Vengeance

68 WASHINGTON, D.C.

Since 1878, American presidents and their families have celebrated Easter Monday by hosting an “egg roll” party. Held on the South Lawn, it is one of the oldest annual events in White House history. More than forty thousand adults and children participate in the event each year, which includes over thirty thousand hard-boiled eggs, half of which are dyed and used for games and the other half consumed as egg pops. Although Braswell Farms in North Carolina provides most of the eggs each year, Gordon’s Wholesale provided the remainder for this year’s festivities.

At the apex of the South Lawn, a white Gordon’s Wholesale van coasted to a halt behind several other vehicles parked on the curved driveway behind the White House. In the driver’s seat of the van, Lonnie Mixell surveyed the bustling activity as supplies for tomorrow’s event were unloaded. Thus far, everything had gone according to plan.

After being hired a few weeks earlier as a weekend delivery driver for Gordon’s Wholesale, his assignment to assist with the egg deliveries to the White House this weekend had occurred as expected. The security check at the entrance to the White House grounds had been uneventful; the physical disguise he had chosen for today matched the picture on his Gordon’s Wholesale identification card, and a check of Mixell’s cargo had yielded no weapons or anything suspicious — just a large crate of dyed eggs.

After stepping from the van, Mixell pulled the crate from the back, then approached a supervisor with a clipboard, informing her of his cargo.

“I’ve got a shipment of egg pops for the White House.”

The supervisor checked her clipboard, then looked up with a confused look on her face. “We’ve already received all of the egg pops.”

Mixell shrugged his shoulders. “I just deliver what they load in the van.” He nodded toward a note taped to the crate. “They said it was an extra order for the White House staff.”

The supervisor considered the matter, then looked around for a place to deposit the egg pops.

“They need to be refrigerated,” Mixell reminded her.

“Oh, right.” She captured the attention of one of the dozen police officers nearby, a member of the Secret Service Uniformed Division, responsible for protecting the White House and foreign diplomatic missions in the District of Columbia, who was providing security during the Egg Roll event and its preparations. “Can you escort this man to the kitchen?”

The officer agreed and Mixell joined him as they entered the White House.

On the main floor of the West Wing, Christine waited with Maddy beside the closed door to the Oval Office. They had almost completed their White House tour, with Christine even showing Maddy the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing. The only space left to explore was the Oval Office, which would include a meeting with its occupant. Christine could tell Maddy was nervous, fidgeting as she waited to meet the president of the United States.

The president’s secretary approached. “He’ll see you now.”

Christine knocked, then entered the Oval Office with Maddy alongside her.

The president, seated at his desk, rose to greet his guests.

“Christine, it’s good to see you, as always.” Then he turned his attention to the young girl accompanying her, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maddy. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said as they shook hands.

“You have?”

“Actually, I’ve heard a lot about your dad.” He gestured toward the two sofas at the other end of the Oval Office, which faced each other.

As the president sat on one sofa while Christine and Maddy settled into the other one, the cell phone in Christine’s purse vibrated. Considering the circumstances — an audience with the president — she ignored the call.

“I understand that you haven’t spent much time with your dad the last few months,” the president said. “I know it’s hard not being together, but your father is a very important man, and he’s been assigned to a critical mission.”

When scheduling today’s meeting with the president, Christine had explained to him that Maddy was Jake Harrison’s daughter, and had reminded the president that Harrison and Khalila were the two CIA employees who had tracked Mixell down months earlier, preventing him from launching surface-to-air missiles at Air Force One as it took off from Joint Base Andrews. After learning what had happened to Harrison’s wife, followed by Maddy’s subsequent separation from her father, the president had agreed to amplify Harrison’s role while steering clear of Angie’s death.

Christine’s cell phone vibrated, and she ignored it again.

Maddy simply nodded as the president spoke, awestruck in his presence. The Oval Office door suddenly opened and Special Agent Ashley Tobin, this afternoon’s shift leader for the President’s Protection Detail, burst into the room, accompanied by three other Secret Service agents.

“We have an imminent bomb threat, Mr. President. We need to get you to safety immediately.”

The president stood, quickly surveying Christine and Maddy. He extended his hand to Maddy. “Come with me. You’ll be safe.” Turning to Ashley, the president said, “Christine and the girl will join me.”

Ashley acknowledged the president’s order, then led them toward the elevator that would take them to the hardened underground bunker deep beneath the White House. Along the way, Christine’s phone vibrated again, and this time she answered.

Harrison was on the other end, informing her that Mixell had shaped the C-4 into Easter eggs, and that they were already at the White House or on their way, being delivered for Easter Monday’s festivities.

They had almost reached the elevator when Christine hung up, deciding she’d be more useful tracking Mixell down than hiding in a bunker. There were dozens of lives at stake if fifty pounds of C-4 were detonated in the White House, and even if he had altered his appearance, she could likely spot him if he was here. There shouldn’t be too many six-foot-two men who looked somewhat like Mixell in the White House or on its grounds.

Christine explained her plan and the president nodded his concurrence as he stepped into the elevator with Maddy, directing one of his Secret Service agents to accompany Christine as she searched the White House.

Mixell was loading the C-4 eggs into one of the large White House refrigerators when an announcement blared from a speaker in the kitchen ceiling.

“Lockdown in progress. No personnel may enter or exit the White House until further notice. All personnel shall remain in their current location until directed otherwise.”

It took Mixell only a few seconds to analyze the situation and come to a conclusion: somehow, his plot had been discovered. Even if he was wrong and the lockdown had been ordered for a different reason — although what were the odds of that — he would likely be discovered if his delivery to the White House was scrutinized.

He had completed the most difficult part of his mission, delivering the C-4 eggs to the White House. What remained was straightforward — depart and detonate the C-4. He briefly considered pulling his cell phone out and detonating the eggs beside him; the president was in the White House and assassinating him would be a monumental achievement, whether Mixell lived to celebrate it or not. But he decided not to give up so easily.

His Secret Service Uniformed Division escort had a hand to his earpiece, listening to a transmission, his attention temporarily distracted from the Gordon’s Wholesale delivery man standing nearby. Mixell moved swiftly, levying a vicious blow to the man’s Adam’s apple with one hand as he unfastened the security strap of the pistol holster at his waist with the other. As the man staggered backward a step, grabbing his throat, Mixell pulled the pistol from its holster, leveling it at the man.

There was one other person in the kitchen — an assistant cook, it seemed. She stood frozen in place as Mixell backed up to keep her and the officer in view. Mixell gestured toward the walk-in freezer.

“Inside.”

Neither person moved.

“Now,” Mixell snarled, “unless you want to eat a bullet.”

The officer moved slowly toward the freezer and the cook joined him. The freezer was opened and the officer and cook stepped inside, staring at Mixell as the door was closed. Then he jammed the handle with a kitchen utensil to ensure the door couldn’t be opened from inside.

Mixell attempted to slide the officer’s pistol into his pants pocket, but the pistol grip wouldn’t fit, which was fine with Mixell. He decided to hide the grip with his hand wrapped around it, which kept it ready for any encounters as he worked his way toward the nearest White House exit.

There was no one in the hallway, so Mixell moved swiftly, backtracking his path through the White House. He was only a few strides from turning into an adjacent corridor when a man and woman burst into the hallway at the next intersection. He immediately recognized the woman — Christine O’Connor — plus what looked like a Secret Service agent accompanying her.

He decided to keep moving toward the intersection, hoping Christine wouldn’t realize who he was and that he wouldn’t be challenged for not staying in place as ordered over the White House speakers. He’d just pretend to be a dumb delivery man, wanting to stay on schedule with his next delivery. Unfortunately, when Christine’s gaze settled on him, he noticed a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

The jig was up.

Mixell withdrew his pistol and fired at the Secret Service agent, putting a bullet in his head. As the man collapsed to the ground, Mixell shifted the pistol toward Christine, who froze in place.

“Hello, Chris,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Lonnie, we know what you’re planning. Don’t do this.”

Mixell ignored her plea as he moved toward her, keeping his pistol aimed at her head. When he reached Christine, he grabbed her by the neck and slammed her into the wall.

“I’ve laid awake at night, plotting how to get past your protective agents. And today, you waltz into my grasp.” He placed the pistol barrel against her head. “How many bullets did you put into me at Jake’s house?”

“Not enough.”

Mixell smiled. “True. Very true.”

Their conversation was interrupted as two more Secret Service agents entered the hallway from the next intersection, their weapons drawn. Mixell jerked Christine in front of him, keeping the pistol barrel pressed against her head, with one arm wrapped around her body. Both agents halted, their weapons aimed in Mixell’s direction, while one of the agents reported the situation over the microphone inside his shirt sleeve cuff.

Mixell backed up toward the intersection leading to the exit, keeping Christine between him and the agents, occasionally glancing behind him.

“Who’s the coward now,” Christine asked, “hiding behind a woman? Didn’t you chastise Jake for doing the same thing with your soulmate?”

Christine’s question — accusing him of being a coward — made Mixell’s blood boil. There wasn’t anyone besides Jake who knew him better, and she was pushing his buttons. He did his best to let the anger dissipate.

“Shut up, Chris. Every time you open your mouth, you make your death more painful.”

She pressed her lips together. “Hmm,” she replied.

Mixell felt her body tense, and he knew she was planning something. She was still quite athletic, as she had proven in the barn at Harrison’s house a few months ago, and he felt her firm body as his arm pulled her close against him.

“Don’t even think about trying anything,” he said. “I swear to God, if you so much as twitch, I’ll pull the trigger.”

He felt Christine’s body relax somewhat. “Alright, Lonnie,” she said. “I’ll play along as your hostage. I’m interested in seeing how this plays out. You didn’t plan on being discovered, so let’s see how you weasel your way out of here.”

“What did I say about you opening your mouth?” He pressed the pistol barrel more firmly against her head. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve got an extremely valuable hostage — the director of the CIA.”

It was a short distance from the hallway to the exit, and they reached it before other Secret Service agents or uniformed officers entered. However, a quick glance after cracking the door open revealed about a dozen agents and officers in strategic positions outside the White House, plus more moving into position.

Mixell’s van wasn’t far away, but he would be in the open during the short journey to the vehicle. Even with Christine pressed against him, she would block only half of the agents. There would be others behind him with a clear shot, if they were willing to take it while Mixell had a pistol pressed against the CIA director’s head.

After considering his options, Mixell devised a plan.

He called out, “I promise to release the CIA director, unharmed, once I’m safely away. All you need to do is drive the Gordon’s Wholesale van up to this door. The keys are in the van.”

When there was no response, Mixell directed Christine to reiterate his command.

Christine pressed her lips together again. “Hmm… hmm,” she replied.

“Very funny,” Mixell replied. “You’re allowed to talk now. Tell the agents and officers to do as I’ve directed.”

“They don’t work for me.”

“I know that,” Mixell growled. “But if you don’t prove your worth as a hostage, you’re worthless to me and I’m stuck here. Do you know what happens next?”

“I can do the math.”

“Then you better start talking.”

“How’s this — I’ll have them bring the van up and let us go, after they’ve verified the White House has been evacuated? The president is already safely away, and once everyone else is safe, it’s just a building. You can blow it up if you want.”

“You’re not in any position to negotiate.”

“Actually, I am.” Christine twisted her head toward Mixell, so she could look him in the eye. “If you want to leave here in anything but a body bag or handcuffs, you’ll need my help.”

“Fine!” Mixell replied. “Just get the van up here and have them agree to let us go.”

Christine called out to the Secret Service agents and police officers, repeating Mixell’s demands, and after a few rounds of back and forth followed by a moment of silence, a Secret Service agent replied.

“Agreed.”

The minutes ticked by as Mixell waited, and although the delay felt excruciating, he was able to savor the moment. With his arm wrapped tightly around Christine, he could feel her body trembling. Her bravado was an act; she was scared to death.

He was going to enjoy ending her life — slowly and painfully.

The van engine started, and a moment later the vehicle pulled to a halt with the passenger door beside the White House exit. The driver stepped from the van, leaving the engine running, then Mixell opened the passenger door and dragged Christine into the van behind him, staying low in the vehicle until he was in the driver’s seat.

“Close the door,” he ordered Christine as he kept the pistol aimed at her.

After she closed the passenger door, he said, “Place the side of your face against the dash.”

Christine did as Mixell ordered, then he pressed the pistol barrel against the other side of her head and sat up in his seat, putting the van in gear.

The Gordon’s Wholesale van sped down the South Lawn driveway until it exited the White House grounds.