Brute Force

Chapter 8

CIA protective officer Adam Knight clung to the last two things that made any sense in his upside-down life — the Director’s Detail identification pass that would get him onto the White House campus and a fervent desire to see the Vice President dead. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes and this would all be over. Best-case scenario, he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. Worst case, a bunch of his best friends would blow his head off.

In an agency that fed on secrets and innuendo like a mosquito sucked blood, it was a miracle that he’d been able to keep his downward spiral under wraps. Tall and fit, with the hint of a Boston accent, he’d risen through the ranks of the CIA’s protective division to become the lead officer on the Fable detail, the code name given to Virginia Ross, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Some said he’d peaked early at only thirty-seven, but he’d been at the top of his game, doing what he loved for someone he genuinely admired. And then the director had been arrested on trumped-up charges by members of the Internal Defense Task Force — the administration’s newly formed goon squad.

From the moment Knight had watched his boss — a woman he regarded as he would a favorite aunt — carted off like some sort of axe murderer, he’d heard nothing but rumors. She’d been taken to an undisclosed black site, he figured that, but he could find nothing concrete about what had happened to her. Some self-proclaimed “patriot” sites on the Internet said she’d been rescued after enduring terrible torture at the hands of the IDTF. According to them, she was now in hiding. If she was, she was doing it right, cutting off all contact with anyone in her former life. Knight hoped that was the case. Other sites reported that she was still locked away somewhere or even dead. He’d sworn to protect her with his life — and she had vanished under his watch. If half the stories floating around about the IDTF were true, she was as good as dead.

Every day another politician, reporter, or military officer who opposed the new administration in even the most trivial matters found themselves harassed or taken into custody by the Task Force. The assassinations of both the President and Vice President on the heels of so many recent terrorist attacks had many in the country swallowing whatever the government told them if they thought it might offer them a shred more safety.

Seething inside, Knight kept quiet and unnoticed in an agency that already prided itself on anonymity. He kept up the pretense of nose-to-the-grindstone devotion in his work and then assaulted his liver each night sharing drinks with acquaintances from every alphabet-soup agency he could think of. He kept the conversations light, noting every word but refusing to join in even the most innocuous criticisms of the present administration. After each meeting, he’d return to his apartment and write a detailed description of any new intelligence he’d gained. He spent hours on the Internet, browsing through a proxy server to find any trends that might shed more light on what was going on in the country. He was single, so no one was around to chide him for living on seven Red Bulls and two hours of sleep a day — or to witness his death spiral.

A law-and-order man to the core, it took Knight very little time at all to realize Vice President McKeon was the man behind the curtain — but two full weeks to get his head wrapped around the fact that someone had to kill him. It wasn’t much of a leap for the protective agent to realize that he was one of the handful of people who had the access, opportunity, and skill set to get that job done. Once he’d made the decision to go ahead, implementation was fairly straightforward.

Knight parked off G Street in a lot next to the World Bank building, passing through security first at the OEOB — the Old Executive Office Building — where the Vice President had ceremonial offices and staff. Knight knew McKeon would not be there. President Drake was a buffoon who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. Someone had to run the country and it was common knowledge that that someone was the crazy-eyed Skeletor Vice President.

Knight put on a fake smile as he swiped his White House Visitor ID badge. He said hello to the uniformed Secret Service officer at the entry point, a young redhead named Miller.

“You got a detail coming in?” the officer asked, reviewing his clipboard. The beautiful thing about being with CIA protective division was that people rarely questioned specifics, assuming most everything Knight did was above their clearance level.

“No,” Knight said. “It’s just me.” He tapped the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m trying to link up with Harper on Stovepipe’s detail.” He used the Secret Service code name for the VP — a nod to the fact that McKeon was tall and gaunt and often compared to Abraham Lincoln. “I lost a pair of Nationals tickets on a bet.” He leaned in, confiding a secret. “Presidents Club seats.”

“No shit? Behind home plate?” Miller’s eyes lit up. He grinned and held out his hand, fingers fluttering. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go ahead and leave those with me.”

“Yeah, right,” McKnight said. “I’d better give them to him myself so they don’t… get lost.”

A group of staffers came through the door in a herd behind him and Miller waved Knight through with a shake of his head. “Suit yourself. He’s been over at Crown since 0700.” The officer used the Secret Service code name for the executive offices in the White House.

Knight cut through the wide, polished halls of the OEOB, catching a muggy blast of morning air as he popped out on the other side. He stopped for a moment at the top of the broad steps leading down to the second set of security gates that would take him onto the White House campus. The thought occurred to him that once inside, he’d likely never see the sun again. Shoving such notions aside, he walked on. If he quit now, nothing would matter anymore. He wouldn’t matter.

Knight kept up the smile, tapping his chest and repeating the story about the Nationals tickets at the outer gate and again at the West Wing entrance. He’d often accompanied Director Ross to meetings in the White House. He was on a first-name basis with most of the staff and they were accustomed to seeing him around.

He could hear Vice President McKeon’s voice coming from around the corner, hypnotic and creepy even while he was yelling at someone. The uniformed Secret Service officer at the security screening station rolled his eyes and handed back Knight’s credentials. “Welcome to my world,” he said.

The National Security Advisor’s office was to his immediate right — and the VP’s office was just beyond it on the same side.

“Harper?” Knight asked, nodded to the doorway at his right.

“He was getting his ass chewed by the Chief of Staff the last time I saw him.”

That made sense. In most administrations, the Chief of Staff was a powerful figure, running interference and dictating most of the President’s schedule. But since Drake had assumed the presidency, McKeon had made certain he was the only one dictating anything to do with the President. The Chief of Staff, frustrated at being emasculated in his job, would strike out at anyone who couldn’t do anything about it — like security.

Knight repeated the story about the tickets. “I just need to put these in his hand.”

“Suit yourself,” the officer said, and waved him through.

Visitors were required to be on a list, even with a pass, but security personnel were like postmen in their invisibility. It was accepted that they would lurk in halls and linger outside doors where important meetings took place. They were armed window dressing that was barely noticed and tolerated as a necessary evil until the shit hit the fan.

The best dignitary protection consisted of a series of concentric rings, like the layers of an onion — but there was little that could be done when the inside layer of the onion wanted to do the killing. Knight’s plan was simple. He would walk straight up to the Vice President and empty his pistol into the man’s chest.

Knight strode through the West Wing lobby with a purpose, locked on like a guided missile now that he was so close to his target. He followed McKeon’s slightly nasal voice down the carpeted hall toward the Chief of Staff ’s office. Harper stepped out just as he passed the VP’s secretary’s office and nearly ran into him.

“Guys up front radioed to say you had some tickets for me?”

Knight put out his hand in what turned out to be an overly exuberant greeting, heart in his throat. He could plainly hear the Vice President talking just steps away around the corner in the Chief of Staff’s office. He had to move now or risk losing the perfect moment — a moment that might never present itself again.

“Washington Nationals, buddy.” He kept his voice at a whisper, the way protective agents become accustomed to speaking after years of working in the halls of government elite. “You won, I lost, so I’m here to pay up.”

“What’s this all about, Adam?” Harper gave him a quizzical look. “You could have just dropped them by my apartment.”

Knight could feel the other agent’s eyes boring into him, sizing him up as a possible threat. He had about half a second before he’d be asked to leave — politely at first, and then forcibly booted out the door. It was what he would have done had the roles been reversed.

“Well, I was in the area,” Knight said, taking the tickets out of his jacket pocket and letting them fall to the ground.

All Harper had to do was look down. He did, watching the fluttering paper long enough to allow Knight to slip by him unimpeded.

Knight heard Harper’s startled shout behind him as he shouldered his way past and rounded the corner through the door to the Chief of Staff ’s office, pistol already in his hand. Harper might shoot him in the back at any moment, but by then it would be too late.

Vice President Lee McKeon came into view an instant later, towering over the Chief of Staff’s desk, pounding on a stack of files with the flat of his hand. He was less than fifteen feet away. It would be an easy shot.

Knight caught a flash of something out of place as he brought the gun to bear. It was dark and fast and moved obliquely along the inside wall — directly toward him. He stepped sideways to avoid this new threat, keeping his focus on McKeon. Before he could pull the trigger — or even take a breath — an Asian woman threw herself in front of him and loosed a chilling scream as if he’d already shot her.