“Who?” asked the president then he stiffened. “No… wait a damn minute. You’re not actually suggesting we hire Yuina Hoshino, are you? She’s a convicted felon and a traitor.”
“You can look at it like that, Mr. President,” said VanOwen with a reptilian smile, “or you can look at it like she’s one presidential pardon away from being the person who can put us so far out in front of the arms race that no one will ever catch us. The person who could make you — inarguably and without question — the most powerful man on Earth.”
“Mr. Church won’t like it,” he said. “So, there can’t be anything on the Net. No e-mails. Nothing.”
“Of course, Mr. President, I know how to manage the DMS. Leave all the details to me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I sat in what used to be my office, in a visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk. The current head of this station was Sam Imura, who used to be the sniper on Echo Team. Sam and I were veterans of some of this world’s more bizarre battlefields, and more or less friends. But after he got hurt during the Kill Switch affair, something had changed the dynamic between us. We stopped being friendly and operated with a kind of strained civility that I did not understand. I’ve seen that sort of thing happen sometimes when someone gets close to the edge of the big drop-off into the deep black. They turn sour on life, sometimes they pick someone to blame because every bullet needs a target.
Or, maybe that’s me trying to carry someone else’s emotional baggage. My best friend and therapist, Rudy Sanchez, says that it’s likely me being a bit narcissistic while also making enormous assumptions about what’s going on in someone else’s head and heart. Whatever the reason, there is palpable distance between Sam and me these days. I can’t reach him and he seems to only tolerate me as a necessary inconvenience.
We sat in our chairs, both of us with feet on the desk, both of us drinking coffee from oversized mugs. Top had gone back to his lady friend with a promise of joining me later on. Ghost was sprawled on the floor, dreaming doggy dreams.
“They’re legit Secret Service,” said Sam. The eight sets of identification were spread out on his desk along with the weapons and personal effects I’d confiscated. “All relatively new hires, though. Post Linden Brierley.”
I nodded. Brierley was the former director of the Secret Service. He was the best example of the phrase “a good guy but not a nice guy.” During his tenure on the job, the Service had been a tightly run department, with a zero-tolerance policy for screwups. Like a lot of us in this biz, Brierley was largely apolitical because political affiliations were a distraction, as the occupants of the White House tended to change with the whims of elections. Brierley was nobody’s fawning toady, though, and the new POTUS didn’t like that, and gave him the boot in favor of a spectacularly unqualified ass-kisser. The Service is in danger of becoming a circus act as a result, and that’s a damn shame. Some of my oldest and most trusted friends have worked that job, and this feels like a deliberate slight to their integrity.
I said, “Knowing that they’re legit doesn’t tell us why they tried to arrest me and were willing to draw guns to do it.”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe they know you.”
“Ha,” I said without emphasis. “Ha, ha.”
“Bug’s people hacked the Service’s system,” said Sam, “and there’s no official order on file. So, figure VBO.”
Verbal order only was becoming more common in D.C., especially in departments where people knew about MindReader. Fair enough. If I was going to try and kick the DMS in the wrinklies, I’d make sure there was no paper or digital trail. Mr. Church tends to get cranky about such things, and he is not the person you want to make cranky. Trust me on this.
“Shame we can’t grill those agents,” said Sam. He gave me a scowl of disapproval. “You know, you could have called in to have them arrested.”
I sipped my coffee and manfully did not tell him to go stick it up his ass.
The clock on the wall above his desk ticked loudly for two full minutes.
When I’d been installed here it was a shrine to the Orioles, with balls, bats, gloves, and shirts signed by Cal Ripken, Jr., Frank Robinson, Jim Palmer, Eddie Murray, Boog Powell, Melvin Mora, and other gods of my personal pantheon.
Sam, however, was more culturally retro and had a matched pair of very old Japanese swords — katana and wakizashi — on a stand behind his desk, and photos of his parents in California and relatives back in Osaka on the walls. There were framed certificates from rifle competitions, and none of them were for second place. A shadow box on a stand had a deconstructed CheyTac M200 Intervention sniper rifle that I knew had been the one he’d used to win the International Sniper Competition at Fort Benning.
We drank coffee and the clock ticked. Then Church teleconferenced and Sam sent it to the big flat screen on the wall.
Church is a big man. Somewhere in his sixties; blocky, with dark hair streaked with gray, tinted glasses that hide his eyes, and black silk gloves over hands damaged by frostbite during the Predator One case. I don’t know much about his life before he started the DMS. Rumors and strange tales, mostly. I am inclined to believe even the weirdest stories people tell about him, and I suspect they don’t even scratch the surface. Anyone who could read power would immediately know that this was someone who was two or three levels above apex predator. He scares the people who scare me, and I’m pretty goddamn scary myownself.
“Gentlemen,” Church said quietly, “it seems we have a problem.”
“Well, gosh, boss, I kind of figured that,” I said. “Who is it and when do we start kicking ass?”
Church gave a small shake of his head. “It’s more complicated than that. The pickup order did indeed come from POTUS, or someone high up acting on his orders.”
“Why?”
“Unknown at this time. POTUS has declined to take my call. Aunt Sallie is reaching out to her friends in Washington to see what she can find.”
Sam gave a sour snort. “Do we even have any friends left in Washington?”
It was meant as a joke. Kind of. “Not many, I’m afraid,” said Church. “Maybe not enough anymore.”
“What’s the call?” I asked. “How do you want me to go after this?”
“The call, Captain,” said Church, “is to do nothing. Stay off the radar until further notice.”
“Now wait just a goddamn minute,” I roared. “The Secret Service just tried to arrest me. Twice. No way am I—”
Church hung up.
I said a lot of very loud, very ugly things. Ghost got to his feet and barked at the blank video screen. Behind his desk, Sam Imura turned his face away to hide the fact that he was laughing his ass off.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Harry Bolt lay at the entrance to hell and felt himself die.
The pain in his chest was astounding, almost beautiful in its purity. It allowed no other sensation to intrude, to interrupt the orchestra of agony that played through every single nerve ending. He opened his eyes and stared up at the deep shadows that clung to the lofty ceiling. Around him, outside of his peripheral vision, people fought and cursed and screamed. There were gunshots and the unmistakable and horrible sound of blades cleaving through meat and bone. The sounds were faint, though, as if the battle was happening far away.