Chapter 6
The Gulfstream touched down at Tipton Airport, halfway between Fort Meade and Baltimore-Washington International Airport, just after midnight local time.
As they deplaned, a black SUV waited on the tarmac, lit up by the harsh glow of the security lights.
Ryan Hayes stepped out of the driver’s seat to greet them.
“Welcome home,” he said, though his expression suggested there was nothing welcoming about the situation they were walking into.
They climbed into the SUV—Jake in front, Omar and Trent in back. Ryan was back behind the wheel and pulling out before they’d even buckled their seatbelts.
“Did you do a dry cleaning run?” Jake asked.
“Just like Leilah taught me. Nobody followed me.”
“Where are we headed?” Omar asked.
“Safe house in Annapolis. It’s secure, off the books, and close enough to the Naval Academy that we can move quickly when we need to.”
“Annapolis,” Trent repeated. “So we’re really doing this.”
“We’re really doing this,” Ryan confirmed. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “I have updates. Not all of them good.”
“Good news first. I could use some,” Jake said wearily.
“I found McCloud.”
Omar leaned forward. “Where?”
“Calgary.”
“Canada.” Trent frowned.
“How’d you locate him?” Omar asked.
“Last week, Cal’s ex-wife reported a credit card stolen after it was used to buy a one-way ticket to Calgary.”
“She helped him?” Trent asked.
Ryan shook his head. “She says no. Says she threw the card in a drawer and hasn’t used it for years. But she’s had the account since she and Cal were married. He could’ve accessed it.”
“Could be a coincidence,” Jake said.
“It’s not.”
“Calgary’s a big place,” Omar observed.
Ryan met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “True. Good thing I reached out to CSIS.”
“You have a contact there?” Jake asked, sitting up straighter.
“No. You do. I used Poppy’s name and said I heard they’ve been tracking some chatter related to a potential attack on Canadian soil.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Trent wanted to know.
“From your wife.” Ryan grinned. “Poppy told her and Marielle.”
“Why didn’t they call us?” Omar groused.
“Because Marielle knows I am second only to her in my ability to do something with that information, you man-baby. Speaking of wives—Chelsea wants you to call her tonight.”
Jake nodded. “She’s been blowing up my phone asking what Poppy’s like in person.”
“Can we get back to McCloud?” Trent asked.
“Right, when I mentioned Cal’s special forces background, his current—er, recent—employment, and the fact that he’s in the wind, they got very interested very quickly. Found him in less than an hour.”
“That’s fast. Where was he?”
“They reviewed the CCTV footage from the airport, public transit, traffic cameras, parks, security feeds for private buildings, the whole deal. They tracked him from ground transportation at the airport to a vacant warehouse, last used by a wholesale plumbing supply company. He’s been living in the break room. ”
“Huh.” Omar digested this fact.
“What kind of attack?” Jake asked.
“That, they don’t know. That’s why Poppy wants access to Hanna. Her family may be involved.”
“Well, that’s great for CSIS, but it doesn’t do us any good.” Jake’s voice was sour.
Omar grimaced at his tone, but Ryan was unbothered.
“It does, though. Because in exchange for a copy of his personnel file, they agreed to let us have a video interview with him.”
Jake reached over and thumped him on the back. “Good work, Hayes. When can we talk to him?”
“Tomorrow morning, their time. They’ll give me the details once he’s taken into custody and processed. They said they’d give us thirty minutes.”
“That’s not much,” Trent said.
“It’s what we’ve got.”
Omar cracked his knuckles, thinking. “What about Annapolis? When’s that happening?”
Ryan glanced at Trent in the mirror. “The day after tomorrow. I used Jake’s name to call in a favor with Commander Peterson at the Naval Academy. The President is giving a private speech to a select group of midshipmen … and midshipwomen?”
Trent shook his head. “No, they’re just middies, too. How long do we get with POTUS?”
“The commander thinks he can swing five minutes during the reception afterward.”
“Five minutes to convince the President his Vice President is planning a coup,” Omar said flatly. “No pressure.”
“We work best under pressure,” Ryan said. “Isn’t that your thing?”
“My thing?”
“Yeah. Remember your senior project in high school? I seem to recall you did the entire year-long assignment in forty-eight hours before it was due.”
Omar’s face heated. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“You got an A. And you’ve been pulling off last-minute miracles ever since.” Ryan’s expression grew serious. “We don’t have anything concrete yet. But we have pieces. Hanna’s statement. The financial entanglements between the Tunisians and Hampton’s family.”
Jake nodded. “With any luck, that plus whatever we get out of Cal tomorrow will be enough to make the President listen. After that, it’s up to him.”
“And if he doesn’t believe us?” Trent asked.
“Then we’re probably going to prison for conspiracy against the Vice President,” Ryan said matter-of-factly.
“Then we’d better make sure he believes us. Legally, what do we need to make the strongest possible case?”
“Everything we can get from Cal. Confirmation that CSIS has evidence of the Calgary attack. And something—anything—that directly ties VP Hampton to Mahmoud.”
“The latter is going to be hard,” Omar said. “Hampton’s too smart to leave a paper trail. That’s why he’s using his train wreck of a son as his middleman.”
“Talk about a useful idiot,” Trent muttered.
Omar sat up straight. “That’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“Trent’s right. I mean, Brad truly is an idiot. Sure, the VP can use him as a straw man to sign contracts and handle the money laundering and bribes. But there’s no way he’d trust that guy with details of a coup. There has to be another intermediary.”
Trent picked up the thread.“Someone has to coordinate between Hampton and the Mahmoud. Someone who could move between DC and Tunisia without raising red flags.”
“On it,” Ryan said. “While you prep for the call with McCloud and your five minutes with POTUS, I’ll cross-reference State Department travel records with known associates of both Hampton and Mahmoud.”
Nobody asked their strait-laced company counsel how he was planning to access State Department records. Nobody wanted to know.
Ryan merged onto the highway, heading north.
“You realize this means Poppy Jones checks out, right? Once I dropped her name with CSIS, they were ready to play ball. That’s as close to a confirmation as we’re going to get that she is a deep cover operative specializing in human intelligence gathering. ”
“Poppy Jones,” Trent muttered. “I can’t believe it. I’m going to have to read one of Liv’s biographies of Josephine Baker. This is wild.”
“So we can trust her,” Omar said.
“To a point,” Ryan cautioned. “She’s loyal to Canada’s interests, not ours. If those interests diverge, she’ll choose her country every time.”
“That’s fair. So will we,” Jake said. “What about VP Hampton? Any movement there?”
Ryan’s expression darkened. “I reached out to someone I can trust at DOJ. They’re not interested.”
“He’s planning a coup,” Omar sputtered.
“He’s the Vice President of the United States. Without something solid, it would be career suicide.”
“We have Hanna’s testimony,” Trent said.
“Which his lawyers will shred. One woman’s word against the Vice President? They’ll say she’s lying to save herself. That she’s bitter about her relationship with Idris. That she’s been compromised by foreign intelligence.”
“What about the financial records?” Omar asked. “The money trail between Hampton and the Tunisians?”
“Buried under layers of shell corporations and offshore accounts. It’ll take months to untangle. Maybe years.”
“We don’t have years,” Jake said flatly.
“I know. Which is why we’re going to Annapolis. To get you five minutes.”
“With less than forty-eight hours to prepare.”
“Good thing I’m here,” Omar cracked.
After a few halfhearted laughs, they fell silent. The SUV was so quiet they could hear the hum of the tires against the road.
Omar stared out the window at the darkness. If Hampton had allies in the military …
“Ryan,” Omar asked, “who’s handling security for the visit?”
“The Secret Service, obviously. And Naval Support Activity Annapolis will coordinate with them. The base will be locked down tight.”
“Sure, but if Hampton has help from inside—”
“Then we’re walking into a trap,” Trent finished. “But if Hampton’s turned any part of the military, we’re cooked regardless.”
Ryan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s the only play we have.”
“You’re sure Peterson can make it happen?” Jake asked.
“I’m sure he’ll try. He said he’ll do everything he can to arrange a private moment during the post-speech reception.”
Trent nodded. “We were in Abuja together. He’s good people. He worked with Jake to save my hide when I had my meltdown.” He rolled his neck from side to side. “After Carla.”
They lapsed back into silence until Ryan exited the highway. The streets of Annapolis were quiet, most of the city tucked in for the night. Ryan wound through residential neighborhoods until he pulled up in front of a modest two-story colonial with dark windows.
“This is us,” he said, killing the engine.
Inside, the house was furnished but impersonal. Generic furniture, prints straight out of a mid-price chain hotel on the walls, neutral everything. It was interchangeable with every other safe house in their network.
Ryan set up his laptop on the dining room table and pulled up a satellite image of the Naval Academy. “The President arrives at oh-nine-hundred on Friday. Speech at ten-hundred in Dahlgren Hall. Reception immediately following at Farragut House, the superintendent’s residence.”
“That’s where we make our approach,” Jake said.
“That’s where Peterson will try to create an opportunity. But we have to be ready to improvise if the moment doesn’t present itself.”
Omar studied the map, committing it to memory. Entry points, exit routes, places where security would be tightest. He’d spent enough time planning operations to know that even the best laid plans could fall apart in seconds.
“What’s our cover?” Trent asked.
“You’re guests of Commander Peterson. Former service members and current private military contractors interested in the President’s remarks on naval readiness.”
“Will that hold up to scrutiny?” Omar asked.
“It should. Peterson’s invited guests before. Your service records are real. And we are a PMC.”
“My records are … colorful,” Trent pointed out.
“As are mine,” Jake agreed.
Omar raised both hands. “Don’t look at me. I was in the National Guard during college and then straight to the DEA after I graduated. My military service is the opposite of colorful. The DEA part is another story.”
“It’s not going to matter,” Ryan promised. “Jake’s the CEO of a military contractor. If anyone asks, Potomac’s exploring partnership opportunities with the Academy’s research programs.”
It was thin, but it might work. Might.
“We need to talk about contingencies,” Omar said. “If this goes sideways, if Hampton has people watching for us—”
“Then we abort,” Jake said firmly. “We’re not risking lives to deliver a message. If we can’t get to the President safely, we find another way.”
“There might not be another way,” Trent said.
“Then we make one.”
Ryan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and his eyebrows rose. “CSIS just took Cal into custody. They’re setting up the interview for tomorrow morning, seven a.m. Calgary time.”
“I’d love to be in the room with him,” Omar said grimly.
“You and me both,” Jake and Trent said in unison, their voices seething with vengeance.
“Sorry, boys. Video conference. Secure line. But, in an act of Canadian generosity, CSIS is letting us take point for the first hour, then they take over. Sixty minutes is better than thirty.”
“One hour to get everything we need,” Jake said.
“One hour to find out why he betrayed us,” Trent added, his voice hard.
Cal as a traitor still hadn’t fully sunk in for Omar. The former soldier had been part of their team for three years. Sure, he was prickly, but he was one of them. Until he wasn’t.
“I want to know if it was worth it,” he said quietly. “If trading our lives for his son’s freedom seemed like an even exchange.”
“It won’t matter what he says,” Trent said. “It won’t change what he did.”
“No. But I want to look him in the eye when he tries to justify it.”
Ryan closed his laptop. “We should all try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
They started stacking papers and taking cups to the kitchen, but Omar knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not with Marielle in Paris and Idris unaccounted for. Not with Cal’s interview looming and the Annapolis approach hanging over them like a sword.
He pulled out his burner:
Going after Cal tomorrow. Hope to talk to POTUS on Friday. How’s Paris?
Marielle’s response came after several minutes:
Meeting with Hanna tomorrow. Chelsea and Leilah arrive afternoon. Poppy’s concert tomorrow night.
Busy day. Stay frosty.
You too.
Always.
Then, because he couldn’t help himself:
I miss you.
Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Finally:
I miss your pain au chocolat.
Which I suppose means I miss you, too.
Despite all the free-floating stress in his brain, he cackled. Leave it Elle to be a smartass in the middle of an international incident.
He pocketed the phone, headed upstairs, and chose one of the four bedrooms at random. The bed was made with crisp white sheets, military corners. He lay down fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.
In forty hours, give or take, they’d expose a conspiracy that reached the highest levels of government. Or they’d be in prison.
Or dead.
He closed his eyes and started the slow, diaphragmatic breathing his counselor had taught him.
With one hand on his belly, and the other on his chest, he took a deep breath in through his nose, then exhaled more slowly through his mouth.
He focused on the rise and fall of his abdomen.
In the middle of breath seven, he fell asleep.