Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Read online

  “What the hell is open at this hour?” Mulligan was always full of questions; part of his DNA.

  “Target.”

  “Jesus, how old is your boy now?” Mulligan asked pouring himself a brandy. “Eight?”

  “James is eleven,” Lawson said with pride.

  “Christ, where do the years go?”

  “When we only see them a half hour a day, seems like they grow up in about a week.”

  “That’s the truth,” Mulligan agreed. He was the father of three adult children he rarely saw. “Sure you won’t have a quick one?”

  “Another time.” Lawson offered his hand. “Night, sir. You should go home, too.”

  “Maybe in an hour or so,” the FBI chief said.

  “Shame we didn’t get to talk to the guy. Would’ve been a real prize,” Lawson noted.

  “Missed opportunity.” Bob Mulligan patted Lawson on the back. “But you know Touch Parsons is doing his magic. We’ll see what turns up. Now get!”

  Lawson put on his trench coat preparing himself for the January air. As he did so, he offered a word of encouragement. “You know, Mr. Director, we’ll get more on him.”

  “You better hope so, Curtis. This one’s yours. And he fucking better talk to you from the grave.”

  Curtis Lawson was permitted a driver for late-night duty, but he preferred to be on his own. He relished the thinking time to and from the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarters just blocks from the White House. He always had a great deal to think about.

  Lawson lived in College Park, Maryland, with his wife of sixteen years and his son. He usually made the commute in under forty-five minutes. Tonight he’d take longer with his stop at Target

  He arrived with nine minutes to spare before the 11 p.m. closing time. His shopping would only take a few minutes. Lawson walked swiftly past the bank of cash registers, the cards and crafts, the clothes and toys, CDs and DVDs, and finally into the electronics department. Without comparison pricing, he picked up what he was looking for and went directly to the check out in under four minutes.

  His purchase was $29.95. He paid cash and left. Soon, he’d be home, but not before Curtis Lawson did two more things that night. First he made a quick call with his new pay-as-you-go mobile phone which included ten minutes of preloaded airtime. When he was finished he trashed the cell.

  Scott Roarke’s apartment

  That night

  Roarke slid into bed next to Katie. It was late and he had no intention of waking her. Roarke just wanted to feel her warmth. They could create great heat together. But there was far too much on his mind tonight.

  He snuggled up to her back, perfectly spooning with the beautiful brunette, the love of his life.

  She stirred and automatically reached around with her right hand and found him. Roarke gently kissed the back of her neck, but failed to respond to her touch.

  Katie then rolled onto her back. “Rough day?” she whispered.

  “Pretty well sucked.”

  “Anything you can talk about?” She snuggled up under his arm, resting her head against him. Katie expressly used the word can, which was quite different from want to.

  “No,” he sighed pulling her closer.

  “Same old, same old?” she asked referring to his frustrating investigation.

  “That and more.”

  “What did you think of the president’s speech?” Katie was working so hard at the conversation she was really waking up.

  “Hardly caught it.”

  “Well, you’ll be hearing about it for a long time.” Katie Kessler’s new job at the White House was probably going to become hell because of it, too.

  “CNN was already blasting it as ‘The Ex-Patriot Act’.”

  After a minute of silence, Katie raised herself up on her arm. The softness of her breast lay against Roarke’s muscular chest. It felt good to both of them.

  “Anything you want to share?”

  Roarke did. But without assurance that her one-bedroom, second-floor apartment at Seventeenth NW and Willard, not far from Dupont Circle, was clear of listening devices, he wouldn’t. Also, there was the law. He wasn’t allowed to share details of his job with anyone, including Katie. He’d violated U.S. secrecy code in the past, revealing details of his work to her. The president could have fired him, but didn’t. If Congress had learned about the conversation, he would have been arrested, tried, and convicted.

  “Anything?” she asked again.

  “How much I love you.”

  “You better,” she murmured. “I moved to this political hornet’s nest to be near you. I’ve never done that for anyone.” With her free hand, Katie reached under the covers for him again—hoping.

  “I do. And I’m sorry. It’s just work. I’ve been kind of absorbed.”

  Overwhelmed would have been Katie’s frustrated word.

  The White House

  The same time

  “Coming up next,” the local TV anchor read, “The president’s declaration on pre-emptive strikes. Will Capitol Hill be the first battlefront? Speaker of the House Duke Patrick fights back. And ahead, taking stock of the soft drink wars. Who’s bubbling up to the top this week? And in sports tonight, you’ve got to see what led up to this shot!” The video went from the thirty-three-year-old anchor to a clip of a miraculous half-court basket at the buzzer by the Washington Wizards.

  “Well?” the president asked from his side of the bed.

  “Well, what?” Eleanor Taylor was reading and had successfully ignored the tease and most of the late news. But it didn’t mean she didn’t know what he was really asking.

  To the public, the first lady was a quiet, nonpolitical player. But in her fourteen years in Washington, she had been active in a number of key charities, particularly those that dealt with the arts.

  In executive sessions, and the privacy of their bedroom, she often complained about the people right down the street—the narrow-minded representatives, the high-paid lobbyists, and the ever sanctimonious commentators. Eleanor Taylor was appalled that the United States offered itself up as the leader of the free world, yet not one president—including her husband— considered it important enough to have a cabinet level post for cultural affairs. She wanted her husband to announce the creation of that position.

  “You know, the speech.”

  “You left something out.”

  “Today wasn’t the day.”

  “Today was the day. You missed an opportunity.”

  “It wasn’t the right time. Soon.”

  She’d heard that before. “Right.” She returned to her book.

  “I promise. But what did you think?”

  The first lady looked at him through thirty-five years of marriage and caring. “You deserved better play.”

  Taylor agreed. The news recapped the president’s speech after stories about an emergency airplane landing in Cancun, lipsticks that kill, the shooting in Houston, and an eighteen-month-old baby who can correctly point to most states on a map.

  “I don’t think I quite captured the hearts and minds in the newsroom.”

  “Make that baby your pick for vice president and you’ll lead the news.” Eleanor was hardly joking. She hated how vacuous local TV news had become. And these days, national coverage of significant issues was no better.

  “What’s it going to take for people to pay attention? Another catastrophe?” the president rhetorically asked. He pointed to the TV. There was a commercial for the latest Hollywood action movie based on yet another Marvel comic hero. It was filled with explosions and a great deal of CGI animation. He muted the set. “Nothing has meaning anymore.”

  “Your neocon friends and the extreme right don’t help either,” she said for the bedroom only.

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “Well, they’re not your enemies either, and if you want my opinion…”

  “I guess I asked.”

  “Just keep on message. Over and over. Tell them what you’re going
to do. Do it. Just like you did coming out of Australia.”

  Eleanor Taylor was referring to the doctrine the president forged months earlier among Southeast Asia and Pacific rim nations that authorized the coalition to seek and destroy terrorist weapons supplies, money sources, and training camps.

  After the commercial break the president fumbled with the remote, “I need help,” he admitted.

  “Press the button on the left.”

  “No, at work.”

  “Well, that’s easy, darling. You need a good vice president.”

  “You’re right about that.” The nation was still without a number two. Taylor was close to making a decision. But until he did, Duke Patrick was next in line.

  Morgan Taylor took the audio off mute in time to hear the depressing news that a couple of soft drink companies were doing better than he was.

  Washington, D.C.

  Four hours later

  Roarke bolted out of bed, roused from his dream as if hit by lightning.

  Katie Kessler felt the bed shake. “What? What is it?”

  “It’s okay.”

  It wasn’t. He’d been having nightmares recently. All the same. Assassins with different faces laughing at him. But the more he looked into their eyes, the more obvious it was to him that they were the same man. A real man. A killer named Richard Cooper who had served bravely in Iraq as a U.S. Army officer, only to die—but not for long.

  “I’ve got to walk around,” he said. Roarke got out of bed, pulling the covers down below her waist. Ordinarily, her body would be a warm, inviting, and very open invitation for him to return. Not tonight. He paced, fully naked, in front of her. The streetlight cast equal streams of light through the slates on her blinds. Katie’s eyes went right to him. “Come back to bed.”

  She reached under the sheet and touched the wetness he was causing. Is he going to take advantage of it or not?

  “I’m lost,” he admitted. “I’m totally lost.”

  “You’re lost because you’re trying to do this all by yourself. How many people are there gainfully employed in law enforcement in this country? But Scott Roarke, my Scott Roarke, thinks he has to be the nation’s top cop?”

  “Davis is helping.”

  “Okay, there are two of you. But I bet Shannon’s sleeping okay and probably getting a little more action than you have recently.” She tugged at the sheets with her toes, exposing the rest of her beautiful body.

  “So come here and let’s even the score.” Roarke half listened. He sat next to her on the bed. She rested her head in his lap and automatically reached over to him. He filled her hand.

  “Cooper thinks he’s dead to us. That’s our only advantage.”

  “What makes you think he’s even out there taking orders for new hits? He could be long gone on vacation in Greece, counting his money and drinking Ouzo.” Her fingers played him like a piano. “Speaking of ooze…”

  “Hon, I can’t.” Roarke stood up.

  “Then get some more fucking help and stop trying to fix the world by yourself.” Katie pulled up the sheets and rolled over.

  “I know him. I could have been him.”

  “You were never like him,” she said.

  “We were both in Iraq. Both under fire, both…”

  “And you’re not a killer.” Not the same kind, she thought.

  “But if I had survived a bombing like that, who knows.”

  “I do. You’re not him. You’re not.”

  Roarke returned to bed. He rolled Katie over and kissed her gently. It was a passionate, thankful kiss that they both felt. It was what he needed the most. He rested his head on her breasts and held her tightly.

  As they found that restful state just before sleep, Katie whispered into her lover’s ear. “Get some help, Scott. Promise me. Please, get some help.”

  She felt him nod. She hoped he meant it.

  Nine

  Minneapolis, MN

  4 January

  Before Lawrence Beard donned his court robe in the morning, he was like millions of others. Just another guy in line for a cup of coffee.

  Beard held a District Court seat, and was recently mentioned in the Minneapolis Star as a promising candidate for a Supreme Court nomination. That might be two years out depending on who retired, but the Star was right. Beard was definitely on the White House’s short list.

  The fifty-five-year-old, former Minneapolis DA was everybody’s perfect compromise. His beliefs ran straight down the center. He’d managed to avoid politically and polarizing issues. He was viewed as a centrist and a strict Constitutionalist, which curried favor with members of both parties. His rulings were widely quoted. So were his rants from the bench. No one wanted to be the object of his stinging lectures, especially the ones he delivered to convicted murderers and incompetent lawyers.

  His name had been brought up to every president since Bush. Morgan Taylor was the man most likely to elevate him. But today, Lawrence Beard was simply an anonymous customer ready for the line to move.

  His morning ritual also included checking out the newspaper’s front page and inside opinion pieces. The lead story above the fold reported the president’s press conference. A sidebar explored the legal ramifications, which Beard immediately scanned.

  “Sure is something,” a stranger said over his shoulder.

  Beard glanced back. Behind him—a man in a jump suit a good three or four inches taller than his five-eight. He had to look up.

  “Taylor,” the man continued as if he were talking to an old friend. He tapped the newspaper. “Think people will put up with this?”

  Beard’s rules of conduct extended outside the courtroom. He wouldn’t comment, even casually. Not here. Not anywhere. Just a raise of an eyebrow, then he turned back as the line moved forward.

  “Makes you wonder what’s going on in America,” the man persisted.

  Beard took his place at the counter, ready to order. “Morning,” the clerk said. “What can I get you?”

  “Large black coffee and a cinnamon scone.”

  “That’ll be three-eighty-five.” Beard put down a ten.

  Now the tall man was by his side with his order. “Make mine the same,” he said. “Guess we’re two of a kind.” He also laid a five dollar bill on the counter and tapped the fingers of his left hand while he waited for change. The noise and the action drew Beard’s eyes downward.

  It was the ring that caught his eye. A white gold band with interlocking snakes and deep red ruby eyes.

  Beard suddenly stiffened. He’d seen it before on one man in Iraq; a man who was now dead. His entire body tensed and then he felt a sensation on his thigh like a bug bite. Justice Lawrence Beard left the cash register not waiting for his change.

  “Sir?” the cashier said trying to get his attention.

  But Beard didn’t hear him. He was someplace else. He joined the customers waiting for their morning coffees to come up. Beard folded his newspaper under his arm and kept his eyes straight ahead. A minute later, he was out the door, never to look back and never to return. The stranger with the army ring who had stood behind him; the stranger who had arrived from a late night flight from Boston, had already seen to that.

  Interstate 15 North

  Montana

  The best Ricardo Perez could get was coffee from a Union 76 station. He drank it slowly, not knowing where he’d find the next gas station. But close to every three hours he made a pit stop to use the bathroom and buy another cup. He needed it to stay awake. He was well into his second day on the road. Except for some quick naps at a rest station, he had to push through. Those were the orders.

  These were strange roads and Perez definitely felt out of place. It wasn’t so much that a Ricardo Perez couldn’t drive the interstate. It was that this Ricardo Perez had no real explanation why he was there.

  So far it had been uneventful. The used Lincoln with tinted windows blended in, and Perez kept to the speed limit exactly as ordered. He was chauffeuring an impor
tant passenger who needed to remain safe. He retrieved the “package,” as the man was called, at the Houston airport. For more than thirty-four hours, Perez had two jobs: transport the “package” north to some state called Montana and avoid getting stopped.

  He thought about what he’d tell police if he was pulled over. “We’re on our way to Butte to look at real estate.” Would that sound right? Not if the car was searched. He’d been trying to think of a good reason for a day and a half. No one thought of that when he took off. His only instructions were to keep moving, stay on schedule, drop off the “package”—his lone passenger—then leave.

  The whole thing would have been easier if the man had talked to him. He didn’t. Worse, he wouldn’t allow Perez to play the radio. When he tried, the passenger hit the driver’s seat from behind; his signal to turn it off.

  Miraculously, Perez had made it to age twenty-three. The gang member accomplished the feat by doing what he was told. Always. Drug deals, rape, and murder. They’d all come his way, and so far without any threat of arrest. Perez’s accomplishments fell under the category of unsolved gang crimes that worked their way from the front page of newspapers, quickly to the second section, and then into oblivion.

  Ricardo Antonio Perez was originally from El Salvador. He came across the Arizona border with his older brother. They were teenagers then. Ricardo was ready to escape the memories of home.

  Now eight years into life in America, he was a full-fledged gangster. He carried a handgun and a knife. He always had a knife. Most recently, he used it against an elderly couple in a parking lot. They had just seen a dinner theater production of Man of La Mancha. They had less than $100 in their pockets.

  He turned the money over to his only family now—the leaders of Houston’s MS-13 splinter gang. But he was punished for picking such a worthless target. He wore the scar on his forehead as a reminder of his fuck up.

  Ricardo Perez vowed to improve. The responsibility he now had was proof that he’d become a valued member of the organization.