Executive Order

Twenty

Reeder — his AR-15 still at the ready, Rogers the same — said, “Why, are we here to kill the President? Or maybe the entire cabinet as well?”

Their smug host nodded toward the kneeling President. “Your target is Harrison here. The cabinet will be taken out by your Russian collaborators, of course.”

Almost casually, Reeder said, “Rocket launcher? Take the conference room out and everyone in it? What, Laurel Lodge?”

The leader chuckled, shook his head in admiration. “Well reasoned, Mr. Reeder. You were ahead of us for much of the way, you know. Have to hand you that. But at the end of the day, you and Agent Rogers and her people... you’ll all just be a rogue element in our government, intent on staging a failed historic coup. Of course, history will not record that you performed this task for the American Patriots Alliance, since of course that group does not, and never has, existed.”

Rogers, the AR-15 raised into shooting position, edged away from Reeder, putting a little distance between them — no need to help these traitors out by presenting a unified target.

“Ms. Rogers!” the detail head said, his smile like a skull’s. “Any further movement will initiate a firefight, and I don’t think any of us want that.”

Well, the nine-man firing squad facing them surely didn’t — the only reason she and Reeder hadn’t been cut down yet were the AR-15s in their grasps. Short of taking head shots themselves, they could take out every one of these sons of bitches before dying.

“Put down your weapons,” the leader said. “A general melee will surely take the President out early on. And I don’t think you want that.”

Harrison blurted, “I’m dead already, Joe!”

That got the kneeling prisoner another cuff alongside the head with the handgun.

Reeder took this in as casually as if someone were passing him the salt. But she knew he was roiling inside.

“I suppose,” the leader said, just a hint of tension in his voice, “I should be grateful to you for identifying yourselves as assassins making an incursion.”

“How did you track us?” Reeder asked. Still as casual as dinner-table conversation.

Tiny shrug. “We didn’t have to. Your actions stayed off our radar, and you certainly weren’t betrayed, except by your own character. You see, we knew you’d be coming, Mr. Reeder. Your vanity demanded it. Turns out the great People Reader isn’t tough to read at all.”

That got a wisp of smile out of Reeder, whose AR-15 remained leveled directly at the leader of the insurrection, or anyway this cell of it.

Rogers — with her weapon aimed to the leader’s left, figuring Reeder would handle everyone to the man’s right — said, “You can’t hope to get away with this. It’s madness.”

“If so,” the leader said cheerfully, the snout of his gun in the bloodied President’s neck, “there’s method in it. The story is already written and ready for the media, how traitors from within conspired with Russian agents in a vain attempt to wipe out the US government. You will be the chief villains of the piece, even as the nation salutes this weakling...” — he dug that snout deeper into Harrison’s flesh — “... that we’ll have turned into a hero, while the fallen cabinet will become martyrs as the nation says, ‘Thank God for Nicholas Blount, our new president.’”

“What,” Reeder said calmly over the rifle, “did they promise you and these other disgraces to the Service?”

That made the leader’s eyes narrow, his upper lip twitching. “We’re patriots, Mr. Reeder, one and all. We want a return to the roots and values of this great nation and its founders. Those of us in the Service are every day witness to the compromises and surrenders of political leaders with no moral compass.”

What complete utter, empty bullshit, Rogers thought.

“I’m guessing,” Reeder said placidly, “that you’re after the directorship of the Service. And I’m probably looking at the new White House presidential detail, which will really know its stuff having betrayed a president themselves.”

The faces above those pointing handguns no longer seemed so impassive — frowns, however subtle, could be discerned.

“Mr. Reeder,” the leader said, “you are no one to talk. After all, twenty million dollars from Ukraine sources have been deposited in a Swiss bank account in your name, and another ten million each into similar accounts for Ms. Rogers and her FBI team. You are traitors, headed for vilification today, and pages in history rivaling Benedict Arnold tomorrow... so spare us your judgmental condescension.”

“Sorry.” Reeder shrugged over the aimed AR-15. “I should be thanking you, anyway.”

“Thanking us?”

“For identifying yourselves as the cell operating within Camp David. Or are there more of you?”

The skull smile again. “There are patriots everywhere, Mr. Reeder.”

“I must have skipped civics class the day it was explained how killing the cabinet, the President, and Vice President, was patriotic.”

Another tiny shrug. “What could be more patriotic than the revolutionary rebirth of America? In twenty-four hours, the public will be mourning the loss of their leaders, rallying around their new president, and readying to retaliate against the Russians for what will become known as the Camp David Attack.”

“Which began,” reminded Reeder, “with the murders of four CIA agents in Azbekistan. Who set that in motion, by the way?”

Slight head shake. “Not a name you’d recognize, Mr. Reeder. A CIA official, fairly high up as you’d imagine, who is since deceased. Heart failure. Tragic.”

Reeder grinned over the weapon, still trained on the leader. “Hear that, fellas? That’s how the Alliance treats its loyal followers. If I were you, and had bought this bill of goods, I’d be reconsidering. If the President will grant me the privilege, I will offer full amnesty to any of you who put down their weapons, or come over to our side. Mr. President?”

“Done,” he said.

Their leader was frowning, irritation finally cutting through. “That’s enough, Mr. Reeder. We’re all quite prepared to die for what we believe in.”

“What was that again? To further empower a cabal of corrupt industrialists who are loyal to no one or nothing but their own self-interests? They aren’t left, they aren’t right, they’re just wrong.”

The man’s eyes and nostrils flared. “If that’s your choice, Mr. Reeder, then it’s time this Mexican standoff, if you’ll forgive the political incorrectness, comes to an end... no matter the cost.”

Rifle ever steady, Reeder said, “You’ll go first, friend. But before you do... and your men give their lives out of a misguided sense of patriotism... you should know that when your rocket launcher takes out that conference room in the Laurel Lodge, it will be as empty as Senator Wilson Blount’s sense of morality.”

The frown was almost a scowl now. “Don’t bother with lies. They’re all gathered around their big table with no sense of what’s coming. It will almost be merciful.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I directed the President earlier to move the cabinet members to the location known by code name Cactus — as head of the Secret Service presidential detail, you’ll know what that is...”

“Don’t bother bluffing.”

“I thought you said I was easy to read? I don’t bluff. Patti, just so you know, ‘Cactus’ is the nuclear bunker here at Camp David. And the cabinet has been instructed to stay put within, till the President himself gives them the word.”

The cell phone in her pocket vibrated and she and Reeder in a microsecond confirmed that his phone too had vibrated and, as agreed, they dropped. On the floor now, in sniper position, Reeder took out the detail leader with a burst of shots that turned the man’s head to bloody mush, while the President hit the deck, staying under the exchange of gunfire.

Taking Reeder’s act as permission, Rogers began to take one head shot after another, while behind them Wade and Hardesy came on the run, firing their own AR-15s from the hip, like Audie Murphy charging a tank. The thunder of the semiautomatic weapons fire bounced off the high walls and swallowed the smaller, occasional pops of the handgun fire from the lineup of agents, as orange tracers made a deadly light show. One of the agents managed to hit Hardesy in the chest, and he stumbled, went down on one knee but was firing again, almost immediately.

The air filled with red mist as men in oh so proper suits flew back onto the cement with their skulls cracked open and seeping, their eyes — those that had not been shot out of their heads — staring up at nothing.

The carnage was terrible and complete.

The echo of gunfire faded to a silence broken only by the ringing of the survivors’ ears. Thirty seconds had been all it took. The same was true at the O.K. Corral.

Only Hardesy had been hit, and he was hobbling along with a grin and an assist from Wade, basically only winded from the blow to his vest. Reeder abandoned his weapon to run to the President. There was blood all over Harrison’s back.

“Mr. President!” Reeder shouted, and knelt by the leader of the free world...

... who pushed himself up with one hand, like he was doing a show-off push-up, and half-smiled at Reeder.

“I guess that’s another president you saved,” he said. “You’d do anything for a Medal of Freedom, wouldn’t you?”

Rogers was right there, too, still carrying the AR-15 in both hands. “Is he all right?”

“Fine,” Reeder said, helping Harrison to his feet. “It’s not his blood.”

Hardesy leaned against a wall while Wade went around checking what proved to be corpses.

“Poor misguided bastards,” Wade said.

The coppery smell of blood mingled with the stench of bodies evacuating themselves at death. Victory had been complete, but the victors were all sick to their stomachs.

“Was that a bluff, Joe?” she asked him. “About the cabinet being sequestered in the bunker?”

“I said I didn’t bluff,” he said. “No, that was part of the plan all along. They’re quite safe. No offense, Patti, but no one needed that knowledge but me... Lucas, Wade! Guard the entrance. There may be more of these insurgent pricks around.”

The President moved with incredible confidence, dignity, and fluidity to the control desk where he sounded an alarm, and then got on the hotline phone and ordered up Marines to come to Raven Rock.

Reeder went to him and said, “We need to stay alert, sir — those Marines you summoned could include Alliance infiltrators.”

The President’s puffy smile had melancholy in it. “My guess is that, considering the way things have gone, any traitors will fade back into the woodwork and behave themselves, for now at least. When we get back to DC, I’ll be starting an investigation into every agency of government. Some will call it a witch hunt, I’m sure... but this time we have actual witches, don’t we?”

“We do. And the head warlock is Senator Wilson Blount.”

Harrison sighed. “That’s my impression, as well. But do we have any proof that links him to this attempted coup? He’s a powerful man, Joe, with powerful friends.”

“And at least one very powerful enemy, sir. Yourself. As you know, I never did come up with the name of the man who betrayed our four agents. If our late friend over there can be believed, that person is already dead, and we should be able to determine his identity. But I’d like your blessing, your mandate, to go after Blount as best I can.”

“Done.”

Reeder glanced around at the now bustling chamber. “And I believe, until we have done the most thorough security and background checks possible on the Secret Service here at Camp David, you should allow Agent Rogers, her two agents, and myself to serve as an ad hoc presidential detail.”

“Also done.”

“We can’t leave here, by helicopter anyway, until the threat of a rocket launcher is dealt with. Can you put together a team of Marines that you trust, to comb the surrounding woods — inside and outside of the compound — to deal with that threat?”

The President’s half-smile was self-deprecating. “I didn’t do so well choosing a Secret Service agent to count on.”

“I know. But take your best shot. We’ll be here at your side. In the meantime, I would like your permission to have two DC cops I trust, Carl Bishop and Pete Woods, to come out and give you and the Vice President rides. Won’t be a limo, though.”

Harrison grinned, full on. “I’ll survive.”

“That’s the idea.”

A presidential hand settled on Reeder’s shoulder. “And, Joe — as soon as you and your friends can get me back to the White House, I’ll be letting the Russian premier know that he and his people can get their collective ass out of Azbekistan or this attempted coup will be linked to them big-time in the media. And, boy, would that fire up the American people.”

“Kind of would.”

Rogers, overhearing all this, said to Reeder, “When we first get a chance, I’d like to drop by and see AD Fisk.”

His expression was typically unreadable, but his words weren’t: “Thought you might.”