Max Collins - Executive Order

“Yours.”

“Yup. For half a sec, I’d say.”

“Thank Lawrence for me... I’ll check back in the morning. That concealed gun cabinet in the cabin is—”

“I remember where it is.”

They clicked off.

Rogers, at the wheel, had gathered most of the conversation from Reeder’s end and what she could hear of Miggie’s.

She asked, “So Blount is the chairman? Based on some minimal eye movement on Morris’s part?”

He gave her half a smile. “Wouldn’t exactly hold up in court. But it makes sense. The Senator is who angled to get the qualifying age for the presidency lowered last year, and now we learn that his young son is the one cabinet member not at Camp David right now.”

“It’s thin,” she said, “but credible. So we talk to Nicky Blount? How do we get past your Secret Service buddies?”

The sky was already showing patches of pink light in the east.

“Working on it,” he said.

Then he fell asleep.

When he woke up, Rogers was pulling into the entry drive of an underground garage using a keycard. Reeder twisted and saw a street sign: WOODMONT AVENUE.

Once they were settled into a space away from cameras and potential passersby, Reeder asked, “Are we anywhere special?”

“Bethesda. The Landow Building. Offices and retail, and very little traffic this early on a Saturday.”

“And you have a keycard for a parking garage in Bethesda why ?”

“Gabe Sloan and I — not long after we were first partnered up — stopped some domestic terrorists who wanted to blow this place up for jihad or something. The owners asked us how often our work brought us to Bethesda and we said fairly often, and...”

“They gave you each a permanent parking pass. I got a few perks myself on the job. Who knows about this?”

“The late Gabriel Sloan. How long should we sleep?”

“Make it two hours.”

“Okay.” She set the dashboard alarm. “I’ll take the back. That seat you’re in reclines. Try not to snore.”

He grinned at her, and it felt good. “Same back at you.”

Sleep didn’t take him immediately, possibly because of the catnaps he’d caught on the ride. He worked out a tentative plan to get in to see Nicky Blount, and wondered if he was too geared up to fall asleep again, and then did.

When the dash alarm buzzed, Reeder quickly leaned over and shut it off. He rubbed his face, his neck. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. Standing post all those years had taught him to survive on little or no sleep. But he was older now.

Rogers was still deep asleep, and snoring a little, but gently. He decided to let her sleep a while, then got out of the car and called Miggie.

Mig, Nichols, and their sullen charge were at the cabin and fine.

“But I’m still keeping an eye on various e-mails,” Miggie said, “including, and especially, Fisk’s. The Bureau has finding us high on its priority list, and the AD has other agencies in on it now.”

Reeder gave up a wry chuckle. “So we’re wanted dead or alive.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far...”

“I would. The more agencies she brings in, the more infiltrated ranks we’re dealing with. Listen, I need some names.”

“Any names in particular?”

“Just those of the Secret Service agents assigned to Nicky Blount today.”

Silence followed, with just crackle enough to say the connection hadn’t been broken. Getting Secret Service assignments was no small task, even for a hacker of Miggie’s magnitude. Reeder was asking a lot.

Then Mig’s voice returned: “Get back to you.”

Reeder made another call. He was wrapping it up when Rogers exited the rear of the Dodge, yawning, stretching, saying, “What the heck time is it?”

“Almost nine,” he said. “I shut the alarm off to let you sleep in.”

“So I got two hours and twenty minutes instead of just two hours. You’re a prince, Joe. Talk to Miggie yet?”

He told her about their conversation.

Smoothing her clothes, Rogers looked around the parking facility and said, “We better get out of here. Even on Saturday, people are coming already.”

“We need to leave this car here,” he said. “It’ll be hot by now.”

“And, what, walk to Nicky Blount’s?”

“I’ve taken care of that. Let’s find a place for breakfast. Need to kill a little time, and I could eat.”

“I could, too,” she admitted.

They found a nearby hotel restaurant to have breakfast and he explained that a fresh and secure car would be delivered to them within the hour. Told her he had a friend with a used car lot who did business with ABC Security, and would drop off a nondescript vehicle.

“Trust this guy?” she asked.

They were in a booth, both drinking coffee.

“My people cleared him, couple years ago, when he was falsely linked to a chop shop. Remember last year when I sneaked Chris Bryson’s widow and son out of town? That’s where I got the car for them.”

The vehicle, dropped at a corner Reeder had designated, proved to be a Buick Regal, nice enough but a good ten years old. He had her drive again. They’d gone less than a block when she asked, “You think these Secret Service agents could be Alliance?”

“I’ve already tangled with one SS agent, so as much as it makes me sick, we have to think that way. Doing otherwise might be suicidal. Minimally, I need to know who we’re dealing with.”

They were taking a second pass past Nicky Blount’s two-story red-brick Cape Cod, its flat yard bulging with impeccably trimmed bushes, when Miggie called back.

“Agents on duty are Chad Holmberg and Ronald Parker,” Mig said. “Their shift goes to noon, so should be no surprises.”

“Ronald Parker, huh?”

“That’s right — know him?”

“Stood post with Ron, back in the day. Could be a break. Know anything about Holmberg?”

“Spotless record. Came on a couple years ago.”

“Thanks, Miggie. How’s your happy mountain home?”

“It’s got everything but a ski lift. Our guest keeps complaining to the management, though.”

“His hair will grow back someday.”

Miggie was laughing a little as Reeder clicked off.

Rogers pulled around the corner and parked on Cummings Lane.

She leaned on the wheel and gave him a furrowed-brow look. “Only two agents?”

“It’s the Secretary of Agriculture, Patti.”

Shaking her head, she said, “But there’s some kind of conspiracy going on and—”

“Who knows that?”

“Us. The conspirators.”

“Bingo.”

Her eyebrows lifted and lowered. “Do we have anything particular in mind? I could knock at the front door and ask if they’ve seen my missing dog.”

“Before I knew Ron Parker was on the job, I was thinking we’d go in the back way with our guns out and try not to shoot anybody. Killing a federal agent is a hard one to walk back.”

“ That was your plan?”

“I didn’t say I was proud of it, but sudden and swift has its merits. I doubt Nicky is leaving the house for work much less play — they’ll have him on lockdown till the Camp David meet is over and everybody’s home.”

“So how does this Ron Parker fit in?”

“That’s the new plan.”

“What is?”

“He’s a smoker.”

He explained what he had in mind.

“That’s not a plan, Joe. You could easily wind up behind bars or dead.”

“But you’ll still be on the outside, and can link up with Mig, Lucas, Wade, and Nichols, and go on with the fight.”

“I don’t like it. Not one little bit.”

But she got out of the car with him, and took a walk around the block, checking to see if any agents they didn’t know about were posted or on patrol, and watching for anybody not resembling well-off suburban parents or kids. Finally they cut between two houses. All the backyards on the block were connected, with plenty of trees to pause behind, and no fences.