Blood Vengeance

CHAPTER THREE

President Coburn rose to take the podium amidst thunderous applause. Taking a moment to compose and fine-tune the words in his head, he gazed across the faces of the audience. Many of the people out there were friends, acquaintances and staunch supporters he could rely on. A goodly amount were critics, and a select few currently straddled the fence. The Correspondents’ Dinner was always an astute affair, it had to be. His speech was riddled with incisive wit and insider jokes that would be the envy of any stand-up comedian, mostly based around current issues and some even poking a bit of gentle fun at the President himself.

Coburn glanced to his right where the First Lady was seated several positions down. Tonight, she positively glowed. Her hair had been styled by the owner of a local popular salon that sported the kind of name Coburn could never get his head around. Her silky sparkling midnight-black gown was the product of another odd name, a loaner for the night. No way in this, or any, economy could they justify spending thousands of dollars on a scrap of material she would only wear once. It wasn’t as though they were movie stars.

Coburn put these thoughts away for the night, allowing himself one brief incredulous moment when he thought about how far he had come. From a boy on the streets to an army officer. To hard, harsh battle, then to military rank and beyond — the inner circle. Was it luck, providence, or plan? He still didn’t know. Then to the rosewood-clad rooms and the nights and days of the campaign trail. To the Oval Office…

Where would it end? Certainly not here at the Hotel Dillion, at the Correspondents’ Dinner in the heart of DC.

At last, the applause began to subside. Coburn smiled and gave the audience a once over. “I want to start tonight by thanking everyone here for the outstanding work they do on behalf of our country. And Bob,” he looked to the man on his right, “my staff, and the extraordinary First Lady.” He continued as more applause broke out, “And in particular the men and women who wear uniform and protect our way of life day after day, wherever they may be.”

The ovation swelled, every person in the room adding voice to the acknowledgement.

Coburn studied faces again, letting each man and woman see that he noticed them. “So, time passes. We all get a little grayer, a little larger—” He glanced at Bob slyly to a few guffaws. “My military days… they ain’t coming back. I may have lost a step and, despite appearances,” he lowered his voice, “have even been known to make the odd mistake.”

He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

Fresh laughter rang out, fuelled by the free champagne. “This job can indeed take its toll.” He raised his voice. “Just ask the men and women of the White House Press Corps.”

Someone choked with laughter in the front row. A few others made unhappy noises. That was the purpose of Coburn’s speech tonight. To take a little and give a little back. The TV stations not so much, he thought. MSNBC and Fox News were in the firing line tonight. Maybe next year it would be CNN.

“The media highway changes so rapidly these days, don’t you think? Former advisors taking the wrong turn—” He referred to a recent scandal. “Every day a new government conspiracy. Ah,” he laughed, “They just don’t know us at all.”

“But we have all seen the darkness.” He launched immediately into a fresh tack, buoyed by his own beliefs. “We have touched it. It has blighted all our lives. But in darkness, good can be allowed to shine. And yes, we have all seen it shine. First responders leaping through flames to save those who can’t save themselves, civilians rushing into danger to help each other.” He paused. “We have all seen the good sparkle in the dark.”

A tumultuous applause broke out. Coburn swept the crowd with his eyes. Even the people on the fringes were clapping, the wandering staff stilled, rapt with concentration. Even the presidential aides, usually vying for attention, for recognition, barely moved a muscle.

But there was one select group of men who remained far above the captivations of a presidential speech. These men would never be beguiled. They were the best of the best. The Secret Service knew every inch of this hotel like the backs of their hands. They had memorized every square foot of the twelve floors, the three hundred and thirty nine rooms, the forty one suites all the way down to the kitchens, the basement and the sub-basement underneath with its tunnels, which also existed as a blueprint in every one of the forty shrewd minds that formed the President’s protective detail. They had swept for bugs close to the stage and behind it, using a Digital Spectrum Analyser; every one of them was acquainted with the EER — the primary Emergency Escape Route drawn up around the hotel.

Now one of them spoke into his wrist mic, then stepped forward unexpectedly, leaning toward the President’s ear. “We need to leave, sir.”

Coburn didn’t argue. He knew these men and their utter professionalism. With a quick glance at Marie, the First Lady, he ducked his head and fell into line. Under his breath he whispered, “What’s going on?”

“Trouble across the street, sir. We aren’t taking any chances.”

Coburn paused. “With Jonathan? The Secretary of Defense?”

In answer, an agent encircled his waist with an iron-like arm, making him realize he’d slowed down. Several others crowded around him, herding him away from the stage and through a network of passages. Other black-suited men manned entry points and fell in as they passed, calling all-clears and prepared for every single outcome.

Coburn heard the chatter alongside him. “Eagle One is on the way. Prepare for evac.” And more, “Report on exterior needed now. Is the route clear?”

“Don’t worry, sir,” He recognized the voice of Marnich close to his left ear. “We’re only two blocks from the White House.”

Coburn said nothing. He hadn’t even thought about his own safety. His only thoughts were for Jonathan Gates and Marie, his wife. She would be undergoing a similar evac, through another route. Thank God the kids weren’t here.

“Maybe you should give me a gun,” he finally said. It was a one-liner that regularly passed between Marnich and himself, born of yearnings for his simpler fighting days that would never return. Marnich was one of the agents who truly understood the urge.

“Only when we get you back to the White House, sir.”

In other circumstances, Coburn would have laughed. Tonight, he didn’t think he would ever laugh again. He slowed as they entered the parking structure. “I want two of you to go over there with the Secretary,” he said firmly. “And I want reports. Regularly.”

“Sir, that can’t—”

“It will happen.” Coburn read the lead agent’s mind. “And now. Send two of your best men, Jeff. Send them now.”

The agent immediately ordered two men away, speaking through his military-grade communications device. The line was unhackable; the GPRS coordinates masked beyond anyone’s ability to crack.

“A short hop to the White House,” Marnich said as they approached one of three identical black Escalades. The President would choose the vehicle at random before Jeff Franks would order the convoy to form an equally random procession and speed back to the White House. Coburn climbed into the back of one of the cars as Franks spoke constantly through his comms.

“All secure. Eagle One is ready. Once we’re clear of the hotel, all personnel back home. Check in.”

Every Secret Service agent checked back in the correct order and using the right code words, signaling their understanding that they should all immediately vacate the hotel and head back to the White House as per protocol, and that no one had been compromised. Franks climbed into the car.

“Go.”

The Escalade roared. Coburn hung on as the powerful vehicle tore across the empty first subfloor of the hotel’s parking garage and hit an up-ramp, passing another check point. Marnich sat to one side of him, Franks to the other. Fleetwood drove with Tyler in the passenger seat.

Safely in the car, Marnich filled him in on the dreadful events of the night. It didn’t sound right, didn’t seem plausible. Coburn, struggling with the news, tried to peer around Marnich’s bulk as they bounded out of the garage and onto the open street, but the man didn’t stand on ceremony. He blocked the President’s view of the scene across the street, at the same time blocking anyone else’s view of him — not that the Escalade didn’t have black-out windows and rocket-proof cladding, but the Secret Service could never be too careful.

“God, Jonathan,” Coburn whispered.

Marnich checked his watch and glanced over at Franks. “We ready?”

Franks tapped the driver’s seat. “Green lights all the way. Hit it.”

Coburn peered ahead, gazing at the slightly undulating concrete roadway that led all the way to the great, wide, blockaded expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue bordering the back of the White House, amazed to see every set of stoplights suddenly turn green. The Escalade’s driver punched the accelerator, sending the car spurting forward. Coburn fell back, momentum driving him into his seat. The first set of green lights flashed by, marked on both sides by the bland façades of buildings whose windows literally blazed with light, government buildings, shops, restaurants and hotels. The heart of DC would not rest tonight.

The driver let out a loud curse. Coburn forced his body forward, staring amazed as the few remaining sets of stoplights ahead suddenly changed, all hitting red in less than a second. The driver slammed on the brakes as Franks shouted, “Don’t stop!”

“How the hell did that happen?” Marnich cried.

Cars popped out across the intersections ahead. The Escalade’s driver had no choice but to slow down. Then the growing streams of cars began to swerve and plunge into one another as the stoplight sequences went crazy. Fender benders littered the road. The sound of screeching metal vied with squealing rubber as a nightmare pile up of vehicles began to block the road ahead.

“Shit.”

Franks thought fast and hard.

“Sorry, Mr. President, but this is no fucking coincidence.”