled the dial and soon was withdrawing one of two side-by-side brown-paper-wrapped packages about the size of two bricks.

She handed it over to Reeder, who hefted the thing, then said, “You should take the other one for you and Donald.”

She pulled out a second bundle. “How much is there?”

“Two hundred each.”

“How far will that go?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

The dark eyes flared. “Four hundred thousand dollars, and you kept it in a wall safe in our house?”

He managed a weak smile. “Turned out to be a pretty good plan, didn’t it?”

She found her own small smile. “It’s hard to hate a man who has two hundred thousand dollars tucked away for you.”

“Here’s that rainy day,” he said. “How soon can you and Donald get out of here?”

“If I can get a hold of him... probably... three hours?”

“Make it faster, if you can. But leave the house casually, okay? Load up the suitcases in the garage, and no word to the neighbors.”

She nodded.

“Thanks, Melanie, and... I’m sorry. I really am sorry.”

She glared at him, and then touched his cheek.

“I hate you,” she said.

But it sure sounded like, I love you .

Reeder, pondering his next move, had been back in the car maybe five minutes when the first burner phone made itself known.

Only one person had the number.

“We need to talk,” Rogers said.

When was a woman saying that to a man good news?

He said, “Something wrong?”

“Just meet us.”

“‘Us’ sounds like more than just you.”

“Hardesy’s with me.”

“Does he know what he’s signing on for?”

“Do we?”

Good point.

He said, “Where do you want to meet?”

“Falls Church. Mexican place named Los Primos on Lee Highway — know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

East of the Capital Beltway on Lee Highway, Los Primos was tucked away in a strip mall across the street from a warren of condos. The place looked to be less than half full, the dinner rush pretty much over.

Ceramic tile on the floor, Mexican music on the sound system, and a couple of cactus plants gave the place its contrived air of authenticity. Rogers and Hardesy were at a table toward the back. When the hostess smiled at him, Reeder nodded toward his friends and went on by her. She trailed him back to the table, one side of which Rogers and Hardesy shared. He sat opposite.

They declined menus and Reeder ordered Chiapas, black. Rogers already had coffee, Hardesy a Modelo. They waited in silence until Reeder’s cup came.

He had already noted, on the shoulder of Rogers’ jacket, the smudge of blood. Someone else might have thought she’d just spilled something on her navy-blue suit. Somebody had spilled something, all right.

“Whose is it?” Reeder asked her.

But Hardesy answered: “The recently late Tony Evans.”

The name meant nothing to Reeder and he said so.

Hardesy added, “He’s the delivery guy who brought Secretary Yellich the sandwich that disagreed with her.”

“Did he know that was what he was doing?”

Reeder’s expression said, Murdering her? This was a public place.

Rogers shrugged and said, “Too early to tell for sure, but we did find sesame oil in his apartment.”

Quietly Reeder asked, “How did his blood end up on your jacket?”

Just as quietly she told him.

The booths on either side of them were vacant, and the people at the table behind them were leaving. When they’d gone, Reeder asked, “A sniper was waiting?”

She glanced around the restaurant herself, then softly said, “Joe, they knew where we’d be, and that we were there to pick up Evans.”

Reeder considered the possibilities. “Who on our side knew where you were going?”

Hardesy said, “Only Altuve. Just Altuve.”

“Miggie’s true blue,” Reeder said, shaking his head. “But remember — he did get hacked in the J. Edgar Hoover Building last year. Maybe that happened again.” His eyes went to Rogers. “Or it could be the people who were tracking my cell were... are ... also tracking yours.”

“Why track Patti’s cell?” Hardesy asked.

Reeder said, “Who else would I get in touch with in a tough spot? Who else do I trust?”

“Okay,” Hardesy said, frowning, “so you two are tight. But what made a target out of our suspect?”

“Somebody tidying up, maybe,” Reeder said. His eyes traveled from Hardesy to Rogers. “Could the shooter have meant to hit one of you instead?”

Rogers shook her head and so did Hardesy.

“Trust me,” she said. “That sniper hit the bull’s-eye.”

Reeder thought for a moment. “What do you know about your suspect?”

She filled him in.

After she’d finished, he said, “With DNA results from the shooter’s blood, and/or fingerprints on the shell casings, we may soon know more.”

Rogers sipped coffee. Hardesy swigged Modelo.

She asked, “Just what the hell is going on here, Joe?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “What do a poisoned Secretary of the Interior, four dead field agents, an assassinated delivery boy, and a murdered CIA desk jockey add up to?”

Hardesy had no answer, but he did have a question: “Who has the high-tech capability and inside knowledge to tap your phone and/or hack Miggie’s computer?”

Rogers took that one. “Someone in the government,” she said. “That’s what happened last year — a mole who was part of that would-be coup.”

“You’re right,” Reeder said. “And we stopped that coup, but there could be other moles. A lot more.”

Rogers cocked her head, which was a question in itself.

“Suppose,” Reeder said, “we’re dealing with a shadow government. A faction, a large one, within the government.”

Hardesy grunted a laugh, then looked across at Reeder and saw the man wasn’t laughing. Not at all.

“Since last year,” Reeder said, “when that mole hacked Miggie, our cyber-defenses have been improved. But we’re still at our most vulnerable to... who was it said, The Enemy Within ?”