Jack closed his eyes. “So did I,” he whispered.
* * * * *
Jeff hurried down the main hall in the West Wing, heading for the Residence. General Madigan was putting on a show, touring the “Peshmergas” around. Porter being Porter, reveling in his successes before they arrived. His favorite emotion, he’d once told Jeff—after getting Jeff into bed—was vindication.
Madigan was talking to the Peshmerga Major, leaning in close. The Major was tall, with a tan and a bushy black mustache and scruffy black hair poking out from around his beret, but underneath that, he was David, one of Jeff’s closest friends. They’d been recruited into Black Fox together, when their mission and purpose in the Middle East had seemed to wither and die, and the whole point of their lives had blown away, like sand skittering across the desert. Sitting on a crate in the desert and watching bodies burn, Jeff had wondered what point there was to going on. What did any of it matter?
Black Fox mattered.
Madigan had brought him to Black Fox and remade Jeff, delivering him to the innermost reaches of his soul, where he discovered that he was capable of anything. Absolutely anything.
It’s what made Black Fox members so excellent at what they did.
“General,” Jeff said, speaking softly and leaning in. “We may have a problem.”
David glanced quickly at him and then turned away, pretending to be awed by the chandelier. He stayed close, close enough to hear Jeff and Madigan’s conversation.
“Problem?” Madigan grunted.
“I think I saw the commander of the Marine Special Forces Raider team on the White House tour. Lieutenant Cooper.”
“He’s dead.”
“We believe he’s dead. But I’m confident in what I saw, sir.”
“Alert the Secret Service. Tell them he’s a suspicious person. They’ll put him in a holding tank and by the time they talk to him, we’ll be long gone.”
“If he’s here, General, then the rest of his team could be here.” Jeff stepped closer. “So could Reichenbach. If they’re here, and if they’re staying quiet, then they have to know something.” He shared a quick look with David. “They’re a threat sir. We have to eliminate them. We cannot let this fail.”
Madigan sighed. He looked to David, who nodded fractionally.
“Everyone is in place?”
Jeff nodded.
“It’s time we begin the world’s revolution.”
* * * * *
Ethan and Collard were parked behind a convenience store, sweating in their stolen uniforms and arguing about Jack when the call came through the radio. “Shots fired at the White House. Shots fired at the White House. All DC metro emergency response units, respond and render aid.”
Collard slammed the car into gear and tore out of the parking lot, taking the sedan over the curb and swerving across two lanes of traffic. Car horns wailed and tires screeched. Burning rubber filled the air. Ethan toggled the sirens on, and the red and blue scream blared over the city’s streets.
“Do these people slow down when they hear the siren?” Collard slammed his palm on the steering wheel. “Go, go!”
They joined ten other police cars at the gates to the White House, all parked with their lights on and directing civilians away. Ethan was out of the car and running for the north entrance before Collard slowed down.
“Ethan! Dammit!” Collard chased after him, ignoring the shouts from the police officers they’d left behind.
* * * * *
Secret Service agents were down across the north entrance, some bleeding out, others unconscious, and a few moaning. Shots echoed through the Residence. Blood curdling screams bounced off the marble floors before slicing through Ethan’s ears.
The shots—and the screams—were heading toward the West Wing.
Ethan tore off again, but Collard’s hand on his elbow jerked him to a halt. “Wait for the team!” Collard shouted.
“Fuck you!” Ethan tried to shake him off.
“We work together! Don’t go running off half-cocked and get yourself killed!”
Cooper and his team burst around the corner, running from the East Wing. The sounds of evacuation, alarms, screaming, and running, trailed behind them.
“Doc, see what you can do for these men!” Collard gestured for Cooper and the others to follow. “Let’s go.”
Ethan followed.
* * * * *
In Horsepower, where the Secret Service kept their weapons, they found eight agents, all shot. Bullets fired at close range to the forehead for the first few, and then clusters of shots to the chest for those who tried to fight back. Some clung to life, and they reached for Ethan when they saw him burst in.
Collard ran to their side, ripping off his stolen uniform and using it to staunch their wounds. Two of Cooper’s men followed, dropping down to their knees and helping the agents cling to life.
Raw fury poured into the spaces of Ethan’s soul. These were his agents. These were his people. He was hovering on the barest knife-edge of control, and the rage stoking his soul crescendoed, a maelstrom of bitter hatred. He turned away, forcing himself to focus on the mission. The cameras had been knocked out, taken offline. All he saw were black screens. The radios were chaos, bullets and screams rising over everything. He tried to transmit, but nothing went through. They were broken, set to receive only, and not transmit.
But the audio was still working in the West Wing. Ethan listened to the zing of bullets and the slap of feet racing to the Oval Office, boots pounding against carpet amid guttural curses and grunts.
The agent beneath Collard’s hands pulled him down, whispering a name in his ear, the name of the man who had shot them. Blanching, Collard whirled on his knees and stared at Ethan, unable to speak.
Ethan already knew. He’d known as soon as he saw the last number back in Faisal’s palace. He’d known, then, that even his own Secret Service was compromised. Black Fox had even penetrated into his detail. His men.
Cooper passed out weapons, grabbing M-4s from the lockers around the room. He tossed bulletproof vests next, and the men not saving lives were strapped and ready to go in ten seconds.
They split up, Ethan heading for the rear staircase.
* * * * *
“Mr. President!”
Inada rushed into the Oval Office, two agents flanking him, guns drawn. Secret Service Director Stahl, in the White House for the Peshmerga’s visit, raced after Inada. He stopped at the door and waved at Deputy Director Luss and NSA Director Luntz. “Hurry up!” He shouted. Bullets snapped and echoed behind the men. Plaster smashed and exploded, sending puffs of dust into the air. “Get in here!”
Luss and Luntz barreled past Stahl, rushing into the Oval Office. Inada gestured for them to get behind him and his men. Jack was already behind them, pushed down by the two agents.
Daniels stood off to one side, his eyes blown wide. Inada glanced at him once and then looked away. Daniels wasn’t currently an agent. He’d been placed on administrative leave. He wasn’t even allowed to be armed.
“Do we head for the bunker?” Jack asked.
“We can’t. The shooters are between us and the bunker’s entrance.” Inada gripped his pistol, holding it steady as he aimed at the door. “We hold here.”
Director Stahl drew his pistol.
“Sir.” Inada nodded to his side, inviting the Director to join them in the last line of defense for the president. It was the pinnacle of an agent’s purpose—protecting the president’s life, being the last line of defense. It was the worst day of an agent’s life, but it was what they lived and breathed for. What they would die for. They were the last line. Stahl may be the director, but he was an agent first, and he would line up and take aim against the shooters.
Director Stahl raised his pistol.
He aimed straight for Inada.
Three quick shots took out Inada and his two agents, slamming into their chests at close range. Daniels shouted, a wordless cry of rage, and lunged, leaping over the couch and trying to jump Director Stahl. Stahl fired on Daniels, hitting him in the shoulder twice, and Daniels went down, lying unmoving on the carpet.
* * * * *
Jack stared at Director Stahl as the bottom fell out of his world. He stood, rising slowly, his mouth falling open.
Stahl turned his pistol to Jack. “On your knees, Mr. President.”
Breathing fast, Jack looked from Stahl to Luss to Luntz. Luss and Luntz had joined Stahl, standing on either side of him. There was a different feel to the Oval Office, a different tension gripping the air, suddenly. Darkness lay in the directors’ eyes, madness and sublime hatred burning into Jack. “What are you doing?”
“On your knees!” Stahl barked. “Now! Hands on your head!”
He dropped slowly, raising his hands and lacing his fingers.
The Oval Office door opened.
Jeff Gottschalk walked in, carrying his Army backpack briefcase. Behind him were the Peshmergas and General Madigan. The Peshmergas were already stripping, ripping off disguises made of mustaches and wigs and berets and unbuttoning their military jackets. Beneath, they wore dark suits and crisp white shirts.
They looked like Secret Service agents.
“Our men are holding back the rest of the Secret Service in the East Wing,” Jeff said, nodding to Director Stahl. “They’re also holding back Lieutenant Cooper and his team.”
Director Stahl grunted. “We just need to get this over with.”
“Jeff?” He couldn’t think. Couldn’t understand what was happening.
Gottschalk smirked at Jack.
Jack’s mind blurred, the whip shot change in his reality untethering everything he held as true. The world slowed, and the men moving around him—stripping disguises, changing into new disguises, holding him hostage on his knees with a gun to his head—moved sluggishly in his eyes, blurring and streaking. Voices penetrated his mind from afar, distorted and distant. His hearing warbled, their voices dropping and stretching before snapping back like a rubber band.
“Bring the nuke here.”
Gottschalk and the leader of the Peshmergas—no longer the leader of the Peshmergas, but a tanned American, clean cut in a dark suit and with a buzzed haircut, cleverly concealed before beneath a discarded wig—hauled Gottschalk’s backpack to Jack. Something heavy hit the carpet when they dropped it, a resounding thud that shook the floor beneath Jack’s knees.
“Grab his hands,” the former Peshmerga grunted.
Gottschalk wouldn’t meet Jack’s eyes as he wrenched his hands down from his head and threaded his arms through the backpack’s straps. When he was done, the backpack hung off Jack’s shoulders and down the front of his chest, the bulk hanging over his heart and abdomen. He slumped forward, the heavy weight pulling him down.
Gottschalk unzipped the main bag, revealing a tactical nuclear warhead, Russian-made. The control panel had been removed, and in its place, a cheap cell phone was wired to the ignition switch.
The former Peshmerga leader shared a quick smile with Gottschalk. “Had to make it look like this was the Caliphate. Well, the Caliphate impersonating the Peshmerga.” He dug out a cell phone from his pocket and snapped a quick picture of Jack on his knees, the nuke hanging from his chest. “Evidence,” he grunted. “You’re about to be famous, Mr. President. A sacrifice for the world. A martyr. You’ll be remembered forever.”
The past few weeks played through Jack’s mind on an awful fast-forward, suddenly lit from a new angle. Betrayal, ice-cold, slammed deep into his heart. Nairobi, the failure of intelligence in Ethiopia. So much death. Ethan.
But why? Why murder so many?
“What is this? A coup? You think you can just take over?” Jack spat in Gottschalk’s face.
Gottschalk ignored him, wiping away the spit from his cheek.
“You murdered Ethan!” Jack roared. He started to stand. Damn the nuke around his neck, but he was going to tear Gottschalk’s arms from his body.
The former Peshmerga leader slammed his fist into Jack’s face, punching him back to the ground. Jack fell to his knees, blood weeping from his nose. Broken, by the crunch of bones and watering of his eyes. Jack spat blood at Gottschalk as his former chief of staff smirked down at him, again. Smug superiority leached from Gottschalk. He stood in a cascade of smugness, a rush of vindictive pride that choked Jack and made him want to gag. Or hurl. All over Gottschalk and his nuke.
Ethan, I’ll see you soon. I’m coming to your side.
Jack sat back on his heels. If this was the end, at least he’d see Ethan again.
* * * * *
Down the hallway off the Oval Office, leading to Jack’s study and his private dining room, Ethan pressed against the wall in the shadows and peered through the open door. Inada and two other agents were on the ground. Closest to Jack, Daniels was also on the ground, but blood was pooling beneath his chest. Ten men in suits stood watch at the windows, peering out and watching the security shutdown of the White House perimeter.
By procedure, the entire White House would have been shut down at the first alarm. The Secret Service would have been in charge of securing the president and the interior while the DC police held the perimeter until the Army arrived from Fort Belvoir. If the Secret Service was incapacitated, then the Army would breach the White House.
But with Director Stahl as one of the conspirators, the outside world had no idea what was truly happening in the Oval Office. On the dead radio, agents loyal to Stahl were firing on agents loyal to the president, battling in the East Wing. It was a diversion, a distraction and a way to keep as many as possible away from the Oval Office.
Ethan counted the men in the room again. Ten Black Fox soldiers. Director Stahl, Director Luss, and Director Luntz. And Jeff Gottschalk.
And Jack.
Jack kneeled on the ground, blood streaming from his nose, his eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. Fury strained his body, making him tremble, but there was a darkness to his eyes that Ethan recognized. He was ready to die.
Ethan’s heart stuttered. He forced himself to drag in a breath. Checked his pistol. He had fifteen bullets in his clip. Fourteen targets.
He couldn’t miss.
Ethan swept the room again. His eyes landed on Daniels.
Daniels’s open eyes stared back at him. Tears streamed down Daniels’s cheeks, and a tiny smile curled his lips. From where Daniels was on the floor, he had an angled view down the hallway, something the other men didn’t have.