Max Collins - Executive Order

Reeder said, “You mean the kind of finesse that sends four brave Americans to die on foreign soil?”

The Senator leaned back and shook his head sadly. “A pawn can never understand a king... but I’ll try to make you understand, son, because I know at heart you’re a patriot, too. That malleable Senkstone stuff that you and Agent Rogers got messed up with last year? I guess you know that the stabalizin’ element in that compound is called portillium. Well, cornerin’ the market on that vital mineral would give the United States an upper hand in defending freedom. Pity about those four CIA folks. But we needed a reason to go in and stop those Russians — who, frankly, we encouraged a mite — so we could seize and control the portillium supply.”

Reeder was sitting forward. “‘Cornering the market’... so one of your companies or cronies could makes millions off portillium? Or is it billions?”

Blount waved that off. “Well, of course such a thing necessitates private-sector control. Can’t leave somethin’ that important to the government!”

Rogers, aghast, said, “And you’d risk a nuclear war with the Russians over mineral rights ?”

His smile got so wide, it seemed to have too many teeth in it. “Little lady, the Russians understand that nukes fly in both directions. We’d just have ourselves a little shootin’ war, and then negotiate a truce, once we had that portillium source secured, that is.”

“And that would be more easily managed,” Reeder said, “with President Nicholas Blount, I guess?”

Even more teeth. “Might at that.”

Reeder sat back. “Unfortunately for you, Senator, your son does not share your enthusiasm. In fact, he helped us on the path that led us here.”

Blount’s chin went up, as if promoting a poke. “If you think you can convince me that my own boy would betray me, you are—”

“He didn’t betray you. Not exactly. He feared what you and your Alliance might have in mind for him, even though he didn’t want to testify against you... too bad, considering what he’s privy to would make his testimony valuable. Of course, after Camp David, and the exposure of all the treason and murder that led up to it? Perhaps he’ll have a change of mind, patriot that he is. Because he’s a good man, Senator. You raised a decent son. Much better than you deserve.”

Blount said nothing. He was staring between Reeder and Rogers at nothing. Lazily he reached for the mint julep and took a sip, and another. Then he returned the drink to its coaster and reached into his suit coat pocket, for a smoke Reeder assumed, but instead produced a small steel object that resembled a thumb drive. His hand made a small movement.

His eyes closed.

He slumped back.

“Senator,” Reeder said, getting up fast.

Blount was still staring, but now it was at the ceiling.

Rogers went around, put fingers to the man’s throat. “I don’t get a pulse.”

Reeder nodded to the mint julep. “Son of a bitch. Hemlock!”

An explosion rocked the rear of the house — the antenna array, Reeder guessed. He glanced at the thumb drive — like object in Blount’s limp fingers: a switch with a red button.

“We have to get out of here,” he told her, “now.”

They moved.

Another explosion rocked the rear of the house. The place had been wired in sections, it seemed, perhaps to allow exit from the front.

He hoped.

At least the pocket doors weren’t locked. They were able to get out of the library and into the foyer in seconds, then out the front door. They were to the car and inside, motor going, when another section of the place went up, and Rogers hit the gas and, by the time the rest of the house exploded, the two were far enough away for the rain of dust and debris to be something you could drive through and out of, though burning rubble bounced off the vehicle like heavy hail.

The Tahoe was outside the front gate before she braked and they hopped out and looked at what remained of the historic home, which now was nothing but a scorched shell and sizzling timber and crackling flames and billows of dark smoke. The only recognizable remnant was a marble staircase that was not worth walking up.

Reeder slipped an arm around Rogers’ shoulder as they watched, their ears ringing, their eyes burning, and soon sirens cried out distantly and built into screams.

Rogers said, “Afraid they won’t find much left of Senator Wilson Blount.”

Reeder coughed up some dust and said, “Just matching dental work, maybe even DNA, but he was a sly old bastard. I’d rather have a corpse.”

“He’s dead enough for me,” she said.

“I do know one thing,” Reeder said.

“Oh?”

“I’m glad we weren’t in the mood for mint juleps.”