Max Collins - Executive Order

Then they had closed ranks enough to see each other crouching in the underbrush, just outside what Reeder knew to be the security perimeter of Camp David. Shadows thrown by the canopy of trees on a cloudy day combined to give them some semblance of darkness.

Reeder went from face to face, his eyes saying, Point of no return. What he got back were expressions as blank as the one he so frequently showed the world.

Then he got out the presidential phone and texted: *In position*

He knew, better than anyone, that it would take time for President Harrison to deal with his end, which included an extra responsibility before making his way down the tunnel from Aspen Lodge to the command center. Settling in for the wait, staying alert, keeping calm, might be the hardest part.

Ten minutes dragged by. Twenty. Wade and Hardesy were getting restless, stretching, cracking their backs, their necks. They were FBI field agents, after all, not Navy SEALs.

He shot them a look: Patience .

Another ten minutes. Afternoon was easing into dusk. Everyone’s eyes would go to Reeder and Reeder would seem not to see them, then shake his head.

Finally Rogers crept over to him. “Something’s wrong.”

“We don’t know that,” Reeder said.

Wade, AR-15 in one hand, clambered over. Whispered, “Man’s had time enough.”

Hardesy came over, too, hugging his rifle. “Maybe we should abort. Maybe there’s another way.”

Reeder said calmly, “He couldn’t just get up and walk away. Bound to be in the middle of a meeting with everything going on.”

“Unless,” Rogers said, “the Alliance has already struck and we’re too late. We could be waiting for a dead man’s signal.”

She had just voiced his greatest fear.

Reeder got to his feet and said, “Or he may not be dead yet. Which means we better get our asses in there.”

Wade yanked him back down into the weeds. “Man, without the security down, that’s crazy! ”

Hardesy got hold of Reeder’s other sleeve and said, “I signed on for the duration, Joe, but I don’t do kamikaze.”

“Then I go without you,” he said, and yanked himself away.

“Joe,” Rogers began. “We have to be smart about this...”

“ You be smart,” he snapped. “The life of the President is on the line, and I’m going in. That’s what I was trained to do, and I’m not about to stop now. Screw the security system. If nothing else, it’ll get the place locked down, and I have to believe the majority of those on guard are not compromised.”

They all looked at him with wide eyes filled with alarm and maybe something else, maybe respect or admiration or some damn thing, but if they thought reasoning with him would work, they didn’t know him well at all, not even Patti, and then his phone vibrated.

The text message said: *GO*

Reeder said, “Harrison made it. Still want to bail?”

They all shook their heads, maybe a little ashamed.

He texted back: *OK*

Bitching was forgotten and everyone got ready to move out. Hardesy went right, Wade left, while he and Rogers drove straight ahead. Each of the flanks had rifles, he had two pistols, his SIG Sauer and an anonymous nine, while Rogers had her Glock and another nine from DeMarcus’s stock. And they had plenty of ammo, thanks to Walmart.

They moved as low and fast as the underbrush would allow, needing to cover almost a mile before they got to their first goal, the edge of the golf course. Between here and there was thick brushwood, dense forest, and roving armed patrols. They were maybe halfway there when Reeder sensed movement to his right: Hardesy dropping to the ground, swallowed in the greenery.

Reeder reached over for Rogers and tugged her sleeve and they both fell into leafy cover as well. A two-man patrol was headed their way, uniformed Marines. Wanting to warn Wade, he dug carefully for his phone when it vibrated. A half-second later, Wade disappeared from view. Without checking, Reeder knew the text alert had come from Hardesy.

They watched silently through riffling leaves as the two-man patrol crossed their paths barely ten yards away. No dogs, at least, Reeder thought.

Armed with AR-15s of their own, the Marines moved on, oblivious to Reeder and the others at their feet. He gave them a full minute before he poked his head up.

“Gone,” he whispered.

They rose slowly, cautiously, like strange plants growing in this piney jungle, then moved on, slower now, fanning out again. Before long they were at the edge of the tree line.

Ahead was the second fairway.

Sixty yards of well-tended open ground yawned before them, beyond which were more sheltering trees. It was as if in the midst of a primordial world a country club had dropped from the sky. If they cut at a diagonal, to make up time and get to Aspen Lodge quicker, they’d have even farther to go out in the open.

The course appeared deserted on this cloudy late afternoon, but the foot patrols could be anywhere. Reeder and Rogers were between Wade (twenty yards from the tee) and Hardesy (twenty yards closer to the hole). In the planning stages, they’d decided that going one at a time across the fairway would be safer, even if moving all at once might be faster.

Reeder signaled Wade with a wave.

Looking like a guerilla in his camos, the former ball player, long legs pumping, crossed the rough on this side, then the fairway, and finally the rough opposite before disappearing into the trees.

They waited.

No sign that anyone had seen Wade.

Hardesy went next, angling slightly up the fairway before disappearing into the woods as well, heading toward his next position.

Looking back toward the tee, Reeder could just barely make out Wade moving through the trees.

“We should go together,” Rogers told him, looking so very young.

“Riskier.”

“Faster,” she said. “Clock’s running.”

He was about to agree when she jerked him down by his sleeve into the undergrowth again as another two-person Marine patrol, male and female this time, strolled right down the middle of the fairway toward the tee box.

He hadn’t seen them coming, and the way they sauntered right past where he and Rogers were belly down, the pair hadn’t seen either of them either.

As soon as the patrol was out of sight, Reeder and Rogers sprinted across the fairway and into the trees.

Wade was right there.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Where the hell did those two come from?”

Rogers said, “No idea — they weren’t there, then they were. What, were they wearing slippers?”

Reeder said, “Did they see us?”

Wade said, “If they had, we probably wouldn’t be talkin’ about it right now.”

Within five minutes, Reeder, Rogers, and Wade were standing at the edge of the woods with Aspen Lodge perched atop a hill before them, an impressive yet unpretentious structure of three rambling green-clapboard wings with low-riding flagstone walls, an expansive yard between the intruders and the rear of the place.

Two guards patrolled the patio known as the upper and lower terraces, one on each level; two or more guards would be out front. Hardesy, having peeled off back at the golf course, was at the edge of the next sector, ready to provide the diversion they would need to cross the vastness of that backyard.

Reeder’s burner vibrated, stopped, vibrated, stopped. A glance at Rogers told him hers had done the same — Hardesy’s signal . Seconds later, he heard three quick shots from an AR-15. Both guards’ heads snapped in that direction.

“ What the hell? ” the lower-terrace guard said, his voice just barely carrying.