“How are you today, sir?”
Finally, his head looks to me. “Who are you?”
I say, “Sally Grissom, special agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division.”
The expression on his face doesn’t change. “What do you want?”
I can’t believe I’m saying the words that I’m saying, but I go ahead.
“Mr. Fuller,” I say. “I need to see your daughter, Grace.”
CHAPTER 65
OUTSIDE A REMOTE contractor hangar at Andrews Air Force Base, Paul Moody is seated in the pilot’s seat of a heavily modified OH-58H Kiowa helicopter, going through his preflight checklist, ready for his sudden and important morning mission. For years he has flown in the service of his country for the US Army, flying helicopters similar to this one in Iraq, Afghanistan, Nigeria, and on two very classified occasions, in northern Iran.
It’s a clear day, and the checklist is going smoothly. For the past sixteen months, he’s been flying for Global Strategic Solutions and has loved every minute of it. He gets to fly in-country, for one, which means no matter where he lands, there will always be clean water and good toilets. He knows that doesn’t sound like much, but after years of flying in those barren moonscapes on the other side of the globe, where a hole in the ground is considered a toilet and the water is always warm and heavily chlorinated, it’s sheer luxury to close out a mission and still be in the States.
Not to mention the dating opportunities with women who don’t have husbands or brothers around to cut your head off if you try to hold their hand.
Most of the missions he’s done for the corporation have been providing air security for VIPs coming for a visit in the States— more often than not, classified visits, where, if noticed, a certain VIP would have been arrested by the FBI on war crimes charges. And twice he has gone “weapons hot” in supporting a law-enforcement mission—he never asked too many questions— which ended up with tractor trailer trucks on remote highways in the West being shot up at night and crashing into remote ravines.
Still, some days, he missed flying those missions overseas, a lot of time flying solo, providing close-in air support for guys on the ground who needed help, and needed help fast. His job was to put him and his bird between the enemy and the good guys, and one thing he learned early on was that if he wasn’t getting shot at, he wasn’t doing his job.
The engine is now running smoothly and he toggles his radio. After getting clearance for takeoff, and with his left hand on the collective lever and his right on the cyclic stick, he slowly takes off and makes course to Walton. There’s a farmhouse in that town that is hiding an ISIS cell, and Paul is about to pay them a very quick and violent visit.
He changes the radio frequency, contacts the support office for his company’s internal operations division.
“This is GSS Tango Four,” he announces. “Outbound.” Somewhere in Crystal City, a woman’s voice replies via his earphones. “Copy that, Tango Four.”
He’s quickly gaining altitude in the clear blue sky. The sides of his helicopter are flanked by two weapons pylons, each carrying a classified modification of the AGM-114 Hellfire. These particular missiles are made of a specially compressed cellulose material and exotic false-positive explosive compounds, meaning that when they reduce the farmhouse to rubble, forensics investigators will find traces of what will appear to be an exploded propane gas tank.
And no evidence he was ever there.
CHAPTER 66
MARSHA GRAY NEARLY bursts out laughing as she drives by the black Chevrolet Suburban pulled over to the side on East Dominion Road, all of the Secret Service agents inside looking up the dirt driveway. Talk about being blind to threats. If she was carrying something heavier than her usual sniper rifle, like an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, she could have easily ventilated that Suburban and its passengers in two full sweeps.
But nobody inside pays her Odyssey minivan any notice as she glides by. No wonder these clowns lost the First Lady.
She travels a number of meters until the road curves and she loses sight of the Secret Service vehicle in the minivan’s rearview mirror. Good. And even better … a dirt driveway to the left. Marsha pulls in, and after ten meters or so, there’s a grassy section to the right between two maple trees. She backs in the minivan and switches off the engine, leaves the key in the ignition. If she needs to move quickly, there’ll be no time to fumble around for the key.
Marsha gets out and retrieves her duffel bag from the rear seat, holding her sniper rifle and other equipment and gear. She quickly changes, putting on her familiar battle rattle—save for the helmet, no need to carry three-plus pounds of unnecessary weight on your noggin—and starts to slip through the woods. Marsha has always had the ability to navigate with the minimum of gear, and she uses the map and compass application on her iPhone to move her through the woods and small fields.
A flash of history comes to her: perhaps this same territory was once trod by Union and Confederate troops, duking it out more than a century ago.
If so, then history is about to be made here again.
She climbs up a slight hill that dips down into a muddy ravine, and then easily climbs up and … there you go.
A nice view of the side of the cabin, and there are two people talking, a man sitting down in a chair, and a woman standing in front of him.
From her duffel bag, she pulls out her binoculars. She crawls through the brush and gets a proper view. Binoculars up and a brief focus. Old man comes into view. Looks like he’s got a shotgun across his lap. What the hell? she thinks. Does he have a moonshine still in the rear?
Marsha shifts her view.
Ah, there you go.
That Secret Service agent, dressed in a black coat and wearing that stupid red scarf from before.
Talk, talk, talk.
She lowers her right hand, finds her iPhone, slides through the screens, and her outgoing phone call is picked up after one ring.
“Hoyt,” he says.
“Gray,” she whispers. “I’m on station. I’m near the house, and I see Grissom chatting it up with some old buck. What now?”
Hoyt sounds like he’s in a good mood. “Everything’s all set. You’re just backup, all right? And backup only if I call you. You understand?”
“That I do,” she says.
It looks like the discussion over there is getting more heated. Marsha says, “What’s your backup going to be? A lightning bolt from the heavens?”
Damn, Hoyt even laughs. “You could say that.”
And he hangs up.
In the distance, Marsha hears the familiar thump-thump of an approaching helicopter. She wiggles back and unzips her duffel bag further, taking out the same rifle she used overseas, which will be just as good here.
The only difference is the type of ammunition she will be using, and when it comes right down to it, that won’t make any difference at all.
CHAPTER 67
THE OLD MAN doesn’t even blink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Grissom.”
“Mr. Fuller,” I say, “I’m not sure how or why the First Lady ended up here, or how she injured her finger, but I can tell you that she’s in danger, and we need to get her out of here as soon as possible.”