Radclyffe - Price of Honor

“You’re right, so thanks.” Loren paused. “I don’t think there’s anything too complicated about my picture. It’s the old story—follow the money. The militia got an infusion of cash to buy guns from the Renegades. Where’d it come from? Why? Why arm a bunch of crazies if you aren’t planning to use them as your private army?”

“So you think someone was pointing them somewhere—like a loaded gun?”

“Yeah. And there’s nothing around here that needs that kind of firepower. There’s no war happening here. But somebody wanted some kind of violent action somewhere else, to make some kind of statement.”

“I can buy that. But why not go for bombs, like in Oklahoma?” Cam said. “Maximum effectiveness with minimum manpower. A couple of guys and a truck full of fertilizer.”

“Not as personal maybe—sure you get mass casualties, but maybe that’s not the goal.”

“So what were they going to do with a couple hundred automatic weapons?” Cam said.

“Maybe that was for defense after the action. Those are sniper rifles, and it only takes one sharpshooter to do a lot of damage.”

Cam wasn’t old enough to have lived through the assassination of John F. Kennedy by a lone gunman with a sniper rifle, but that scenario was every Secret Service agent’s nightmare. One individual with a line of sight from any of a hundred vantage points getting off a shot. Their job was to find every one of those vantage points and make sure no one else could use them. She had to trust the Secret Service to come out on top if that was the plan.

“Best guess as to where the money came from,” Cam asked.

“Had to have passed through a number of hands to reduce the risk of the militia using it for leverage.”

“Private money, you think?”

Loren was silent for a long moment. “I can’t prove any of this, you understand.”

“Best guess,” Cam repeated.

“Private money with a political purpose. I’d look at who would benefit locally from a major political disruption nationally.”

“You know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Loren said quietly. “And since you’re involved in this, then I’m guessing I’m not that far off.”

No one knew about the thwarted attempt on the president’s life, and Cam wasn’t about to confirm it. But she didn’t deny it either. “Be careful if you go deep again. This isn’t over yet.”

“I’ll keep your number handy.”

“You do that. Like I said, I still owe you.”

“I want them as much as you. It’s personal now.”

“Yes,” Cam said quietly. “It is.”

*

The maid came into the Russos’ dining room just as Franklin and his wife were finishing dinner. “Excuse me, sir,” she said diffidently.

Franklin wiped his mouth on a linen napkin and set it aside. “Yes, Maria?”

“There is a gentleman on the phone, sir. He apologizes but says it is important and insists on speaking with you.”

Franklin frowned. “Did he say who it is?”

“No, sir.”

Franklin sighed. He couldn’t take the chance something had come up affecting the campaign, although he thought Nora would let him know of any problems. Still, with the race for the primaries heating up, he had to be available. At least he’d have an excuse to leave his wife to whatever it was she did in the evening. He rose with a practiced smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. You’ll forgive me.”

She gazed at him almost vacantly, her eyes faintly dulled by whatever medication she’d been prescribed this time. Or perhaps it was just the extra pre-dinner cocktail she probably didn’t think he’d noticed. Her family money and political influence had proven useful over the years, but her usefulness had worn thin. He left her still seated at the table, walked down the hall to his office, and picked up the extension on his desk. “This is Franklin Russo.”

“Hope I didn’t drag you away from dinner,” Hooker said.

Franklin crossed the room and closed the door. “Why are you calling me on this phone?”

“Because you’re not answering the other one.”

“What couldn’t wait?” Franklin snapped.

“How about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

Franklin poured two fingers of scotch and carried the short, heavy glass to his desk. “What are you talking about?”

“I got a call from one of the militia. She says she has the money.”

“Do you believe her?” Franklin sipped the scotch.

“No reason not to,” Hooker said. “It sounds like she wants to bargain. Otherwise, why call? Why not just keep the money and buy a nice cabin on a river somewhere.”

“What does she want?”

“No idea. What do you want me to do the next time she calls?”

“Find out what she wants, string her along. Arrange a meeting or something and get the money back.”

“You think she’s just going to hand it over?”

“I don’t care,” Russo snapped. “This is our chance to come out of this clean with no losses. It’s your job to figure out how to do that. And for Christ’s sake, don’t call me on this line again.”

He slammed the phone down and slugged back the rest of the scotch. He hated loose ends. Hooker might be able to take care of this one, and then there’d only be one left. Like his wife, Hooker was close to outliving his usefulness.

Chapter Six

Cam nodded to the agents already seated in the briefing room and took a seat next to Paula Stark, midway down the right side of the table. Tom Turner, the boss of the PPD, stood at the end of the table waiting for everyone to settle in. Evyn Daniels, the lead agent on the advance team, sat on his left side and the assigned shift leaders opposite her. As the room slowly settled, Tom stood and clicked on the remote for the projector. He was a tall, thin African American in his mid-forties, his demeanor serious most of the time, although when he relaxed, which wasn’t often given his duties, he was famous for his stories about some of the now-legendary agents when they were still young, green, and occasionally stupid. Cam liked and respected him, even though they’d been at odds a few times in the recent past. They’d aired their differences and agreed that above all, beyond any personal considerations or ego, all that mattered was the safety of those they were sworn to protect.

Beside her, Paula Stark sat straight and attentive, her dark suit crisp and pressed, her cap of dark hair recently cut, and her brown eyes intently focused on Tom. Paula had replaced Cam as the boss of Blair’s security detail. She was young, still shy of thirty, but experienced beyond her years and completely dedicated to her work. Cam trusted her with the most precious thing in her life—Blair’s safety. She tried very hard to stay out of Paula’s road in matters of Blair’s security, affording her the respect she deserved, even though they had begun as mentor and trainee. Paula was far beyond that now, a seasoned agent, bloodied in battle more than once. Cam couldn’t help but worry when Blair was soon to be put onstage in high-risk situations, but having Paula in charge helped. As if reading her thoughts, Paula leaned close.

“I’m meeting with Egret after this to review her itinerary. We’ll have everything squared away before takeoff in the morning.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Cam said, meaning it. Paula would do everything possible to assure Blair’s safety.

But they all knew what they prepared for was not the danger. The unknown was the enemy—the unexpected, the surprise, the illogical or irrational. Entire teams were devoted to anticipate what seemed beyond imagining, and the process never ended. Every day new technology or new weaponry or a new wave of fanaticism empowered their adversaries. No matter how well they prepared, they could never prepare enough when lives were at stake. So they would review the details, and review them again. As many times as it took.