SCOTT COLEMAN WAS SITTING ON HIS COUCH trying to ignore that an unknown number of FBI agents were watching and listening to his every move. For the last day he had been going over different plans for losing his watchers. Part of his training as a SEAL had been countersurveillance and aversive techniques. As the commander of SEAL Team Six he had been tailed more times than he could count. Foreign intelligence services could learn a lot by keeping tabs on America’s top commando.
An even more dangerous scenario that he
faced was the threat of reprisals by terrorists. Coleman had killed
his fair share of international outlaws over the last decade, and
plenty of groups out there would love to get their hands on him.
What better way to settle a score, if you’re a terrorist, than to
kill the leader of America’s elite counterterrorist force? Even now
that he was retired, things hadn’t changed all that much. He was
still under specific instructions to report any surveillance to the
counterespionage people at the Naval Investigative
Services.
Coleman’s pager started to vibrate. He
glanced down at the small screen and recognized the number for
Seamus’s secure phone. After the seven-digit number came three more
numbers. These three numbers made Coleman deeply concerned. They
told him that something was very wrong, and that they needed to
talk immediately.
Coleman sat motionless for a half a minute
or so while he pondered what his next step would be. After picking
a plan, he turned off the TV and headed for the door, grabbing his
keys and a dark leather jacket on the way. As he made the trip to
the basement, he began guessing what might have gone wrong. He knew
of Michael’s intention to use the tape, but beyond that he had no
idea what had transpired over the last sixteen hours. Coleman
reached the storage lockers in the basement and walked past his
own, stopping at the one used by the elderly gentleman on the first floor.
He pulled out a small black flashlight and inspected the wax seals
that he had dripped onto the hinges. Both were
intact.
It took him less than a minute to pick the
small lock. Once inside the closet, he moved a stack of boxes and
grabbed his stainless-steel trunk. Coleman decided it was time to
clean shop. No sense leaving anything behind for the feds to find.
He set the trunk down in the hallway and then relocked the door to
the storage locker. Next he bent down, opened the steel trunk, and
retrieved a mobile scramble phone that was identical to the one
O’Rourke had. He hoisted the tan briefcase under one arm, the trunk
under the other, and started for the front door of the apartment
building.
Across the street, in the apartment
building that faced Coleman’s, Skip McMahon and the other FBI
agents sprang to life. Coleman had left the house earlier in the
day and gone for a jog, but other than that, he had remained in his
apartment. McMahon was wearing a black Baltimore Orioles baseball
hat and had a pair of large headphones covering his ears. Through
the array of directional microphones they had aimed at the
apartment, he heard Coleman turn off his TV. Next he heard the
jingle of keys and then the door opening and closing. McMahon
snapped his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “People, get ready. I
think our boy is on the move.”
The other two agents joined McMahon at the
window. One of them checked in with each of the
three cars that were
located on nearby side streets and asked for a status report. They
waited a full minute and Coleman still hadn’t exited the front door
of the building. McMahon brought the walkietalkie back up to his
mouth. “Sam, do you see anything in the alley?
Over.”
The agent parked at the end of the alley
peered through a pair of night-vision goggles. His eyes hadn’t left
the rear door since McMahon had alerted them that their subject was
on the move. Sam spoke blandly into his walkie-talkie, “That’s a
negative, over.”
McMahon tapped his foot. “Come on, where
are you?” He adjusted his baseball hat and continued to stare at
the front door. “Come . . . on . . . come . . .
on.”
As McMahon finished dragging out his last
phrase, Coleman came out the front door. “We’ve got him,” he said
instantaneously over his radio. Squinting slightly, he continued,
“He’s carrying a briefcase and another large metal case. . . . He’s
headed for his car. Get the cars warmed up and alert dispatch.”
McMahon watched Coleman get into his Ford Explorer and shut the
door. He slapped one of the agents on the shoulder and said, “Watch
the fort while we’re gone, and tell dispatch we might need a
chopper. Let’s go, Pete.” McMahon and the other agent ran for the
door. They flew down the back staircase and out into the alley.
McMahon jumped into the passenger seat of Special Agent Pete
Arley’s Chrysler minivan, complete with child seat and a box of wet
wipes on the dashboard. Arley yanked the van into drive and roared
down the alley as McMahon helped coordinate the other three cars in
the immediate area.
The caravan of cars moved from the Adams
Morgan neighborhood into the area surrounding Howard University.
Coleman’s Ford Explorer was covered in every direction including
up. An FBI surveillance helicopter had moved into position and had
already painted the roof of Coleman’s truck with a laser dot. The
group of cars turned onto Michigan Avenue and passed Trinity
College and the Veterans Administration
Hospital.
Coleman knew what he was doing. By driving
past the college campuses he was picking off the FBI cars that were
trying to keep pace with him on the side streets. Michigan Avenue
was the only thoroughfare in this part of town. All of the other
streets dead-ended into one of the campuses. He was not trying to
lose them yet. He was only trying to make their job
difficult.
The former SEAL retrieved a small,
handheld bug sweeper from his pocket and checked to make sure the
audio warning mode was off. He started by the steering wheel and
swept the entire dashboard of the car. From there he swept as much
of the car as he could from the front seat. Coleman put the sensor
back in his pocket and readied his scramble phone. Next he turned
up the radio and faded the speakers to the back of the truck. If
any bugs had been placed in the backseat or rear cargo area, the
loud music would render them useless.
Coleman checked his rearview mirror one
more time and then dialed the number. After several rings Seamus
answered, “Hello.”
“What’s up?”
“Michael has been
taken.”
“What do you mean taken? By
whom?”
“We don’t know, but we think it may have
been Nance.”
Coleman swore under his breath. “Did
Michael use the tape to blackmail
Nance?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it. I’ve been out of the loop since
last night. I think you’d better bring me up to speed on what’s
transpired since then.” Coleman listened while Seamus rapidly
relayed an extremely abbreviated version of what Michael had done
with the tape of Arthur’s confession. Seamus then went on to
explain Michael’s disappearance, Liz’s subsequent conversation with
Stansfield, and finally, the onehour time limit and ultimatum she
had given the director of the CIA.
Coleman processed the information as
rapidly as possible and asked few questions. When Seamus was
nearing the end of the story, Coleman looked at his watch and saw
that they were coming up on the two-minute mark. Although these
little wonders of technology that he and Seamus were using were
touted as traceproof, Coleman had learned over the years to trust
no piece of technology completely. Not wanting to go over the
two-minute threshold, Coleman asked for the number Seamus had been
using to contact Stansfield, then told him he’d call him back in
ten minutes. Coleman hung up the phone and checked his rearview
mirror for any recognizable cars. He bit down hard and began
running through his options. If they didn’t get Michael back
quickly, they were in a lot of trouble. Nance had to be dealt with.
In a barely audible voice Coleman said, “If I get the chance, I’m going to
end this thing my way.”
The maroon Audi stopped at the security
gate and a pair of watchful eyes peered down at the driver from
behind the bulletproof glass of the guard booth. The guard had been
notified by his employer that this certain guest was to be allowed
entry without inspection. Mike Nance had learned a lot from Arthur
Higgins over the years, and one of these lessons was to hire his
own private security people. The Secret Service would more than
likely disapprove of some of his activities, and tonight was a
perfect example. The heavy gate began to slide back on its tracks,
and the guard nodded for the driver of the car to
proceed.
The Audi sped down the long, newly paved
driveway and took the right fork about a quarter of a mile from the
house. Jarod pulled the car up to the main entrance and popped the
trunk. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he exited the car and
walked to the rear. Jarod lifted the trunk and studied O’Rourke,
who was curled up in the fetal position.
The congressman looked through squinted
eyes at the strange man who had abducted him. Although he felt
sluggish, the drugs had not affected his mind. The thirty-minute
car ride in the darkness of the trunk had given him time to figure
out, with relative certainty, what was happening. Only one person
could be behind this. Garret was too big of an emotional wimp to
have the balls to do something like this by himself, so it had to
be Nance. Michael knew his only hope was if Liz had
made it back to the house
and called Tim and Seamus. If she hadn’t, Michael had no doubt that
Nance would shoot him full of drugs and get him to sing, just as he
and Coleman had done with Arthur. He had to buy some time until
they found him.
The grandfatherly-looking man was
silhouetted by a pair of lights that hung next to the entrance of
the house. He pulled a medium-sized, matte black combat knife from
inside his trench coat and leaned into the trunk. The knife slid in
between O’Rourke’s legs, and with a quick jerk the plastic ankle
cuffs were cut. The man transferred the blade from his right to his
left hand and helped Michael out of the
trunk.
O’Rourke felt the increased effects of
whatever had been pumped into him as soon as his feet hit the
pavement. His legs were unsteady, and he staggered slightly to the
side. Jarod hung on to him by the arm and prevented him from
toppling to the ground. The two of them proceeded toward the front
door, and after about five steps Michael regained enough of his
balance that he could walk without
assistance.
When they reached the house, the door
opened from the inside, revealing a grinning Mike Nance. “Good
evening, gentlemen.” Nance was wearing a pair of dark wool slacks,
a white button-down, and a blue
cardigan.
O’Rourke stared at the smug grin on
Nance’s face and fought back the urge to reach out and smash in his
face. He took a step forward, but the stranger holding on to his
arm prevented him from taking another. O’Rourke froze as Jarod dug
two fingers into the pressure point under his right arm. Michael’s
whole right side buckled under the penetrating pain, and he
slouched in a convulsive jerk.
“Now, now, Congressman, behave yourself.”
Nance waved his finger at O’Rourke as if Michael were a little
schoolboy. “You don’t want to upset my friend.” Nance nodded for
the two men to follow and started down the hallway. Jarod loosened
his grip slightly and prodded Michael forward. The three men went
down the hall and entered the large game
room.
O’Rourke looked to his right and saw Stu
Garret standing behind the bar with a drink in his hand. O’Rourke
glared at the president’s chief of staff, and Garret averted his
eyes. Nance pointed toward Michael’s mouth and said, “Jarod, you
can take off the tape.” The shorter man reached up and yanked the
gray duct tape off O’Rourke’s mouth. Michael ignored the slight
sting and kept his eyes fixed on Garret.
Nance spoke from a discreetly safe
distance. “Congressman, we have some unfinished business from this
morning.”
O’Rourke stared at Nance in disgust and
said, “I finished my business with you when I broke your
nose.”
Nance turned and looked at his reflection
in the mirror behind the bar. He reached up and gently touched his
swollen nose. “Yes, I suppose I owe you for that, don’t I?” Turning
back to face O’Rourke, Nance said flatly, “Jarod, would you please
break Congressman O’Rourke’s nose for
me?”
Michael had no time to react. The man
standing next to him grabbed his handcuffed wrists and forced
them down. Jarod’s free hand raised up like a tomahawk and came
crashing down in a karate chop across the bridge of Michael’s nose.
There was a loud pop as O’Rourke’s nose moved a quarter of an inch
to the left. Michael stumbled back, his head reeling. O’Rourke had
had his nose broken twice before while playing hockey in college,
but he never remembered it hurting this bad. He gritted his teeth
in an attempt to try to fight back the pain as blood streamed out
of his nostrils and over his upper lip.
Nance walked back over from the bar and
proclaimed, “I don’t like resorting to violence, Mr. O’Rourke, but
I do believe in an eye for an eye. Your behavior this morning was
very uncivilized.”
“And I suppose killing Erik Olson was
civilized. Spare me your bullshit.” Michael wiped some blood on the
sleeve of his gray sweatshirt.
Nance nodded to Jarod, and before Michael
could react, a fist slammed into his lower back, sending him
crashing to the floor. Grimacing from the agonizing pain in his
right kidney, O’Rourke pushed himself up onto his knees and looked
at Nance’s shoes. Michael had never been one to take things lying
down, and he reasoned the longer he kept them from asking some real
questions, the better his chances were. Slowly, he brought his head
up. His eyes rested on Nance’s white shirt. O’Rourke felt his mouth
filling with blood, and as he got to his feet, he spit it at Nance.
A large glob of blood and saliva splattered Nance’s face and white
shirt.
O’Rourke had less than a second to enjoy
his small
victory. He was instantly knocked to his knees by another punch to
the kidney. Nance, infuriated by the indignity of being spat on,
stepped forward and slapped Michael across the
face.
The slap barely moved Michael’s head.
O’Rourke paused to gain his breath and then looked up at Nance.
Through clenched teeth, he forced a smile to his lips and asked,
“Who taught you how to hit like that, your
mom?”
Nance’s complexion turned a shade darker
and his hands started to tremble as he fought to control his anger.
In a half yell, he barked, “Jarod, teach this man some
respect!”
O’Rourke knew more pain was on the way so
he rolled from his knees to the floor and away from his assailant.
When he completed the turn and stopped by the back of a couch five
feet away, he looked up and saw Jarod approaching with his stun gun
extended. Michael saw something pop from the end, and then every
inch of his body spasmed as electricity shot through his veins.
While he squirmed on the floor, he felt himself losing
consciousness. His vision sparkled and then went dark. The last
thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the faint
ringing of a phone.
Stansfield paced behind his desk while
Kennedy relayed possible action scenarios one after another. This
was one of Irene’s strong suits. She was a master at taking
problems, plugging in different variables, and predicting probable
outcomes.
The Operations Center in the basement was
humming like the bridge of an aircraft carrier
headed into battle.
Charlie Dobbs looked down at the floor from his crow’s nest and
watched his people move with speed and precision. He was wearing a
headset and pressed the speed dial for Stansfield’s office. The
director answered and Dobbs said, “The choppers are warmed up and
the tactical teams are ready to roll. We also have the real-time
thermal imaging on-line.”
“What do you
see?”
Dobbs looked at the high-resolution,
fifty-inch screen that was mounted in the wall behind his desk.
“The only thing to report is the arrival of a car. Otherwise
everything looks pretty quiet.”
“What kind of car?” asked
Stansfield.
“It’s hard to tell with the thermal
imaging, but it looks to be a sedan of some type. A couple of my
imaging analysts are running computer enhancements on the stuff
right now. They should be able to tell us more in about ten
minutes. The car arrived just after we came on-line. One person got
out. They retrieved something from the trunk and went into the
house.”
Stansfield’s eyelids tightened. “Did you
say the trunk?”
“Yeah.”
“What did they get from the
trunk?”
“I don’t know.”
“How big was
it?”
Dobbs sighed apologetically. “Thomas, we
can’t tell with the nighttime thermal imaging on the KH-11. If it
was daytime, I’d know more, or if it was one of the new KH-12s,
we’d have no problem, but the thermal imaging has a lower
resolution.”
“Get your boys on it right away! Tell them
to forget about the make of the car for now. I want to know how big
the object was that was taken from the trunk, and let me know if
anybody else arrives or leaves the ranch. I’m going with the
tactical teams. Give the pilots the location of Nance’s place and
tell the men to load up. I’m on my way down.” Stansfield hung up
and looked at Kennedy. “I want you to stay here and coordinate. If
Scarlatti calls, give her the number for my mobile phone and have
her call me directly.”
“Are you going out to
Nance’s?”
“Yes. I’m going to handle this thing
personally.” Stansfield exited his office and told his bodyguard to
grab the mobile phone and follow him. Stansfield slid his access
card into the slot for the executive elevator and watched as his
bodyguard strapped a black nylon pack around his waist that
contained the director’s secure mobile phone.
There was a knock on the door and all
three men turned their attention from the body on the floor to the
entrance of the room. The voice of Nance’s assistant called out
from behind the oak door. “Sir, the president is on the line and
would like to speak to you.”
Nance scowled at the door. “Tell him I’m
not available and that I’ll call him
back.”
The assistant cleared his throat. “He was
rather insistent that he speak with you immediately. . . . In fact
he seemed a bit irate.”
Nance pointed at O’Rourke, who was still
passed out on the floor. “Jarod, keep him quiet. I’ll be
right back.” As Nance started for the door, Garret followed.
Nance stopped abruptly. “Wait here, Stu. I can handle this on my
own.” Nance left the room and went to his private study. He pushed
the blinking light on the phone and said, “I’m sorry to keep you
waiting, Jim. What is it that you
wanted?”
The president screamed into the phone,
“What in the hell are you up to now?”
“Jim, I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”
“Don’t pull this crap with me, Mike. Where
in the hell is Congressman O’Rourke?”
“Why would I know where Congressman
O’Rourke is?”
“Someone has taken him, and it’s no shock
that you’re at the top of the list for potential
kidnappers.”
“Who told you he was
taken?”
“Stansfield!”
Nance was quiet for a moment. “As I have
maintained since this morning, I think Thomas Stansfield is behind
this entire affair. I have—”
“Shut up, Mike!” yelled the president. “I
can’t believe you’ve gotten me into this mess. I saw the way Stu
fell apart when he heard that tape. You’re not going to get away
with blaming this thing on anybody but yourself. You and your
sadistic friend Arthur were behind this whole thing, and I’m not
going to get dragged down with you. A reporter called Stansfield
and told him if O’Rourke isn’t turned over in an hour, they’re
going to release the tape of Arthur. Now wake up before it’s too
late, and tell me where in the hell Congressman O’Rourke
is.”
“I have no
idea.”
“Bullshit . . . you’re a goddamned
professional liar, Mike. Hand him over before you ruin all of
us.”
“All of us is right, Jim.” Nance’s words
were laced with blatant disrespect. “If that tape is released, all
of us are going down, and that includes you. We’re all in this
together, and we’re going to do it my way. You stall Stansfield. If
they want the good congressman back so bad, he must know something.
When I’m done with him, I’ll turn him over.” Nance slammed the
phone down and left for the other end of the
house.