The Book of Fate

48

Mostly, it was like the hum of an escalator or the churn of an airport conveyor belt. Soothing at first, then maddening in repetition.

For The Roman, it’d been almost half an hour since he’d heard Wes’s scratchy voice echo through the wiretap. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t be much longer. But as he picked up his rental car, fought through the airport traffic, and eventually made his way down Southern Boulevard, the wiretap hummed with nothing but emptiness. Every once in a while, as two people passed by Lisbeth’s cubicle, he’d pick up the distant buzz of a conversation. Then back to the hum.

Gripping the steering wheel as his white rental car scaled up the Southern Boulevard Bridge, he tried to calm himself with the aquamarine views of the Intracoastal Waterway. As usual, it did the trick, reminding him of the last time he was here: during Manning’s final year, casting in Lake Okeechobee, and reeling in nothing smaller than nine-pounders. No question, the bass were bigger in Florida — back in D.C., a six-pounder was considered huge — but that didn’t make them any easier to catch. Not unless you were willing to have some patience.

With a glance at his silver briefcase that sat wide-open on the passenger seat, The Roman double-checked the wiretap’s signal strength and readjusted his earpiece. After a sharp left on Ocean Boulevard, it wasn’t long before he saw the top of the squat, glass office building peeking above the green leaves of the banyan trees that were relocated there to shield it from public view. As he turned left into the main driveway, he knew they’d have security. What he didn’t know was that they’d also have two police cars, two unmarked Chevys, and an ambulance right outside the building’s entrance. They were definitely starting to panic.

The Roman banked into a nearby parking spot, shut his briefcase, and pulled the earpiece from his ear. Wes was smarter than they’d bargained for. He wouldn’t be hearing Wes’s voice anytime soon. But that was why he made the trip in the first place. Having patience was fine for catching fish. But the way things were going, some problems required an approach that was more hands-on.

From the bottom of the briefcase, The Roman pulled his 9mm SIG revolver, cocked it once, then slid it into the leather holster inside his black suit jacket. Slamming his car door with a thunderclap, he marched straight for the front entrance of the building.

“Sir, I’ll need to see some ID,” an officer in a sheriff’s uniform called out with a hint of North Florida twang.

The Roman stopped, arcing his head sideways. Touching the tip of his tongue to the dip in his top lip, he reached into his jacket…

“Hands where I can—!”

“Easy there,” The Roman replied as he pulled out a black eelskin wallet. “We’re all on the same side.” Flipping open the wallet, he revealed a photo ID and a gold badge with a familiar five-pronged star. “Deputy Assistant Director Egen,” The Roman said. “Secret Service.”

“Damn, man, why didn’t you just say so?” the sheriff asked with a laugh as he refastened the strap for his gun. “I almost put a few in ya.”

“No need for that,” The Roman said, studying his own wavy reflection as he approached the front glass doors. “Especially on such a beautiful day.”

Inside, he approached the sign-in desk and eyed the sculpted bronze bust in the corner of the lobby. He didn’t need to read the engraved plaque below it to identify the rest.

Welcome to the offices of Leland F. Manning. Former President of the United States.