Presidential Shift (10 page)

SSI Safe House, Arlington, VA

7:28pm, December 19
^th

Don Maynor parked his rented Harley, taking in the newly arrived vehicles. Grabbing his bike bag, he walked to the front door and knocked. Gaucho answered the door. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m here with Cal Stokes. I’m—.”

“Oh. You’re the other jarhead.”

Maynor grinned. “Don Maynor.” The two men shook. “Let me guess. Army?”

“Guilty, hombre. Name’s Gaucho. Come on in.”

Maynor followed the short Latino into the house, which now looked more like a staging area. There were weapons stacked neatly inside the dining area where Cal sat conferring with Daniel. The Marines looked up from their conversation.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Cal. “Have fun on libbo, Lance Corporal?”

Maynor chuckled. “Yeah. Got to see some old buddies. They even let me in Eight and I looking like this.”

“You should’ve told me you were heading over there. My old platoon commander is with the Silent Drill Platoon. I’m sure he would’ve given you the royal tour.”

“No problem. A nice female Corporal gave me a tour in exchange for a cruise around town on my bike.”

“Sounds like I need to take dating lessons from you,” joked Gaucho.

“What can I say? I may be old, but I’m still a Marine. More than I can say for you and your
Army of One
.” Maynor spent a good deal of time with old vets in Orange Beach, but it’d been a while since he’d talked to the boys still holding down the fort. The old warrior felt the irresistible pull to be part of it.

Gaucho shook his head and clapped the senior Marine on the back. “You’ll sure as shit fit in around here, gramps.”

Maynor gave him a middle finger, but smiled back.

“Enough grab-assing, Marine,” said Cal, enjoying the back and forth. “Time to get to work.”

Maynor took a seat at the table. “What did I miss?”

“First things first. I know I don’t need to say this, but I will. What I’m about to tell you is Top Secret Presidential. That means that if you run off at the mouth, you will either spend the rest of your life in a ten by ten cell, or be shot in the back of the head.”

“Got it.”

“Okay. Here’s what we found.”

+++

Stricklin was halfway into his fourth glass of bourbon when they made their way to his uncle’s parlor. Quailen called it his smoking room.

“I had a special air filtration system installed. Lets me smoke all the cigars I want and not get it in the rest of the house.”

Stricklin took it all in. Coming from a modest background, the rare visits with his uncle never ceased to bring out a craving. He still remembered his first visit to New Orleans. It was in seventh grade. Quailen was an up-and-coming congressman, full of energy, enjoying the adoration of his constituency. He’d been a gracious host, taking young Steve on a deep sea fishing charter, giving him his first Hurricane on Bourbon Street, even getting him a blow job at a swanky massage parlor. “After this weekend, you’re officially a man,” his uncle had proclaimed.

He knew about the video of Quailen that was making the rounds on YouTube, racking up millions of views, but didn’t bring it up. Better to keep things cordial and enjoy the opulence that he’d always wanted.

Congressman Quailen pulled out two thick cigars, clipping both expertly and handing one to Stricklin. “Got these from a guy down in Cuba. They say he’s the best roller around.”

They sat, enjoying the musty bitterness, staring into the blazing fire. Stricklin downed the rest of his glass, nestling back comfortably into the leather armchair.

“How’s work? They keeping you busy?” asked Quailen.

Stricklin shrugged. “It’s okay. You hear that I was down in Alabama when the bomb went off yesterday?”

Quailen feigned surprise. He’d already done his homework. “You were? Was it as bad as they say?”

Stricklin grimaced. “It was pretty bad, Uncle Pete. Body parts everywhere.”

“They any closer to finding the people behind it?”

Hesitating, Stricklin searched for the right words. He wanted to impress his uncle. Despite the scandal, the media was already saying the wily congressman would probably come out relatively unscathed. The familial relationship could come in handy. “The Secret Service are a bunch of idiots. Most of those meatheads probably dropped out of the FBI Academy.” Stricklin stood up, somewhat shakily, and walked over to pour himself another drink. Quailen watched expectantly. “I’ve got my own idea, though, if only someone would listen.”

“Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t know, Uncle Pete. It’s still an ongoing investigation.”

“That’s okay. I know you’re a by-the-book kinda guy. I don’t want you to get in trouble,” said Quailen, apologetically. “Tell you what. I may have some information that could help.”

Stricklin turned around cautiously.
I’ve got him
, thought Quailen.

“What do you have?” asked Stricklin.

“No. Don’t worry about it. You’re right. The last thing I want is to get your ass in a crack. Forget I said anything.”

“That’s okay. How about I take a look? Hell, I’m an FBI agent. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

Quailen sat pondering, but not really. He’d played his nephew perfectly. The poor kid would never have the guts to be a real leader, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have his uses. Finally, Quailen acquiesced. “Okay. But don’t tell anyone where you got this.”

He stood up and walked to the wall of books, complete with a tracked ladder to reach the highest shelves. Pausing, as if remembering where he’d put it, Quailen slowly pulled out a large, and most likely priceless, tome. From inside he extracted a manilla envelope.

“Like I said, I’m not sure this will help, but I hope it does.” Quailen handed the parcel to Stricklin, who opened it with slightly shaking hands, extracting the papers within.

His eyes widened as he scanned the contents.
This is my ticket
.

+++

“Anyone have any questions?” asked Cal, after finishing the latest briefing. There hadn’t been any updates from Neil or Zimmer. They were still flying blind, standing by.

“What about the bodies from Detroit? Any IDs?” Daniel questioned.

“Zimmer said the FBI’s on it, but that it could take a while.”

“What about the homeless guy? Did they get anything from him?” asked Gaucho.

“They said the guy was high as a kite. Could barely say his own name. Dead end.”

The day felt like a waste to Cal. Instead of doing something, they’d waited for updates from the vice president. Cal wasn’t good at waiting. He wanted to be doing anything but just sitting around.

“Hey, you said earlier that the kid who blew himself up in Alabama…” started Maynor.

“Lincoln,” offered Daniel.

“Right. Michael Lincoln. You said his parents thought he was up in Detroit for training.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’m friends with some guys who are retired, but do the occasional hauling. They like the cash. Anyway, one of the guys, Lenny, he’s kind of a racist prick, but I don’t mind taking his money playing poker. Well, he mentioned something about an invite he got to go up to the Motor City. He said there was good money in it. Some kind of training for the fracking they’re doing in the Dakotas. Big business,” explained Maynor.

“Did he go?” asked Cal, hoping.

“No. He got hurt the week before.”

“What about the other truckers?”

“Nah. I asked and they said they didn’t get an invite. They told me that one of the companies Lenny hauls for is owned by a member of some Aryan club. Rumor is they only hire like-minded drivers, sometimes adding extra cargo for shipment.”

“Might be worth looking into. Do you think you could call your poker buddy and find out about the company?”

“No problem. I’ll tell him I’m looking to make some extra dough. He knows I do odds and ends,” said Maynor.

“Perfect.”

As they dispersed, Cal’s phone rang. He looked down. It was someone calling from Camp Spartan.

“Stokes.”

“Mr. Stokes, this is the SSI switchboard. I have a Special Agent Stricklin on the line. Would you like for me to patch him through?”

The hair on the back of Cal’s neck stood up.

“Go ahead.”

The line clicked. Stokes said, “Hello?”

“Stokes, this is Special Agent Stricklin.”

“What do you want Stricklin?” spat Cal, tempted to cut the call.

“I don’t want anything,” came the haughty reply.

“Then why I are you calling me?”

Stricklin laughed. “An interesting piece of evidence just came to my attention, and I just wanted to let you know that I am personally going to take you and your company down.”

SSI Headquarters I,
Camp Spartan,
Arrington, TN

11:18pm EST, December 19
^th

“Yeah?” answered Neil, stifling a yawn. It’d been a long day at headquarters. Travis and MSgt Trent had returned earlier, both a bit impatient, but none the worse for wear. The trip to the police station was pointless for both sides, as Marge Haines’s handiwork prevented the cops from questioning SSI’s top man. The best the Nashville PD could do was put the two men — Trent had refused to leave his boss alone — in an interrogation room where they were supplied with a constant flow of coffee and donuts.

“It’s Cal. I need you to do something for me.”

“What’s up?”

“I need you to trace the phone number that just called SSI’s main line. How long will that take?”

Neil’s mind snapped into place. “Give me five minutes.”

Clearing screens in a whir, Neil clicked and typed, accessing highly encrypted telephone databases. To his genius level skills, it was all child’s play. Unlike their previous search for a needle in a haystack, he had a focal point.

“Got it.” He dialed Cal back.

“What did you find?”

“The call came from Falls Church, not far from you.”

“Give me the address.”

Neil did.

“Do you know who owns the surrounding properties?” asked Cal.

“Working on that now. The satellites images show a single property, pretty big. It’s loading.”

Neil scrolled through the tax records, which listed a corporation, Kingstown LLC, as the owner. Cross-referencing government resources, Neil clicked his way deeper into the ownership of Kingstown LLC. His finger stopped over a single name. “Oh crap.”

“What is it?”

“You’re not gonna like this, Cal.”

“Tell me.”

+++

Quailen had excused himself to make a phone call, leaving his nephew in the lounge.

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You know where to find me.”

+++

“Gaucho, get the boys up. We’re hitting the road,” commanded Cal.

“Where to?” Gaucho was up and ready.

“Just down the road.”

Twenty minutes later, the team, scattered in five vehicles throughout the target neighborhood, sat waiting. Each vehicle had one remote drone aloft, reconnoitering the area with infrared video.

“We’ve got at least ten bogies patrolling the property. Looks like there’s at least five more inside,” announced Daniel.

Cal sat, watching the small screen as Daniel maneuvered the tiny craft. The vehicles were version 2.0 of Neil’s ‘Baby Bird’ invention. Launched and controlled via a pair of glasses, the little crafts were a mainstay in the SSI arsenal. Silent and versatile, the operators never started an operation without them.

“What are our options?” asked Cal, eager to take action.

“We can sit and wait,” said Gaucho. “Maybe your guy will come out.”

Cal didn’t like the idea of waiting around. It wasn’t his style. “I’m going in,” he announced.

“No way, boss,” said Gaucho. “Too many bad guys.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the ever unflinching Daniel. “You’re not going in alone.”

“Fine. Just the two of us.” Cal grinned. The past months had seen the Marine through tight spots. Cal trusted the sniper implicitly. Plus, he liked the idea of making Stricklin and Quailen a little uncomfortable.

“Where do you want us?” asked Gaucho.

“We’ll wear earpieces. Listen up. We might have a nice conversation. You’ll know if it’s time to pounce.”

+++

Minutes later, Cal and Daniel pulled up to the gate leading to Congressman Quailen’s mansion. Cal pressed the button on the call box.

“May I help you?” came the scratchy voice from the box.

Cal waved to the camera, smiling. “Cal Stokes to see Congressman Quailen and Special Agent Steve Stricklin.”

There was an extended pause, then the gate creaked open.

“So far so good,” Cal murmured.

+++

“Looks like your old buddy’s here,” Quailen stated nonchalantly, walking into the library where Stricklin sat nursing another drink. He looked up with semi-bloodshot eyes.

“What? Who?”

“Stokes. He’s coming up to the house right now.”

“What?! How did he—.”

“Settle down, Stevie. Looks like he’s not as stupid as you let on. Let’s just see how this plays out. He can’t do anything with my security staff watching us.”

Stricklin downed the rest of his drink and nodded, hoping his churning stomach wouldn’t betray him.

+++

Congressman Quailen greeted the visitors at the door, two security personnel standing at the stairwell.

“Welcome, gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sorry to bother you at this hour, Congressman, but I received a phone call from this location, and since I was in the area, I thought I’d stop by and have a face-to-face,” said Cal, casually.

“That’s okay. You must be looking for my nephew.”

Quailen chuckled at the confused look on Cal’s face.

“Stevie, I mean Steve Stricklin, he’s my nephew on my ex-wife’s side.”

“Right. He and I go way back.”

Quailen nodded. “You’re more than welcome to come in. I hope you don’t mind if I have my bodyguards do a quick search?”

“No problem,” said Cal, raising his hands good-naturedly. He wouldn’t give the prick the satisfaction of being set back a single step.

+++

After a thorough frisking, no weapons were found, and neither were the tiny earbuds they’d implanted deep into their ear canals. They were led into the house.

“Would you like something to drink, gentlemen?” asked Quailen, playing the role of model host.

“I’ll take some Jack if you’ve got it. On the rocks, please,” requested Cal.

“And your friend?”

“He’s fine.”

Once Quailen had poured Cal a glass and topped off his own, they rounded a corner and entered the spacious library.

+++

“What do you mean he went in there?” asked Travis. “Is he fucking crazy?”

“Can’t say I disagree with him,” said Gaucho, who’d called Haden on Cal’s orders.

“You wanna explain that to me, Gaucho? Don’t you think it’s a bit of a risk?” Travis fumed. Not only had his cousin repeatedly undertaken self-imposed assignments bordering on recklessness, now he was confronting a United States Representative
and
an FBI agent.

“We’ve got nothing right now. If Cal can get some answers, put the bad guys back on their heels, maybe something will open up. He’s no idiot. Cal knows what he’s doing.”

Travis willed his temper under control. Maybe he was getting soft. It was something he’d talked to Todd Dunn about. Years of sitting behind a desk dulled the warrior within, whereas Cal continued to fight on the front lines. While the CEO in him doubted the tactics by which his Marine cousin exploited situations, most often being in your face, right up the middle, Cal got results. In the time since Cal had joined the ranks of SSI, operational effectiveness had increased dramatically. Cal’s teams found and went after the bad guys, period.

“Okay. Let me know.” Travis replaced the phone on his desk and ran a hand through his dirty blond hair.
What now?

+++

“Stokes,” sneered Stricklin, obviously drunk.

“Stevie, how the hell are ya?” answered Cal, raising his glass.

Quailen took the seat nearest the fire, enjoying the back and forth. “So how might we help you tonight, Mr. Stokes?”

“I got a call from your nephew about an hour ago. He wasn’t very nice, so I thought I’d come over and see who pissed in your Wheaties.”

“You know why I—.”

“It’s okay, Steve,” interrupted Quailen. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.” He didn’t want to make it easy for the upstart from Nashville. “How can we help you?”

Cal sipped his drink. There were several scenarios he could play. In the end he went with the most direct. “I’d like to know what evidence you think you have on me, Stricklin.”

Stricklin looked at his uncle, who nodded. “We have documentation stating that your company was involved not only with the false allegation against my uncle, and the manufacturing of that ridiculous video, but also that you were key contributors in the attacks against the first lady in Washington, D.C. and Alabama.”

Quailen waited. The part about their involvement with his video was true. His source had given him that piece of the puzzle. The other part, alleging SSI’s involvement in the assassination of the vice president and the attempted murder of the first lady, had been fabricated by a very talented writer friend the congressman had used over the years to frame certain political opponents. Quailen had found early on that the truth almost never mattered. A simple allegation and a good story were usually enough to get politicians and their constituents in an uproar. The use of anonymous sources sprinkled with half-truths was one of the Louisiana congressman’s favorite tactics.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stricklin. You better get your facts straight before you come at me with some bullshit charge. Don’t they teach investigative skills at the FBI Academy anymore?”

Before Stricklin could reply, there was a knock at the library door.

“I said we were not to be disturbed,” yelled Quailen, looking annoyed.

“There’s an important phone call for you, sir,” came the muffled reply.

Quailen huffed and hauled his large frame out of the chair. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.”

No one said a word as they waited. Cal took the opportunity to stand up and peruse the impressive collection of books arrayed neatly on the congressman’s oak shelving.

Congressman Quailen re-entered, followed by members of his security detail. Cal looked up from his examination.

“Well, gentlemen, that was the president. He’d like us all to join him in the Oval Office.”

“What’s this about, Congressman?” asked Cal.

In response, Quailen shrugged, turning around, heading for the exit. Cal and Daniel looked at each other questioningly, and then followed Quailen and a slightly staggering Stricklin out the door.