Max Collins - Executive Order

Rogers and Reeder exchanged glances and nods.

“Your prevailing theory, then,” Ivanek said, folding his arms, “is that the President and Vice President will be taken out when they leave by Marine One and Marine Two?”

Reeder said, “With rocket launchers that lay the blame on Russia, yes.”

Ivanek winced in thought. “But Marine One and Two are equipped with antimissile tech, and anyway, they routinely fly decoy helicopters, in shifting formation. If I were getting rid of the top two men, I’d find a way to do it before they left the compound.”

Rogers said, “Why’s that?”

“They have security second-to-none at Camp David,” Ivanek said. “It’s designed to protect against an attack from without — an invasion. Of course, if they were hit from within , and since we think the government has been infiltrated, then—”

As if someone had spit in her face, Rogers felt the warm flecks of moisture just a microsecond before she realized Ivanek had been shot and another micro before she heard the report of the rifle. Ivanek collapsed to the pavement, hiding what she knew would be a massive exit wound, the entry wound small and wet and red-black.

She fell to a knee as if to check him, but that wasn’t the case since the profiler was clearly dead. Her gun was out of its holster and in hand and pointing at a flat area with its flapping flags and backdrop of trees, a vast world of night that meant she was aiming at nothing at all.

Reeder was just behind her, also taking a knee, also ready to return fire, but where? And at whom? Around them, chaos ruled, tourists screaming on the run, mothers and fathers clutching children, even ones as old as ten or eleven in their arms, and running blindly into nowhere. Woods came around, keeping low but moving fast, his gun out as well, as he yelled, “Where’d the shot come from?”

As if in answer, Woods got hit in the chest, and fell back, his gun leaping out of his hand as if the thing had gone suddenly molten.

Reeder scrambled over to Woods, on his back, kicking like an upended turtle. Rogers scuttled over. Around them a terrible near-silence had descended. Sightseers who hadn’t run into the night were splayed on the ground or behind whatever minimal cover they could find. Others could be heard running, but that seemed far away.

Then another shot cracked the night as concrete dust kicked up less than a foot away. Was this the same son of a bitch who’d killed Tony Wooten right next to her at the Skygate Apartments?

Staying low, moving fast, she and Reeder dragged the detective around to the far side of the monument.

“One shooter, you think?” Rogers asked.

Reeder said, “Better be.”

Then they heard the sirens.

Rogers said, “Time to go?”

“Time to go,” he said.

She leaned over Woods. “How bad?”

“Hit the vest,” the detective said, wincing, hurting. “Kevlar’s never... never a bad accessory for... a night out with you two.”

“Can you stand, you think?” Rogers said. “We need to move.”

“What about the sniper?” Woods asked.

Reeder said, “Those sirens had to send him scurrying. But we can’t let your brothers-in-blue pick us up, either.”

The sirens were screaming. She and Reeder probably had a minute, maybe two. Maybe.

Rogers said, “We’ll help you up — we’ve got to go.”

Woods pawed at the air. “Get out of here, you two. I got this. I’ll... I’ll say you called to give yourself up to... to somebody neutral, and we came here to pick up another of your crew. Who somebody shot. Now. Get to the bottom of this shit. Here. Take my car.” He got his keys out and handed them over.

She gave him a quick nod of thanks and her eyes told him to take care. Then she and Reeder, his arm around her, were just another couple hustling away to safety.

On the way to Woods’s car, they stayed alert for a tail, hugging trees and bushes as much as possible. Not knowing where that sniper had gotten himself to made things tense.

At the Dodge, Reeder opened the driver’s door for her and she got behind the wheel.

“Where to?” she asked.

It wasn’t like there was anywhere they could go.

“I need some rest,” he said. “And so do you. We stay up much longer, our judgment will go to hell. But I don’t know if we dare go to a hotel or motel. And we can’t risk driving far, or for long, in this car. No matter what Woods cooks up to cover us and himself, somebody — maybe a lot of somebodies — will be looking for this vehicle.”

She started the engine.

“I know somewhere,” she said.

“There are plenty of recommendations on how to get out of trouble cheaply and fast. Most of them come down to this: Deny your responsibility.”

They stayed off the interstates, avoiding as much as possible traffic-cams and other security cameras. As Rogers drove, Reeder got Miggie on the burner.

“Everybody safe?” the computer expert asked.

“Patti and I are fine.”

Quickly he told Miguel what had happened at the Monument.

“Oh, hell,” Mig said hollowly. “First Jerry, now Trevor... God. What next?”

“We do our best not to join them. Your end?”

“Everybody’s okay. No sign of a tail. Should be at the cabin soon. Nichols is sleeping in back right now.”

“Both of you need to get some rest. Sleep in shifts, when you get to the cabin.”

“That’s what we planned. GPS says you’re on the move, too.”

“We are. Patti and I’ll find somewhere we can sleep before we drop. But tomorrow I want to make a visit, first thing.”

“Anywhere special?”

“Just the cabinet member left behind for this Camp David trip, now that Amanda Yellich is off the list.”

A pause filled itself with cell-phone crackle.

“Joe, I told you before how tight a lid the Secret Service keeps on that.”

“And you’re just the guy to pry it off.”

Another crackly pause.

“I’ll get back to you,” Miguel said, and clicked off.

Reeder slept for fifteen minutes and then the burner in his hand vibrated.

“Turns out the held-back cabinet member,” Mig said, “is a familiar name.”

“Secretary of Agriculture,” Reeder said. “Nicholas Blount.”

“Jesus! If you knew that, why—”

“I didn’t. Just an educated guess, based on Lawrence mentioning the Blount dynasty. If procedure hasn’t changed, Nicky will be at home or perhaps some summer or winter place.”

“His home,” Mig said. “Chevy Chase, 6900 block of Brennon Lane. Do I have to remind you a spate of agents from your alma mater will be on hand?”

“No, but see if you can define spate.”

Miggie tapped on his tablet.

Then: “Six — three two-person teams rotating over twenty-four hours.”

“After the attempted coup last year,” Reeder said, “I expected more. But then a contingent of agents would only attract unneeded attention. Hey. Is my pal Lawrence asleep?”

“No. Wide awake and pouting.”

“Enough dashboard light to see his face?”

“Sure.”

“Ask him if Wilson Blount is the Alliance chairman. And as you do, watch his face close — you’re going to read him for me.”

“Do my best... Lawrence! Reeder wants to know if Senator Blount is the chairman of the Alliance board.”

Reeder could make out Morris’s muffled, “Hell no.”

“Hear that?” Miggie asked.

“Yeah. Did his eyes go up and to the left?”

“His left or my left?”