Act Of Treason Part 1

ACT OF TREASON.

by Vince Flynn.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

W ith the exception of researching and touring, the life of a writer tends to be very solitary-never more so than when under deadline. Every year my wife, Lysa, puts up with the long hours and the fact that even when I'm home, I'm often mentally elsewhere-usually trying to figure out how Mitch Rapp is going to wring someone's neck. I am a lucky man to be married to such an awesome woman. ith the exception of researching and touring, the life of a writer tends to be very solitary-never more so than when under deadline. Every year my wife, Lysa, puts up with the long hours and the fact that even when I'm home, I'm often mentally elsewhere-usually trying to figure out how Mitch Rapp is going to wring someone's neck. I am a lucky man to be married to such an awesome woman.

To my editor, Emily Bestler, and my agent Sloan Harris, thank you yet again for your patience and sage advice. To Alan Rautbort of ICM for pus.h.i.+ng me to write my first script. To David Brown, who in addition to being a great guy, is one fantastic publicist. To Jamie Kimmes, my new a.s.sistant-you've been a huge help this year. Thank you for all of your hard work. To everyone at the Simon & Schuster family, especially Jack Romanos, Carolyn Reidy, Judith Curr, Louise Burke, Sarah Branham, Jodi Lipper, and Alyson Mazzarelli. And a special thanks to production for yet again putting up with my frantic writing schedule.

To Dr. Jodi Bakkegard, the best chiropractor in the Twin Cities, thank you for keeping me fit all the way to the finish line. To Dave Woodfill and the entire crew at the Apple Store in Edina, thank you for solving all things technical. To Dan Marso for his humor and patience while designing my new website, and to Chad Harris for his input and the great job he did on that website, thethirdoption.net. To Tom Aslesen for his friends.h.i.+p and helping me out with a few technical aspects of the book. To Al Horner, retired Navy SEAL, and firearms instructor extraordinaire.

To Blake Gottesman, thank you for your commitment to the big guy. I'm sure you are missed. To Rob Richer, a good friend and an even bigger smarta.s.s. To Mary Matalin for your honesty, cla.s.s, and wit. To Paul Evancoe and FNH-the new 5.7 is awesome. To Colonel Kevin M. McDonnell, Command Sergeant Major Parry L. Baer and the Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force-Arabian Peninsula, you have given me a great honor that I will never forget. And to all the men and women who serve, your commitment and sacrifice is something that I think of every day.

PRELUDE.

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, DC.

OCTOBER.

T he motorcade rumbled down the cobblestone street. Three motorcycles led the way, followed by a DC police squad, two Secret Service sedans, and then two identical limousines. After the limousines came the Suburbans and more sedans. It was an impressive sight, especially when one considered that the two men being protected had yet to win the White House. However, earlier in the week a fringe terrorist group had announced their intent to disrupt the upcoming election, and the Secret Service had no choice but to take the threat seriously. he motorcade rumbled down the cobblestone street. Three motorcycles led the way, followed by a DC police squad, two Secret Service sedans, and then two identical limousines. After the limousines came the Suburbans and more sedans. It was an impressive sight, especially when one considered that the two men being protected had yet to win the White House. However, earlier in the week a fringe terrorist group had announced their intent to disrupt the upcoming election, and the Secret Service had no choice but to take the threat seriously.

Mark Ross sat in the back seat of the second limousine and ma.s.saged his forehead. A monster headache was building from the base of his brain and slowly spreading to the front. He tried to block out the incessant chatter of the man sitting next to him, while at the same time wondering just how in the h.e.l.l he had gotten himself into this mess. He would have been better off staying in the Senate where he had real power. It was power, though, that had gotten him here. Or at least the promise of it.

The relations.h.i.+p was cracking. There was no doubt about it. It had always been an arranged marriage of sorts. They each had their strengths and weaknesses, and for the most part they didn't overlap. It was explained to them by the power brokers and gatekeepers that they would complement each other perfectly. On paper it all looked perfect. A real marriage made in heaven. If they had bothered to read any of the cla.s.sic Greek tragedies, though, they would have known that the G.o.ds could be very cruel. Especially when it came to the hubris of men.

Ross had naturally been aware of Josh Alexander all along. Alexander, the up-and-coming star of the Democratic Party, was governor of Georgia. The old white men who ran the party had finally got it through their heads that a Northeast liberal was simply unelectable. Their only real chance of winning was to draft a Southern governor who believed in Jesus Christ. This way they could split the Bible Belt vote and steal enough red states to win it all. Alexander was the obvious choice. He was handsome, smart, and polished, and his wife's family had more money than most third-world countries. His only drawback was his relative youth. At forty-five he was deemed a touch green, and definitely weak on foreign affairs. His early polling numbers suggested that people weren't sure he would be a strong enough leader in the war on terror. That was where Mark Ross came in. A three-term senator from Connecticut, Ross was the new director of National Intelligence. He had a reputation as one of the more hawkish Democrats in Was.h.i.+ngton.

In a normal national election, the two men would have never ended up as running mates. This election, however, had been turned on its ear when the current president announced that he had Parkinson's disease and would not be seeking a second term. With only a year to go before the general election, the party was caught flat-footed. The primary season was upon them and the only real candidate they had was Vice President Sherman Baxter III. Everybody, including the president, agreed that Baxter would be a disaster. He was perhaps the most marginalized vice president in the history of the republic, and that was saying a lot. The man's approval rating in his home state of California was below thirty percent. A lot of things could have been ignored, but not that number. The party elders pulled him aside and told him it was the end of the road. Having been confronted with his limits and deficiencies for the last three years, the man did not put up a fight.

Ross, in the meantime, worked feverishly behind the scenes. He was well connected on Wall Street; regarded highly by his old club, the U.S. Senate; and savvy enough to know not to throw his hat in the ring too early. He waited until New Hamps.h.i.+re, when Alexander walked away as the clear front-runner. Then he began networking, pus.h.i.+ng the idea that the young governor needed a running mate who had some gravitas in the national security arena. He sent his surrogates to lobby on his behalf. He personally wined and dined the party's big money people and he carefully began to court the handsome, young governor from Georgia.

Everything fell into place exactly as Ross had wished. When he took the stage at the national convention, the place erupted. They hit the ground with a bounce and an eight-point lead. That had been three months ago. The pinnacle. The apogee of the campaign. Since then they'd been bleeding like a stuck pig. With two weeks until Election Day they trailed their opponents by three points, and Ross was feeling the pressure. Their pollsters kept coming back with the same problem. Voters perceived the pair as weaker than their opponents on national security. This was where Ross was supposed to step in and fill the breach, but how could he have known the president would leave them high and dry?

The man had abandoned them in their hour of need. Yes, he had endorsed them, but what in the h.e.l.l else was he going to do? Endorse the Republican ticket? Campaigning on their behalf was a.s.sumed. It was all part of the battle plan. He would help them raise the millions of dollars it would take to win the TV ad race. He would step in and use that bully pulpit to announce his confidence in the young candidate and his seasoned running mate. But all they got was silence and a cold shoulder.

The press was told that the president's disease was taking a toll on him, and he simply didn't have the energy to campaign. His obligation was to his office and the American people. Ross believed the excuse for a few days, and then reality set in. Word had gotten back to him through two solid sources that the president had a real problem with the ticket. He was offended that no one had bothered to consult him as to who Alexander should pick as a running mate. Beyond that, the president made it clear that he considered Ross the wrong choice.

The words had stung Ross to the core, but he had since written them off as the musings of a bitter old man at the end of his journey. True to his never-quit att.i.tude, Ross redoubled his efforts and stayed positive. This morning, however, he was feeling a sense of dread. There were only two weeks left, and the polls could move only so far in such a short period of time. They needed a real October surprise to put them over the top, and then Ross would take great pride in sticking it in the president's face on Inauguration Day.

As the motorcade slowed, the lead vehicles began peeling off. Ross looked through the tinted bulletproof window at the media who had gathered in front of the mansion. The heavy black iron gate opened and the two limousines pulled into the narrow circular drive. Dumbarton Oaks was a twenty-two-acre estate in Georgetown that was noteworthy for hosting a conference in 1944 that led to the formation of the United Nations. It was Ross's idea that they host a national security conference at the estate and bring in the greatest minds to discuss the issues that threatened the country. A former chairman of the Joint Chiefs was on hand, as well as two former secretaries of state, a former secretary of defense, several retired CIA directors, a few lesser-known generals, and a smattering of Middle Eastern experts and Muslim clerics from around the world.

After the three-hour event they were to head to the vice president's house at the Naval Observatory. The vice president was set to host a diplomatic reception on their behalf. All of the important amba.s.sadors would be there, and both Ross and Alexander would present them with their vision for security, peace, and prosperity in the twenty-first century. The event should have been held at the White House, but they had been denied. The entire election-h.e.l.l-his entire political career was going to come down to this one afternoon. If he believed in G.o.d he would have said a prayer, but he didn't, so he cursed the president instead.

The limo came to a stop and Ross looked his yammering campaign manager in the eye for the first time in five minutes. "Stu," Ross checked to make sure his tie was straight, "shut up. You're giving me a headache."

With that, Ross stepped from the back of the limo. He b.u.t.toned his suit coat with one hand and waved to the reporters and photographers with the other. He was about to comment on how beautiful a day it was when the whole gaggle swung their lenses and microphones away from him. Ross turned to see the tanned and slender legs of Jillian Rautbort Alexander emerge from the other limousine.

The press loved her. They called her America's Diana. Her likebility number was in the seventies. Far higher than either of the candidates. She was a stunning beauty in every conceivable way. She was five foot nine with shoulder-length blond hair and a body to die for. She'd been raised among the super elite. Schooled in Switzerland and then Brown, where her father had gone. The family's fortune was in real estate and lots of it. New York and Florida was where they had made their killing. There were homes in Paris, Manhattan, and Palm Springs. At thirty-six Jillian was one of those rare women who got better with age. She drew men into her orbit without having to bat an eye or flash a smile. She was gorgeous, cla.s.sy, and hot all at the same time. Ross had thought about taking a run at her on more than one occasion. She was no vestal virgin, that was for sure, but a real opportunity never presented itself.

Josh Alexander joined his wife, and the flashes erupted once again. He was six-one with black hair and the tanned skin of a low-handicap golfer. He was polished in that southern televangelist sort of way. His suits were always a bit s.h.i.+nier than everyone else's, his hair a bit longish and perfectly styled, and his teeth a few shades too white. This appearance, of course, fit the master plan to split the southern Christian vote, and the polling numbers told them it had worked. A little too well in fact. Their real problem now lay with the base. They felt betrayed, and were threatening to stay home on Election Day.

Ross watched the presidential candidate and his wife pose for the cameras. They stood there smiling, those same forced smiles that Ross had grown to hate. Even so, he kept his own fake smile going and acted like he was admiring the sheer beauty of the super couple. Ross's wife was back in Connecticut at the bedside of their daughter who was about to give birth to their first grandchild at any moment. It was just as well. She had grown sick of the campaign. It was no joy being outs.h.i.+ned at every stop by a woman twenty years her junior.

Alexander finally left his wife's side and came over to Ross. He stuck out his right hand and clapped Ross on the shoulder with his left.

"How you feeling today, Mr. Vice President?"

"Good, Mr. President." Ross strained to keep the smile on his face.

Calling each other president and vice president had been Alexander's idea. The week after the convention, when they'd had their eight point lead, it had been fun. Now it just seemed delusional and childish. Ross still thought they had a chance. He just didn't think the power of positive thinking was what was going to put them over the top. Five key states were up for grabs. The negative ads were in the can and if they didn't shrink the gap in the polls by Monday morning, things were going to get real ugly. Ross knew they'd be using those ads against their opponents. It was just a question of whether they started this week or the following. This was going to be a street fight right to the bitter end.

FOUR BLOCKS AWAY Gavrilo Gazich paid for his espresso with cash and was careful to keep the brim of his red Was.h.i.+ngton Nationals baseball hat tilted down so that the security camera mounted above the teller couldn't get a good shot of him. He was also wearing sungla.s.ses to help conceal his features. It was a sunny, fall morning in Georgetown, and the killer fit in perfectly. Gavrilo Gazich paid for his espresso with cash and was careful to keep the brim of his red Was.h.i.+ngton Nationals baseball hat tilted down so that the security camera mounted above the teller couldn't get a good shot of him. He was also wearing sungla.s.ses to help conceal his features. It was a sunny, fall morning in Georgetown, and the killer fit in perfectly.

Gazich preferred to operate in Africa. That was where he had made a name for himself after years of training in his war-torn homeland of Bosnia. The corrupt politicians and generals of the subcontinent made it an extremely target-rich environment. The billions in aid that were simply thrown at the impoverished region by foreign governments and international relief organizations provided an extra incentive for them to slaughter each other. The prevalence of graft from the national level all the way down to the smallest village was astounding. Of every dollar in aid, it was estimated that only ten cents actually made it to the people who really needed it.

The men at the top-warring heads of political parties, tribal leaders, gangsters, military commanders, and thugs-all fought for their piece of the action, and little value, if any, was placed on civilian life. A half a million people dead one year, a million the next. The level of carnage was mind-boggling. Respect for human life nonexistent. The lawlessness staggering. It made the civil war in Yugoslavia look like a skirmish. A simple dustup between a couple of neighborhood gangs.

During the siege of Sarajevo, Gazich had witnessed some horrible things, but nothing that compared to the sheer scope of suffering that existed in the war-torn areas of Africa. He used it to his advantage, though. The mix of chaos, corruption, brutality, and lawlessness created the perfect working environment for him. The warlords of Africa were constantly looking to expand their hold and increase their plunder. They operated under the principle of market share. If you weren't growing, you were on your way out. The most difficult part for Gazich was keeping all the players and their s.h.i.+fting alliances straight.

He had a simple rule in this regard. Work only for the most ruthless, and never meet them face-to-face in their own backyard. If they wanted to hire him they had to send someone to Athens or Istanbul. Occasionally, he would travel to Cairo, but since the towers had fallen in New York, he no longer felt safe in the Egyptian capital. Their president was too close to the United States, and his security service was far too efficient and brutal to toy with.

Cyprus had been his home now for more than a decade. It was where he went to find the solitude that he needed between jobs. To get in and out of these war-torn countries he'd posed as a reporter, an oil company engineer, even a mercenary from time to time. More often than not, though, he was acting on behalf of international relief organizations. He had a small business in Lima.s.sol, Cyprus, called Aid Logistics Inc that specialized in cutting through the red tape in the war-torn areas of Africa. He'd even been recognized by the International Committee of the Red Cross for his services. The business turned a tidy little profit on the side, but more importantly it gave him legitimacy. It helped him build up his contacts and keep track of the ever-changing players in the subcontinent's continuing saga.

Now, here in America he was simply a tourist. A Greek tourist at that. Somewhere in his family's history there had to be a few drops of Greek blood, or at a bare minimum, a healthy portion of Macedonian. He'd traveled Greece extensively and knew the language well enough, since it was also the national language of Cyprus. The customs officer at JFK had waved him through with a smile, which seemed to confirm Gazich's belief that the Greeks were well liked by mostly everyone with the exception of the Turks.

As with pretty much any job, Gazich had his reservations, but with this one there were more than usual, in part because he was operating in America, a country that was on high alert for terrorist attacks. Their border controls and linked computer systems made traveling under false ident.i.ties very difficult. In Africa he rarely had to worry about being picked up by a surveillance camera. Here in Was.h.i.+ngton, though, they were everywhere.

This was a rush job, which was never good on the nerves. He had been given one hour to accept or decline the job without even knowing what it was. All he was told was that he would have to travel to America, the hit would take place this coming Sat.u.r.day and he would be paid two million dollars. This was double the most lucrative contract he'd ever landed. His initial thought was that it was a trap, but after he a.n.a.lyzed it for a moment he dismissed that possibility. He had done nothing to offend the Americans. There would be no reason for them to go to this effort to capture a man who'd made a living in the killing fields of Africa.

Pretty much without exception Gazich dispatched his targets in one of two ways. He either shot them in the head from a safe distance or blew them up with high-powered explosives. Simplicity was at all times his primary objective. Having grown up on a farm outside Sarajevo, Gazich and his older brothers had been raised to hunt. They were all expert marksmen by the age of ten. When he was sixteen, his father sent him and his three older brothers off to fight with the Bosnian Serb forces who had laid siege to Sarajevo. That was when Gazich turned his crosshairs from wild game to man for the first time. In certain ways, he found hunting man less of a challenge. In other ways he found it far more exhilarating.

Today would be one of the most thrilling kills of his career. His only regret was that he hadn't been given more time to plan the hit. Killing a man with a single shot from up to a mile away was the biggest rush he had ever felt. Killing the target by remote detonating a bomb was a distant second, but a thrill nonetheless. That's what it would be today. There simply wasn't enough time to prepare for a head shot.

On Monday he was given the target and the motorcade's route. That same day he gave them the list of what he would need. He never spoke with his employers directly. He in fact had no idea who they were, although he had a good idea. They were Muslims to be sure. Terrorists who had promised to upset the American election. Gazich did not care for Muslims, but the money and the thought of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with the Americans was exhilarating. They had meddled in the affairs of his country. It would be poetic justice to return the favor.

These terrorists were getting smart. Sneaking their own devoted followers into America had become extremely difficult. Hiring a freelancer was much easier, and even with the two million-dollar fee, it was probably cheaper than training, equipping, and transporting a team to handle the operation. The most difficult part for them had to be getting the explosives and detonators he'd asked for. It had all been waiting for him in a storage garage in Rockville. Sneaking five hundred pounds of high explosives into America was not easily done. And this was good stuff. High-grade Russian military plastic explosives. Not the decaying unstable c.r.a.p he was forced to use from time to time when he operated in Africa. The blasting caps, the prime chord, and the remote detonator were also the best the Russians had to offer.

Gazich tried not to think too much about the fallout that would take place after the van exploded. In Africa he rarely had to think about such things. They all wanted to kill each other. One more body on the pile meant nothing. This was different, though. Was.h.i.+ngton was the grand stage of espionage and diplomacy, not some backwater, mosquito infested Third World h.e.l.lhole. This was elephant hunting, and Gazich had tracked the real beast. To kill the giant with a rifle shot from a safe distance was not difficult. The real sport of it was getting close, belly crawling for hundreds of meters, and sneaking in among the herd. That took skill, fort.i.tude, and a bit of insanity. Still, the shot itself was relatively easy. The real danger lay in getting trampled by one of the ma.s.sive gray beasts after the herd was spooked.

Gazich left the Starbucks with his espresso in one hand and a newspaper under his arm. So far the most difficult part had been finding a parking spot. Two million dollars for finding a parking spot. Gazich laughed to himself and started up the street. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with the American political system was sure to bring about a backlash. He told himself he would worry about that later. Now it was time to sneak up on the herd and hope he didn't get trampled.

SPECIAL AGENT RIVERA stood near the door and looked into the large conference room. At thirty-five she'd managed to keep her figure by beating up her fellow agents on a weekly basis. Karate burned a lot of calories and Rivera worked on her moves as if it was a religion. The campaign had cut into her cla.s.ses, and the other agents on the detail had grown wise to the fact that she was a second-degree black belt. They were done sparing with her and she was getting bored. Although she'd avoided weighing herself, she could feel the extra pounds. Two more weeks, she kept telling herself. Then she would decompress back in Arizona. She'd sleep, eat, and work out. Kick some a.s.s at the gym. Pay her old dojo a visit and show him who was the boss now. Maybe she'd even b.u.mp into a real man. Someone unattached, and not looking for anything serious. stood near the door and looked into the large conference room. At thirty-five she'd managed to keep her figure by beating up her fellow agents on a weekly basis. Karate burned a lot of calories and Rivera worked on her moves as if it was a religion. The campaign had cut into her cla.s.ses, and the other agents on the detail had grown wise to the fact that she was a second-degree black belt. They were done sparing with her and she was getting bored. Although she'd avoided weighing herself, she could feel the extra pounds. Two more weeks, she kept telling herself. Then she would decompress back in Arizona. She'd sleep, eat, and work out. Kick some a.s.s at the gym. Pay her old dojo a visit and show him who was the boss now. Maybe she'd even b.u.mp into a real man. Someone unattached, and not looking for anything serious. Boy, would that be nice, Boy, would that be nice, she thought to herself. She didn't even want to try and figure out how long it had been. she thought to herself. She didn't even want to try and figure out how long it had been.

Her boys were seated at the head of the U-shaped table. The cameras had been allowed in for the first fifteen minutes of the meeting and then they were asked to leave. Alexander's campaign manager had decided they would look more legitimate that way. At some point, if you were going to get serious about national security, you had to exclude the press and at least look like you were talking about important secrets of state.

Rivera was as tough as they came, but even she was exhausted. It had been a h.e.l.lish campaign. Each day brought a new city, and with each city came an entirely forgettable hotel room, bland hotel food, and a cramped hotel fitness center. Every morning she received a wake-up call from one of her fellow agents that, in addition to telling her what time it was, also reminded her where she was and where she was headed. Sometimes there were as many as four states in a day. The events were one after another from sunup to midnight, and she and her people had to be sharp every step of the way.

These presidential elections were a logistical nightmare. As hard as they were on the politicians and their staffers, though, they were worse on the sentinels who were tasked with protecting them. Rivera was the special agent in charge, or SAC, of presidential candidate Josh Alexander's Secret Service detail. She'd been with the Secret Service for thirteen years. During that time she'd worked in the Los Angeles, Miami, and New York field offices. She'd also done two presidential details and had risen through the ranks quicker than any other agent in her cla.s.s. Along the way she'd had one brief marriage, and a thankfully quick divorce to go along with it. That was almost ten years ago. It had been a pretty easy decision for Rivera. Her husband was a federal prosecutor working out of the Manhattan District. They'd met on an organized crime task force, and he'd swept her off her feet. Looking back on it now, she should have known marrying an attorney was a mistake. Four months into the marriage she stopped by her husband's office one day to surprise him and busted him instead. Right there in the middle of the afternoon he was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a female NYPD detective on his couch. Rivera knocked him out cold and filed for divorce that very afternoon.

Maria Rivera was second-generation American, but she spoke Spanish fluently thanks to her grandmother, who still prayed every day for her marriage to be resurrected. Grandma Rivera had been crushed when she parted ways with the Harvard hotshot attorney. He was a good Catholic boy and quite the charmer. Rivera didn't have the heart to tell grandma that the Ivy League attorney was a wh.o.r.e.

Free of her matrimonial bonds, Rivera took every tough a.s.signment the Service threw at her. She'd worked major counterfeit and credit card fraud cases for years and in-between managed to do stints on presidential details. A year ago she'd been promoted to a.s.sistant special agent in charge of President Hayes's detail, or ASAC. When Alexander took the lead after New Hamps.h.i.+re, her bosses called her into headquarters and told her to pack her bags. They put her in charge of Alexander's detail and told her not to screw up. That she was on the short list to run the next presidential detail.

To run a presidential detail was every agent's dream. It was also a position within the Service where the gla.s.s ceiling was still intact. If Rivera could keep it together she had a legitimate shot at being the first female agent to run a presidential detail. She had thought of little else for the last nine months. The pace of the campaign had been tolerable for most of that time. Early on Alexander didn't have to work too hard. He was ahead in the polls. He was a fresh face and the new political darling of the moment. He had ridden that wave all the way to the Democratic Party's convention in August where he walked away with a landslide of the delegates and a new running mate.

Then everything went to h.e.l.l. Rivera had been expecting the pace to pick up as they hit the home stretch for the November election, but the demands of the campaign had surprised even her. Alexander's opponents launched a blistering ad campaign that made hay out of the young governor's penchant for embellis.h.i.+ng stories and sometimes simply making things up. His youth and relative inexperience were brought into doubt, as well as his integrity. By the time Labor Day rolled around, a five-point lead in the polls had evaporated.

The answer from the Alexander camp was to fire their campaign manager and redouble their efforts. The first two weeks of September were spent on trains and the second two on buses. They crisscrossed the country, hitting every state that was deemed winnable. Events were scheduled, canceled, and then rescheduled. Advance teams were left stranded in cities as the campaign changed directions on an almost hourly basis. It was an absolute logistical disaster, but through it all Rivera had stayed at the helm and rolled with the schizophrenic scheduling of the campaign. Now, with just two weeks to go, she could finally see light at the end of the tunnel.

"Rivera," a voice whispered urgently.

Maria Rivera backed out of the doorway and came face to face with Stuart Garret. Like most people in law enforcement, Rivera was a quick study when it came to people. When she was a.s.signed to protect someone she was careful to not let her personal feelings or opinions affect her work. Josh Alexander, for instance, was a pretty nice guy. Well-mannered, sometimes aloof, but for the most part appreciative and respectful of the job she and her people performed. Mark Ross, on the other hand, was arrogant and condescending. Rivera didn't like the man, but she kept it to herself. Garret, however, pushed her professional demeanor to the limits. He was quite possibly the biggest a.s.shole she had ever met.

She was now face to face with the abrasive Californian who was running the show.

"Yes, Stu."

"We're fifteen minutes behind schedule."

Rivera nodded. The campaign was behind schedule, not the Secret Service. Rivera and her people were not conductors on a train. They were not in charge of keeping people on time. They were in charge of keeping the candidates and their families alive.

"As soon as they're done in there," Garret continued, "I want everybody in the cars. I'm going to need some one-on-one time with Josh and Mark, so put Jillian in the second limo. She's going to the vice president's only for the receiving line, and then she wants to go back to her hotel for some f.u.c.king f.u.c.king spa treatment or something." spa treatment or something."

"Fine," Rivera answered, ignoring Garret's foul mouth.

Rivera had spent the last nine months of her life with the presidential candidate and his wife, and she still hadn't had more than a two-sentence conversation with Jillian. She was very reserved, very attractive, and very aloof. It had been Garret's idea to bring her along today. "Eye candy," was what he called her. Her likability number was higher than her husband's and his running mate's combined. Jillian was currently in the second floor salon meeting with a group of Muslim women and discussing their role in combating Islamic extremism.

"She wants that big agent of yours to go with her," Garret snarled.

"Special Agent Cash?"

"I don't know his f.u.c.king f.u.c.king name. He's the big guy." name. He's the big guy."

A lot of Rivera's agents were big guys. She thought she knew which one he was referring to, though, so she said, "I'll take care of it."

"Good. Be ready to roll in five minutes." Garret turned and rushed off down the long hallway.

Rivera watched him leave. On more than one occasion she'd visualized delivering a roundhouse kick to the man's head. The scuttleb.u.t.t among the campaign staffers was that, win or lose, Garret wasn't sticking around. He'd been chief of staff for a brief period under a previous administration and openly complained that it was the worst six months of his life. He was a hired gun who had accepted a rumored seven-figure fee to come in and bail out the campaign. Rivera had heard him say on more than one occasion that anyone willing to work for a government salary was a chump. This, of course, further endeared him to the agents who were a.s.signed to protect his candidates.

Rivera started for the front door. She was dressed in a dark blue pantsuit with a light blue blouse. She never wore skirts or dresses, at least not when she was on duty. They simply weren't practical. Every agent on the detail carried the new FN 5.7 pistol and two extra clips of ammunition. The FN 5.7 was the finest pistol she'd ever fired. It carried twenty armor-piercing rounds in the grip plus one in the chamber and had half the recoil of the old Sig. In addition to her weapon she carried her secure Motorola digital radio, a mobile phone, and a BlackBerry. All of that gear had to be stowed someplace and a dress just wasn't going to cut it.

Rivera opened the large, front door and stepped out onto the stone terrace of the Dumbarton Mansion. She was a walking contradiction-understated yet beautiful, graceful yet athletic. Her s.h.i.+ny black hair was almost always pulled back in a simple ponytail. Thanks to her ancestors she was blessed with a wrinkle-free complexion. She wore very little makeup while on duty and made every effort to downplay her looks. The Secret Service was still very much a men's club. A men's club with an extremely difficult job. Part of that job was to be seen. To let people know they were there at all times monitoring the situation. At no point, though, were they to outs.h.i.+ne the people they were protecting.

Donning a pair of sungla.s.ses, she surveyed the scene from the elevated terrace and checked her watch. It was almost a quarter past noon. She couldn't wait to get Alexander and Ross safely tucked away at the Naval Observatory. Then the vice president's detail could take over, and she and her team could get a few hours of much needed down time before they had to fly to St. Louis.

Rivera spotted the man she wanted to talk to at the far end of the veranda. She started in his direction. It was drilled into agents to look presentable at all times. Clothes were to be cleaned and pressed. No ties with ketchup stains or dirty s.h.i.+rt collars. Footwear was stressed to the point where one would think they were training for the Olympics. Agents had to stand post for long hours. They needed to be comfortable. It was function over form. Rivera remembered an instructor she'd had at the training center in Beltsville, Maryland, who used to tell female agents if they couldn't sprint two blocks in their shoes, then they shouldn't be wearing them. This was the same instructor who used to admonish female agents for wearing skirts. He'd tell them, "Do you want to be remembered as the agent who saved the president's life by wrestling a gunman to the ground, or do you want to be remembered as the agent who showed the world her panties while tackling an a.s.sa.s.sin?"

Rivera took all these lessons seriously. That was why she was wearing a pair of black, lace-up loafers with two-inch heels and rubber soles. They were made of patent leather because she hated s.h.i.+ning shoes. The rubber sole made them comfortable and quiet. Rivera was reminded of this second attribute as she neared the agent at the far end of the veranda. He had no idea someone was coming up from behind him. This was a bad sign, rubber soles or not. Her people were running on fumes.

A few feet away she decided to have some fun. She stuck out her finger and jabbed it into the small of the large man's back. Matt Cash, a nine-year veteran of the Secret Service, jumped as if he'd just been startled from a nap.

"One wrong move and you're dead," Rivera laughed.

Cash wheeled around and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he was not amused. "What in the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?"

Rivera grinned, showing her perfect white teeth.

"The press is right there on the other side of the fence," Cash whispered.

She looked at the TV vans parked on the street and the photographers perched on ladders so they could shoot over the brick wall. She stepped in front of the agent and looked down at his groin. "You didn't p.i.s.s yourself, did you?"

"Yeah," he said angrily. "Hurry up and give me one of those super jumbo maxi-pads you carry around. Maybe I can soak it up before it seeps through my boxers."

"Wow...aren't we in a good mood today?"

"Don't start with me." Cash grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and gave them a yank. "I'm sick of this s.h.i.+t."

Such an open admission caught Rivera off guard. As the special agent in charge of the detail she wasn't just their boss. She was also their den mother.

"By s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t...are you referring to me, your job, or both?"

"Not you," he snarled. "The job. I've been on the road for three straight months. My kids miss me, my wife hates me, and here I am back in DC for the day and I can't even stop by my own house and say h.e.l.lo."

Rivera smiled. "Well, I've got some good news for you. HQ is going to let us stand down for a few hours while the vice president's detail babysits our boys."

Cash's jaw went slack. "You're serious."

"Yep. Take a few hours...go surprise the family. Just don't miss the plane or I'll shove one of my maxi-pads up your a.s.s and transfer you to Fargo."

"So once we get to the Observatory I can take off?" he asked with a smile.

"Not right away. You have to hang around for thirty minutes and then take the princess to her hotel. After that you're free until five." The princess Rivera was referring to was Alexander's wife.

"Why me?" Cash complained.