Chef Cheesy, the White House chef and a member of the ghost cell, had drugged him and tried sneaking him out of the White House. Some of the details were still fuzzy. Angela and Quest and Malak saved him somehow. His dad let Boone go after and rescue Bethany. And he had gotten Bethany back safe and sound. But why would his dad send this old guy after his sister instead of sending an FBI tactical team or, well, anybody else. It didn’t add up. P.K. hated it when things didn’t add up.
In the time it took P.K. to think about all this, his dad had launched into a lecture about how he should respect his sister more. Luckily he was rescued by the arrival of Roger and Blaze Tucker. Two Secret Service agents, Charlie Norton and Pat Callaghan, were trailing along behind them. P.K. knew that his father trusted both men probably more than he trusted the director of the Secret Service himself.
“Roger, Blaze, good morning!” President Culpepper said. “I hope you slept well.”
“Absolutely,” Blaze said. “The Lincoln Bedroom is quite nice!”
“I can’t thank you enough for your extra efforts on behalf of the bombing victims. I know this has inconvenienced you. But your help means more than you know,” the president said. “The kitchen has prepared a buffet, and please help yourself. Bethany will be joining us shortly. She had some last-minute duties to attend to.”
In truth, the president had his personal physician up in the White House residence still examining Bethany. They told the doctor she had had a mysterious fainting spell. But she had survived a very close call. President Culpepper was taking no chances. He was having her thoroughly checked out before the press conference.
“Sounds great. We’re famished,” Roger said, but he didn’t sound awfully excited.
“I need to speak to my agents a moment. Please help yourselves to some food and then join us at the table,” the president said.
As Blaze and Roger turned their attention to the buffet and the president left the table to speak to Norton and Callaghan, he put the SOS file down on the table. While they were huddled together, P.K. saw his opportunity and took it.
Opening the SOS file, the first thing he saw was a memo, signed by his father when he was director of the CIA. It asked a CIA analyst to investigate the current location of someone named Antonio Beroni. Underneath that page was another old yellowed and wrinkled sheet of paper. Across the top were printed the letters OSS. Because P.K. had been around this stuff his whole life, he knew that OSS stood for Office of Strategic Services—the World War II version of the CIA.
P.K. scanned both memos quickly. His father was still murmuring with the agents across the room. Blaze and Roger were loading up their plates. The older memo said that an OSS operative had successfully been sent through Switzerland into Nazi Germany using an Italian passport. He was now attached to Field Marshal Rommel’s staff. His name, according to the file, was Generalissimo Antonio Beroni.
P.K. wanted to read more, but knew better than to press his luck. He had to come up with a reason to get out of the press conference. Roger and Blaze were returning to the table so he quickly shut the file folder.
His mind was zooming a thousand miles a minute. What was a memo from OSS days doing in a file about Boone and his SOS team? And why was his dad, when he was CIA director, asking someone who worked for him to locate an Antonio Beroni? It didn’t make sense and things that didn’t make sense made P.K. squirm. As Roger and Blaze sat down at the table, it took every ounce of self-control for him to sit still.
Across the room, Agent Norton was keeping P.K. in his peripheral vision as the boy fidgeted in his chair.
“Sir, please tell me you know your ten-year-old son is reading a classified security file?” Norton asked the president.
“I do. But don’t worry. It’s not Top Secret. P.K. is wound up tight. He doesn’t know exactly what’s happened here in the last twenty-four hours. So he needs a project. He’ll spend some time spinning his wheels on this and then be on to something else. Did you speak to Masters?” the president asked.
“Only when he handed Bethany off to us. He’s a good one. Said to tell you, ‘We’re even,’” Callaghan said.
“I’ll never be able to repay him. Did Cheesy or Arbuckle give up anything?” the president asked.
“Not yet. We handed them off to Everett and a couple of other guys Boone called in. They’ll hold on to them until this is over. They’re close by in case we need them and Cheesy and Arbuckle are also—how should I put this—catching up on their sleep. Figured we’d let them experience what Bethany and P.K. went through. I’m sure they don’t know much. It’s how these groups operate. I promise you, Cheesy will tell me everything he knows in excruciating detail before I’m done with him,” Norton said while grinding his fist in his other hand, the knuckles turning white.
The president shook his head. “Keep Boone’s people on them until this is over. No one else but you two are to know where they are. I’ll fix it so everyone thinks they came down with the flu or something and they’re taking sick days. When this is over they can go to Gitmo for the rest of their lives, for all I care. We need containment on this. But I don’t want you leaving the detail here unless I order it specifically. Pat, Charlie, you have to protect my kids,” he said. His voice cracked a bit. J. R. Culpepper was not a man who broke easily. But the last few hours had taken their toll.
A look of disappointment flashed across Norton’s face. He had looked forward to interrogating Chef Cheesy. Norton was fond of the president’s family, especially P.K. The fact that the chef had a role in the attempted kidnapping filled him with rage. But he understood the president’s reasons.
“Of course, Mr. President,” Norton said.
“Good. Pat, you’re here for now. But I’m going to want you to be a floater. Have a grab-and-go bag ready and include your tactical gear. You don’t mind taking orders from Boone, do you?” the president asked.
“Sir, Boone is the best agent I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been around. If you tell me he’s in charge, that’s good enough for me,” Callaghan answered.
“Good. Now I’m going to go sit down at the table before P.K. uncovers the nuclear launch codes.” The president spun on his heel and walked back to the table.
Norton looked at Pat. “You don’t think P.K. actually …”
Callaghan shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
J.R. reached the table to find Blaze and Roger trying to engage the squirming, toe-tapping, knuckle-cracking P.K. in meaningful conversation. They had plates piled with fruit, yogurt, and nuts and now Roger looked happy. Blaze was picking at her food, looking as if she hoped to uncover a strawberry wrapped in a piece of bacon.
“I don’t mean to rush anyone,” the president said, “but we have to get to the Rose Garden to get ready for the press conference. Bethany will be joining us there. P.K., you need to change….”
“Dad,” P.K. said. “I really don’t want to go to this press conference. I’ve got a lot of homework. In fact, I really need to go to the National Archives for a history—”
“P.K., we’ve been through this,” the president said.
Callaghan coughed from the corner where he had taken up the usual discreet “Secret Service agent position.” “Mr. President, if I may,” he said quietly. The two men stepped out of earshot.
“Sir, it might not be a bad idea for P.K. to stay away from the press conference. Purely from a safety standpoint,” Callaghan said.
“But if the ghost cell doesn’t see him …” the president countered.
“They already know they failed getting P.K. out of the White House. They succeeded with Bethany, but we got her back. That had to make them burning mad. The fact is, we still don’t know who we can trust. Tell him he needs to go for the start of the press conference and wave at the camera. Then we’ll take him out of the room. That will be enough to rattle their cages. Until we know more from an operational security standpoint, it’s better to keep P.K. and Bethany separated. And if you do suddenly need me elsewhe
re, keeping him on the move with Charlie watching him is the best plan.”
The president stroked his chin for a moment, then said, “I like it. Good work.”
He returned to the table. “All right, P.K., here’s the deal. You come to the press conference, but only stay through the opening remarks. After that agents Norton and Callaghan will take you to the National Archives,” he said.
P.K. frowned and crossed his arms, knowing he wasn’t entirely getting his way. At least it was one small victory. He hated press conferences. Especially when there was more important work to be done.
Escape
When their speedboat reached the dock across the bay from the breached house, the wounded man—he’d told Malak his name was Paul Smailes or “Number Four”—gave her the keys to a black Chevy Suburban. It was parked in a restaurant near the marina. Malak was able to get him into the vehicle and on the road without being noticed.
As she drove, it became clear his wound was more serious than they had planned. She knew Ziv did not miss his targets, but even he could not control the path of a bullet once it entered the body. Given the rate of blood loss and his rapidly weakening state, Smailes would soon be in shock. She needed to get him to a clinic fast.
“Paul,” she said. “Paul! Wake up. We need a doctor. Do you have one nearby?” She kept one eye on the road, one hand on the wheel, and shook him awake. He cried out in pain.
“Mr. Smailes, I need to get you to a doctor,” she said. “You must have one somewhere in the area.”
By now they had crossed the Morris Harbor Bridge and were heading west on US Route 64.
“Paul!” she said. She had to pay careful attention to her driving. It would be a terrible thing for a police officer to pull them over. But having the man in the seat next to her die would be even more of a problem.
Smailes came awake with a start and another groan. “My … phone …” he mumbled. With his good arm he pulled a smartphone from his pocket and handed it to Malak. His face was deathly white but he managed to give her instructions.
“Push Star 87…. Tell whoever answers your location … and you have a package. They’ll call back … with an address.” He barely got the words out before lapsing into unconsciousness again.
Malak took the device, pushed the green “talk” button and the numbers as instructed.
“Cybernetic Research Institute, how may I direct your call?” a voice answered.
“Hello. I am heading west on US 64 at mile marker fourteen. I have a package,” Malak said into the speakerphone.
“Thank you. I will call you back within three minutes with the delivery address,” the voice said and disconnected the call.
Malak checked her speed and glanced at Smailes. He looked worse. Wherever they wanted her to take him, it had better be close.
In the aftermath of the hurricane, the sky was still slate gray and spitting rain. She looked at the phone and considered calling Ziv with her location. But that was a bad idea. It would leave a trail. Ariel, aka the Lion of God, had given her a phone at the cemetery but using it was out of the question. The cell undoubtedly monitored it and she could not risk making a call. It was also likely the Suburban was wired with audio and video recorders, for in her long journey on their trail she had learned the ghost cell left nothing to chance.
The phone vibrated in her hand and she answered the call.
“This is Cybernetics Research Institute. Thank you for waiting. The directions you require have been downloaded to your phone. Select voice activation on the link and you’ll be given turn-by-turn commands.” The call was disconnected. Malak pushed the button and a mechanical-sounding voice told her the location was eight miles away.
With her free hand she checked Smailes’s pulse. It was faint and his breathing was ragged. She had no time to waste. She hoped he wouldn’t die before she could get him treatment.
Malak accelerated, figuring that most of the police and emergency vehicles would be preoccupied with the aftermath of the hurricane. If Smailes died, too many things could go wrong. Not the least of which was the fact that the cell might consider her responsible. Or a loose end that needed to be eliminated. She had very narrowly avoided being exposed in Washington. Only Ziv’s quick thinking saved her.
Following the directions given to her by the voice of the navigation application she soon found herself pulling into an industrial park. Maneuvering through the maze of side streets, the GPS indicated they had arrived at their destination. It was a low-slung office building, with two large plate-glass windows next to the front door. There were blinds in the windows and the door was wooden so she could not see inside. A small sign that read “Cybernetic Research Institute” hung above the entrance.
A driveway to the left of the door led to a slatted-metal overhead garage door. As she turned the Suburban into the drive, the door slowly rose. Inside the open space stood a man in medical scrubs.
Malak, the Leopard, slowed the vehicle before pulling into the open space. It was impossible for her to know what might happen next. The man could be a doctor or he could be a “cleaner,” waiting to assassinate her and Smailes. Pulling into the garage was a large risk.
With one hand on the steering wheel she reached into the waistband at the small of her back and removed her automatic. With a firm grip on the pistol, she accelerated into the garage. No matter what happened, the Leopard would not go down without a fight.
Speeding Up
Croc sat in the shotgun seat, his eyes following Boone as he paced back and forth. So far there was no sound coming from Speed in the lavatory. Boone had heard enough noise from Speed Paulsen. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what the neurotic rocker was doing here. The story he’d told about wanting to see Q was a laugh. He’d known Speed and Blaze when they were married and Paulsen was not exactly a caring father.
It was an odd coincidence and Boone was not a man who believed in coincidence.
Croc gave a small bark.
Looking through the coach windshield Boone spotted Angela and Q followed by the hulking mass of Felix, heading to the outlet stores next to the gas station.
The gas station was a big one and around back had room for trucks and buses to purchase diesel fuel and a large parking area where a couple of semis and a touring coach were parked. Boone fired up the coach and pulled it into the parking area. He found a spot near the rear of the lot and shut off the engine. He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in a number.
“X-Ray? It’s Boone. I need to borrow a tracking device from the coach. Where are they placed? I know you’ve got backups.”
“What’s going on?” X-Ray asked.
“I’m not sure. But I need one. Small, something that can stand up to a little jostling,” he said.
X-Ray told him where he could find what he was looking for and Boone hung up and fished a screwdriver out of one of the drawers in the galley. Kneeling under the sink, he found the device. It was about the size of two pennies glued together. He pried it loose. Boone marveled at X-Ray’s creation. It was amazing to him that he could make something so small, give it an internal power source, and keep it running for days on end.
Speed’s boots were in the sink where Boone had tossed them. With the screwdriver he pried the heel off the right one, hollowed out a small spot with the tool, and inserted the device inside it. He tapped the heel back into place. Croc growled his weird growl then barked his approval.
“I know,” Boone said, “let’s just hope it works.”
Boone opened the lavatory door. To Boone’s everlasting disgust, Speed was sitting on the toilet, his pants down around his ankles.
“Dude!” Speed said. “How about some privacy, man?”
“Want to tell me how you did that with your hands secured behind your back?” Boone asked.
“I’m skinny, man. When you ain’t got hips your pants just slide right down and … and … when you gotta go, you gotta go, man.”
“You’re … you … J
ust pull your pants up and get out here,” Boone said, backing away from the bathroom door.
“This is harsh, man,” Speed said, emerging a few moments later.
“Good.” Boone took a multi-tool from his pocket and cut the flex-cuffs. He pushed Speed toward the rosewood dining table and he stumbled into a seat. Boone tossed the boots into Speed’s lap. “Get your boots on and get out of here … now,” Boone said.
“What? You can’t be serious, I want to spend …” Speed whined.
“Croc!” Boone said. Croc leaped off the shotgun seat, slowly stalking toward Speed, barking and snarling. It was as if the only thought in his canine mind was ripping out his rock-star throat.
“I’m outta here. Call off that mutt, man!” Speed hollered as he slipped on his boots.
“Croc,” Boone said. The dog sat back on his haunches, eyeing Speed, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.
“Okay, man,” Speed said. “You can drop me off …”
“Get out now,” Boone said.
“Dude! Come on! It’s pouring down rain out there, man. I can’t do rain, man! Drop me off at the next …”
“Get out,” Boone said.
“Boone, I’m serious, I don’t like rain, and besides you’ve got plenty—”
“Croc!”
“No! No!” Speed shouted. “All right, man, I’m going. Jeez. Harsh, dude.”
He pushed past Boone and made his way to the door and opened it, staring at the pouring rain.
“Dude, you got an umbr—”
“Croc!”
Croc launched himself toward the door. Speed jumped and nearly fell to the pavement but recovered and started running. Boone watched Croc chase him across the parking lot toward the interstate. It looked like it was the most fun Croc had experienced in weeks.