Executive Order

Sixteen

Trevor Ivanek, bony and brooding in a black suit with no tie, sat at his desk in the bullpen of the Special Situations Task Force at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, feeling very alone.

The room was already more than the team needed, the big open space more than accommodating their desks and, at the rear, the private offices for Altuve, Rogers, and sometimes Reeder. But it had never felt this big, or this empty, to him before.

Night was peeking through the blinds — how long had he been here? Three hours? No, four.

Not so long ago, with everyone here, Rogers had used a whiteboard to suggest, out of security-cam eyeshot, that a possible rogue element in government meant that paranoia was a fact not a condition. There had been talk of burner cell phones being distributed. But he hadn’t received one.

Possibly that was his fault. He’d made himself scarce last night and this morning, troubled by what Rogers had outlined and wondering where he fit into it. His work as an FBI profiler, for going on ten years now, had taken a toll. He’d never been able to sustain a relationship with the opposite sex, or any sex for that matter — the nightmares of his days made his evenings nothing worth sharing.

Finally, after dealing with some of the worst monsters on the planet as part of an FBI Behavioral Science unit, he’d requested a transfer to something less... intense.

The Special Situations Task Force, however, had proven anything but a less intense environment. Serial killers seemed like pikers compared to those who had sought, last year, to arrange a coup by outlandishly murderous means. And now Rogers was saying that a shadow government, with similar intent, might be attempting to manipulate world events with federal employees used as cannon fodder.

While he waited to hear from Rogers or anyone else on the team, he sat reading, on his tablet, A Brief History of Secret Societies by Barrett; taking a crash course on what they might be dealing with.

He’d spent the morning wandering the National Gallery of Art, one of many local museums where he could drift along and chill. It wasn’t that he was hiding from Rogers and the rest — more that he wanted to decide if he was up to being part of this, this... intense task.

Beneath his cool, rather scholarly manner a jumble of nerves hid how well he understood his own psychology and that of others. He imagined he could rival Joe Reeder in people-reading skills, though that had never been put to the test.

Night was here, and now what? Back to his Dumfries apartment maybe, where Rogers or other team members might be more comfortable getting in contact with him, should a government facility like the Hoover Building seem too likely to have been compromised.

He’d just decided to gather his things and his thoughts and leave for home when something remarkable happened: Assistant Director Margery Fisk herself walked in the door.

In the year-plus the Special Sit Task Force had been on the job, he could remember only once before when AD Fisk had descended from the heavens, several floors above, for a direct visit.

In a black business suit and a white silk blouse, her short curly hair as perfect this time of day as at the start, Fisk granted him a nod and a thin smile. She glanced around at the otherwise empty bullpen. He was just about to ask her where the hell his team was when she spoke.

“Where the hell is your team?” she asked.

She was standing before him now, a teacher looking down at a questionable pupil.

“They’re in the field, Director. I haven’t heard from Agent Rogers or any of the others. And I admit I’m concerned.”

She came around, borrowed a chair from the desk next door, and sat beside him. Leaning forward a little, staring past him, her hands knitted in her lap, Fisk had already moved from stern taskmaster to worried boss... or even worried fellow agent.

“I’m concerned, too, Trevor...”

Calling him Trevor was clearly an attempt to put him at ease, and encourage a sense of familiarity between them. And he did have a history with Fisk, a positive one — she’d allowed him to transfer here from the Behavioral unit.

She was saying, “I’ve left message after message, e-mail, text, voice mail, and no one has checked in. What do you make of that?”

He tilted his head. “Frankly, I know Agent Rogers is concerned about security.”

Fisk frowned and smiled at once. “You mean this notion she has that there’s a ‘rogue element’ in the government? That seems highly unlikely, don’t you think?”

Considering the subject of the book he was reading, Ivanek wasn’t sure. But he told her what she wanted to hear: “Most unlikely.”

“But I do understand what her concern might be — she made a most convincing case for Secretary Yellich’s death to’ve been murder. And considering Yellich’s high position, that murder might well be considered a political assassination.”

“I can see that, ma’am.”

“I have the utmost respect for the Special Sit Unit. It is, in a way, my baby. I’ve been working hand in hand with Patti Rogers to keep you folks funded, which is no small trick in these lean times.”

“I can imagine.”

She smiled in a chin-crinkling way, patted him on the shoulder, and rose. “Let’s make a pact.”

“A pact, ma’am?”

“Make me the first person you call when you hear from Patti, and I’ll do the same.”

Then she was gone, heels clicking down the corridor.

Was she sincere? Should he suspect her? He wasn’t sure.

He sat thinking about that for a good ten minutes and was about to finally leave when his cell vibrated. He checked the caller ID.

Rogers.

In the loft, Rogers met Hardesy and Wade at the door — Lucas had waved her over, as they stepped back inside after a trip hauling Miggie’s gear out and down.

“Feds,” Hardesy said. “I even know one of the guys. Two blocks down across from that rental of Reeder’s.”

“Damn,” she said. “Did they see you?”

Wade shook his head. “No. And I didn’t make any others. Course if they bust the door down any second, I reserve the right to change my opinion.”

Rogers felt a little sick. This left them in a nearly indefensible position. They had the high ground, but nothing else — certainly not enough firepower, the six of them against the rest of the FBI. Not great odds.

“So,” Reeder said, joining them, “they’re closing in but they don’t know where we are, exactly.”

Rogers asked, “Are we sure of that?”

Reeder nodded, confident. “No one in the government is aware of my relationship with DeMarcus, and I sent him and his girlfriend away with off-the-books cash.”

“Guy I recognized,” Hardesy said, “is Bureau. So this is Fisk.”

Rogers said, “Do you blame her? Far as she knows, we’re MIA.”

Reeder raised a hand. “Let’s not assume that Fisk is the only one looking for us. The Alliance likely has access to the same assets as Fisk, and they don’t want to save or arrest us.”

“We can’t wait them out,” Miggie said, from his nearby computer post. “Sooner or later they’ll probably canvass the neighborhood, and even if they don’t, and just pack up and go at some point, we’re kept out of the game, till then.”

“And,” Rogers said, “we can’t afford that.”

Reeder said, “So we get in the game now.”

All eyes were on him.

He said, “All of our personal vehicles are out. Fisk has the makes and licenses and so, almost certainly, does the Alliance. So let’s discuss alternate transportation. Sooner we change rides the better. Thoughts?”

Wade said, “I can get a car for Hardesy and me. I’ve got a friend out of government I can trust.”

Miggie said, “I’ve got a vato owes me a favor. He’ll get me a ride.”

Rogers clamped eyes with Reeder. “You have somebody in mind for us?”

Reeder shrugged. “What about Pete Woods? He’s a cop, with no love for feds, and he seemed trustworthy enough when we worked with him last year.”

“Yeah, well, we’re feds, remember?”

“He likes you.”

“I have a guy.”

“But not a ride. I’ll get you the number. Also, we need to protect Morris in case Alliance guns are out there — they’d probably kill him on sight. So we disguise him a little. No glasses.”

“That’s not enough,” Rogers said.

Wade grinned. “How about I shave his head Hardesy-style?”

“What?” came a voice from the kitchenette.

That gave everybody a needed laugh.

“We can’t use the side stairway,” Reeder said. “Too exposed. We take the rear stairwell to the back of the tailor shop and out into the alley. We need to stagger the times. Don’t want all three vehicles back there at once, and Lucas, you and Wade will have to transfer Miggie’s gear.”

“This is when I wish I were hourly,” Hardesy said, “not salaried. Think of the overtime.”

“And,” Wade said, “the lack of anybody tryin’ to kill us.”

Reeder took Rogers’ phone, punched in Woods’ number, and handed it back. She stepped away. Meanwhile Wade went over and started unwrapping their prisoner, who was moaning and groaning about the new hairstyle awaiting him.

After three rings came: “Woods.”

“Pete, Patti Rogers. Remember me?”

“I remember you and your charming partner. Is this call because I gave that Bureau guy crap at that hit-and-run at Arlington?”

“No. Your instincts were correct.”

“Yeah?”

“Joe and I need a ride. We’ve got the Bureau on our tails, because we’re looking into a government scandal, and dodging assorted bad guys who want us dead.”

“... Sounds dangerous.”

“It is. Wouldn’t blame you saying no. If you say yes, bring your umbrella, ’cause it’s a shit storm.”

“... My helping you would really rub the Bureau raw?”

“It would,” she admitted.

“Count me in,” Woods said. “Where and when?”

She told him where, then clicked off. Wade was hauling Morris toward the bathroom, the man’s hands still duct-taped together. Morris was swearing at Wade, whose laughter echoed.

Turning back to the rest of her team, she said, “Our ride will be meeting Joe and me in one hour, three blocks over. Mig, arrange for your ride to pick you up at Eleventh and M, just a block away, which gives you less exposure with our buddy Lawrence. Call your friends and see if they can pick you up in that same one-hour window. Lucas, you and Reggie have your ride pick you up right out back, so you can transfer Mig’s stuff.”

Hardesy said, “It’s Reggie’s guy. I’ll go interrupt his barber-college lesson so he can make the call.”

Hardesy did that, and Mig made his call, too. Within ten minutes both confirmed their rides were set. Within twenty minutes, Wade was hauling out a bald-headed Morris, who looked near tears, some shaving-cream splotches here and there, like the last of melting snow. Now everybody’s laughter echoed.

Except Morris.

Who was given Washington Wizards sweats from the DeMarcus Collection, and some Air Jordans that required several extra pairs of socks to make fit. With his newly shaved noggin and no wire-frames, he looked nothing like the Men’s Wearhouse — wearing accountant.

While they waited, Reeder, Rogers, and her team helped themselves to extra nine millimeters and handfuls of magazines. The laughter generated by Morris had faded, as everyone knew that these weapons could very well have to be used against others like themselves — government agents on the side of the angels, or anyway Uncle Sam.

Wade and Reggie went first, out the back way. When no sounds came of gunshots or struggle, Miggie, Nichols, and the Daddy Warbucks-ish Lawrence Morris went out that same way. Again, no sound of trouble followed. Five minutes later, Reeder and Rogers took the side stairs and left the Batcave behind.

She fell into step next to him as they took off toward L Street at a fast walk, hugging the buildings and avoiding the glow of the streetlights. At Tenth and L, they turned east and Rogers glanced over her shoulder. A male figure stepped out from under a tree in the block between Ninth and Tenth.

“Bogie on our six,” she said, “block back.”

“Could just be out for smokes or snacks,” Reeder said. “Bodega across the block.”

“We could stop and ask him.”

Reeder picked up the pace a little. “Or not.”

Behind them, a male voice called, “Hey!”

Like he’d seen a friend or maybe needed directions. Reeder whispered, “Just keep going. Don’t look back.”

She obeyed, but building footfalls behind them said their new friend was running now.

“Hey!” he called again. Then, abandoning pretense, he yelled, “Halt! Federal agent!”

“Go!” Reeder said, and they went, running, with him just a step ahead.

“Stop or I’ll fire!”

Shoes pounding the sidewalk, the eyes of the homeless on them from the recessions of doorways, they hurtled along. Up ahead an unmarked white van had paused at the mouth of a parking lot — were they being herded toward their own capture?

Twelfth Street lay fifty yards ahead, and she didn’t know if they could even make it to the corner. Behind them, and the agent pursuing them, a car engine’s throaty purr built to a roar. Now a vehicle was in pursuit, too!

They reached the white van, Reeder running with a hand on the nine mil in his waistband while she fumbled with her hip holster to get at her own weapon.

But no one jumped out of the van.

Still twenty-five yards from Twelfth, the two fled the agent whose approaching footsteps were small punctuation marks in the throbbing of the car engine that still built and built...

That was when an uneven patch in the pavement sent her down, and she hit her right knee on the sidewalk, as if she’d stopped to pray, which might not have been a bad idea; then she pitched forward and her hands burned, skidding and skinned by the rough concrete.

Reeder went back for her, helping her up. As he did, their eyes met and for once she could read him as well as he could her: they were screwed.

As Reeder pulled her to her feet, Rogers finally saw the car that went with the engine roar: a dark green Dodge. No outrunning that.

But the vehicle veered, forcing the pursuing agent to dive out of the way, slamming him into the rear of the white van, his pistol flying and hitting the cement somewhere, bouncing clunkily away.

Then the car was squealing to a stop next to them, Reeder with the nine mil out now, Rogers too, when the passenger door flew open, and from the driver’s seat, Pete Woods leaned over, shouting, “Ride’s here!”

Reeder got the rear door for her, helped her limp in, then climbed in front, all in a blur.

Woods peeled away as Reeder’s rider’s side door slammed, the vehicle flying north on Twelfth.

The Homicide detective behind the wheel was in his early thirties, slender, collegiate-looking with steel-framed glasses that made the sharp green eyes seem even sharper. Reeder had caught him at home, as reflected by the dark brown sweatshirt and tan chinos.

“Did I just almost hit a fed?” Woods asked.

“You complaining or bragging?”

“Not sure yet. Care to tell me what you got me into, exactly? Those broad strokes you gave me are feeling a little too broad.”

“Get our asses out of here and we’ll see.”

They sped along, Woods working the side streets to put some distance between them and anyone in pursuit.

Reeder craned to give Rogers a concerned look. “Nasty spill you took.”

“Concrete chewed me up a little, spit me out some. At least I didn’t tear my slacks.”

“Good you have priorities.”

Woods asked, “Am I going anywhere in particular?”

“For right now,” Reeder said, the nine millimeter in his lap, “away from anybody trying to kill us.”

The young detective’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, at least I have a goal.”

Rogers got out her cell and punched in Ivanek’s number. It took four rings for him to answer, and she could picture him staring at UNKNOWN in the caller ID, wondering if it was safe to answer.

“Yeah,” his voice said.

“You need to get out of there. We’re compromised from within.”

“Fisk?”

“I’d like to think not. The rogue gov element grabbed Anne, but we got her back. Bohannon — executed. Mob-style.”

“Good God.”

“We’ve got less than a minute, Trevor, before they trace this call. Join us off the grid.”

“... where? When?”

“Washington Monument. Half an hour.”

“That’s an awfully wide open area.”

“Exactly,” she said, then clicked off.

Frowning, Woods glanced back; they were on a residential side street. He said, “Washington Monument — really?”

Reeder said, “It’s a good call. We’ll be out in the open, yes, but so will anybody coming at us. And something as public as that might discourage the bad guys from hitting us.”

“This,” Woods said, “might be a good time for you to tell me exactly what bad guys we’re talking about.”

In the half hour it took to get to the monument, Reeder gave the detective chapter and verse. The young cop reacted with squints and gaping glances, but never once interrupted or commented. He had been through the coup attempt last year and knew Reeder was to be believed.

While Reeder filled the detective in, Rogers kept an eye on her cell. Already there was a text from Kevin saying he was safe. Then Hardesy and Wade texted in, confirming they’d got away clean. They were nearing the Mall by the time Miggie reported in. He, Anne Nichols, and their newly bald charge were not yet at the cabin, but were well and safely on their way.

After Woods parked his Dodge up Independence Avenue, the trio walked toward the National Mall. The night was brisk but not quite cold, the foot traffic on the sidewalk sparse and touristy. Thanks to clever lighting, the obelisk that was the monument glowed against the darkness, beckoning them like a ghostly forefinger.

They took one of the gently circular walks radiating across the flat surrounding landscape to the city’s tallest structure. Encircled by flags that flapped lazily in the slight night breeze, so tall it hurt to crane your neck for a real look at it, the Washington Monument seemed to have nothing obviously to do with the Father of the Country but nonetheless stunned in its odd singular majesty.

Tourists gawked and milled respectfully, but none looked overtly like federal agents or for that matter undercover conspiracists. If either of those two groups knew enough to disguise themselves as sightseers, that meant this meeting place was known to the opposition and the Special Situations Task Force was done before it started. Only slightly out of place, she and Reeder and Woods lingered near the monument’s base, their eyes more on the walks around them than the building, as if they were waiting for someone. And of course they were.

Finally Ivanek, looking like a wandering undertaker in his black suit, moved down one of the sidewalks toward them. The skeletal profiler, eyes intense under that cliff of brow, approached Rogers and Reeder with a wary smile. Without having to be told, Woods headed off to watch the other side of the monument.

Ivanek grunted something that was almost a laugh. “I guess this is a fitting meeting spot at that.”

“Oh?” Rogers said, as somewhere in her mind she wondered if Trevor, the loner among the task force members, might have gone over to the other side.

Ivanek glanced up at the towering marble-and-granite structure. “This is Secret Society Central — what this thing and George Washington have in common is Freemasonry.”

“Let’s stroll,” Reeder said.

They walked slowly around the structure, pretending to be just another trio of rubberneckers, as she filled the profiler in on their situation. When they’d returned to their starting point, Trevor stood with hands on hips.

“So,” he asked Rogers, but his eyes then traveled to Reeder, “where do we go from here?”

Reeder answered with a question. “What contact have you made with Fisk today?”

Ivanek told them, concluding, “I couldn’t read her, Joe. Maybe you could have. She just seemed like Fisk. If she’s one of them, nothing she did or said was different... I mean, her task force disappeared on her and wasn’t checking in. How else would she act?”

Rogers and Reeder exchanged glances and nods.

“Your prevailing theory, then,” Ivanek said, folding his arms, “is that the President and Vice President will be taken out when they leave by Marine One and Marine Two?”

Reeder said, “With rocket launchers that lay the blame on Russia, yes.”

Ivanek winced in thought. “But Marine One and Two are equipped with antimissile tech, and anyway, they routinely fly decoy helicopters, in shifting formation. If I were getting rid of the top two men, I’d find a way to do it before they left the compound.”

Rogers said, “Why’s that?”

“They have security second-to-none at Camp David,” Ivanek said. “It’s designed to protect against an attack from without — an invasion. Of course, if they were hit from within, and since we think the government has been infiltrated, then—”

As if someone had spit in her face, Rogers felt the warm flecks of moisture just a microsecond before she realized Ivanek had been shot and another micro before she heard the report of the rifle. Ivanek collapsed to the pavement, hiding what she knew would be a massive exit wound, the entry wound small and wet and red-black.

She fell to a knee as if to check him, but that wasn’t the case since the profiler was clearly dead. Her gun was out of its holster and in hand and pointing at a flat area with its flapping flags and backdrop of trees, a vast world of night that meant she was aiming at nothing at all.

Reeder was just behind her, also taking a knee, also ready to return fire, but where? And at whom? Around them, chaos ruled, tourists screaming on the run, mothers and fathers clutching children, even ones as old as ten or eleven in their arms, and running blindly into nowhere. Woods came around, keeping low but moving fast, his gun out as well, as he yelled, “Where’d the shot come from?”

As if in answer, Woods got hit in the chest, and fell back, his gun leaping out of his hand as if the thing had gone suddenly molten.

Reeder scrambled over to Woods, on his back, kicking like an upended turtle. Rogers scuttled over. Around them a terrible near-silence had descended. Sightseers who hadn’t run into the night were splayed on the ground or behind whatever minimal cover they could find. Others could be heard running, but that seemed far away.

Then another shot cracked the night as concrete dust kicked up less than a foot away. Was this the same son of a bitch who’d killed Tony Wooten right next to her at the Skygate Apartments?

Staying low, moving fast, she and Reeder dragged the detective around to the far side of the monument.

“One shooter, you think?” Rogers asked.

Reeder said, “Better be.”

Then they heard the sirens.

Rogers said, “Time to go?”

“Time to go,” he said.

She leaned over Woods. “How bad?”

“Hit the vest,” the detective said, wincing, hurting. “Kevlar’s never... never a bad accessory for... a night out with you two.”

“Can you stand, you think?” Rogers said. “We need to move.”

“What about the sniper?” Woods asked.

Reeder said, “Those sirens had to send him scurrying. But we can’t let your brothers-in-blue pick us up, either.”

The sirens were screaming. She and Reeder probably had a minute, maybe two. Maybe.

Rogers said, “We’ll help you up — we’ve got to go.”

Woods pawed at the air. “Get out of here, you two. I got this. I’ll... I’ll say you called to give yourself up to... to somebody neutral, and we came here to pick up another of your crew. Who somebody shot. Now. Get to the bottom of this shit. Here. Take my car.” He got his keys out and handed them over.

She gave him a quick nod of thanks and her eyes told him to take care. Then she and Reeder, his arm around her, were just another couple hustling away to safety.

On the way to Woods’s car, they stayed alert for a tail, hugging trees and bushes as much as possible. Not knowing where that sniper had gotten himself to made things tense.

At the Dodge, Reeder opened the driver’s door for her and she got behind the wheel.

“Where to?” she asked.

It wasn’t like there was anywhere they could go.

“I need some rest,” he said. “And so do you. We stay up much longer, our judgment will go to hell. But I don’t know if we dare go to a hotel or motel. And we can’t risk driving far, or for long, in this car. No matter what Woods cooks up to cover us and himself, somebody — maybe a lot of somebodies — will be looking for this vehicle.”

She started the engine.

“I know somewhere,” she said.