The Warren Omissions (18 page)

“Suppose I say yes. What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“Go to Russia and disarm the missiles at the Kuklovod’s base camp. They are planning on launching the first salvo to incite a war—that is if Sandford doesn’t launch our missiles first.”

Flynn stared out the window and shook his head. He would’ve jumped at this chance when he was with the agency, but things felt different now. Everything about his life was different. This was what he left behind. Adrenaline. Fear. Danger. Heroism. Appearing on cable network news to discuss dark government secrets fascinated him far more than rushing into a situation that could have lethal repercussions for himself. He remained silent, lost in thought.

“If you can’t do it for your country, will you at least do it for the one person who always believed in you?”

Flynn jerked his gaze back toward Osborne.

“You want me to do this for my mother?” Flynn said as he leaked a wry smile.

Osborne shook his head and smiled. Flynn was in.

“How’s your Russian?”

CHAPTER 39

BETHANY BRIGGS SQUEEZED her husband’s hand before leaving his side for the first time to do anything other than use the restroom since her husband was shot. The past twenty-four hours tested her faith in ways she never imagined. 
 
Is this really happening?

She turned the door handle before looking back at her husband lying in a coma, fighting for his life. Tears streamed down her face, smearing her mascara. She daubed her wet checks with the back of her hand, unwilling to be seen as a weak woman. Pushing past the two Secret Service agents guarding the door, Bethany made her way down the hall and into a private unoccupied conference room.

Bethany pulled the door shut behind her, locking it. She loved her husband—and she loved her country. And right now, if she believed everything she heard, both were in danger of vanishing as she knew them. The television in the corner of the room displayed images from the chaos interspersed with talking heads opining about the future of America’s leadership or how much longer the President would live.

She pulled out her cell phone and hit redial. Even the most bull-headed of personalities struggled to say
 
no
 
to Diane Dixon. But Bethany didn’t foresee any problems with the request Diane was about to make.

“So what do you want me to do?” Bethany asked, foregoing any formalities as Diane answered.

“I want you to be the acting President,” Diane said.

“What? I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. Just think of yourself as the second coming of Edith Wilson.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“When Woodrow Wilson fell ill, it was his wife Edith who kept up pretenses that her husband was still fit to run the country.”

“I know the story—but Wilson wasn’t in a coma. He was just partially paralyzed.”

“Sure, but who’s getting in to see the President these days? Anyone other than his physicians? I can be very persuasive at getting people to keep quiet.”

“Can we legally do this?”

“Can you forge your husband’s signature?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s the answer to your question. Just don’t ask me too many other questions. I need plausible deniability.”

“OK, fine. What do I need to do first?”

Diane explained all the fine details to Bethany before hanging up.

Bethany wondered what her husband—a real patriot—would think about what she was about to do.
 
If it will stop a war, I’m sure he would understand.
 
She was lying to herself and she knew it. Her rationale would be defeated by the President’s principled approach to following protocol and precedence. At least there was one good thing about him being in a coma.

CHAPTER 40

IVAN SQUATTED IN THE DARK, hoping his hunch was right. So far, things were going according to plan. The President was sidelined and his replacement was itching to fire missiles in the air and start the next world war.

Yet a fly in the ointment remained: James Flynn.

He had disposed of some of the world’s most ruthless MI-6 agents with about as much trouble as it took him to eat a piece of cake. But not Flynn. The enigmatic journalist seemed to get the jump on him at every turn. Ivan wondered how a former CIA agent with such intuition could have left the agency so easily. As much as Ivan wanted to kill Flynn, he also strangely admired him.

Only once before had an agent challenged him, pushing him to the brink of death. On a mission to secure long-range missiles in Nepal, Ivan crossed paths with a CIA operative who somehow learned about the deal he was about to make with foreign mercenaries. Having never met his contact, Ivan set everything up in a clandestine site near a frozen lake. It was how Ivan conducted business: get what he wants, then murder the seller. Nobody came looking for these lowlifes, and even if they did, they’d be hard pressed to find them at the bottom of the lake.

But on this particular day, Ivan was the one surprised. A sniper hit him with a tranquilizer. Ivan never even saw his face. Twenty minutes later, Ivan awoke naked and gasping for air beneath a partially frozen lake. He had no idea how long he’d been underwater—or how he survived for that matter. When he resurfaced, figuring out how was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted revenge. It was all he could think about as he warmed himself by a fire, one he found blazing with all the money he’d brought to the exchange. The sniper had laid Ivan’s clothes neatly laid by the fire along with a note that read: “If I see you again, I won’t be so kind.”

Ivan lost a couple of toes due to frostbite he suffered during that mission, but he didn’t lose his resolve. He was more determined than ever to fulfill the Kuklovod’s mission, even if it meant taking out the CIA one operative at a time. Yet all his years of persistent and hard work had resulted in bringing the organization to the precipice of achieving his seemingly unattainable goal.

And everything was going to be fine once James Flynn was out of the picture.

CHAPTER 41

FLYNN RETURNED TO HIS APARTMENT to pack. He had an hour to gather his things and report to the airfield where he would fly halfway around the world and hope to accomplish a solo mission that would stave off a world war. He worried about Natalie and what might happen to her as a result of his reckless entrance into this investigation. But there was no time to let his emotions distract him. He nearly called Osborne a half dozen times on his way home, mulling over the impending disaster that would befall the U.S. if he did nothing. But his country needed him—even if it said it didn’t. Osborne needed him, which trumped any vindictiveness hurled at him by the agency. As long as one person believed in him, that’s all Flynn needed.

As Flynn packed, he winced. The mere thought of returning to Russia made him shudder. Bitter cold. Sketchy intel. Knives waiting to be shoved in your back. The country bred traitors like it was its top export commodity. Anything for money. Honor and valor meant nothing to anyone. It was all about getting paid. At times, such a culture played to his advantage, but a higher bidder almost always cost him. This time, he would avoid such tactics. The fewer prisoners, the better. He knew this was a mess even some members of the Russian government wouldn’t mind cleaning up.

Flynn stuffed thermal undergarments into a duffle bag and a few gadgets he hadn’t surrendered to the agency upon his dismissal. These gadgets would never make James Bond envious, but they got the job done. A remote optical camera. A shotgun mic that could pick up conversations from long distances. Even a pair of boots concealing a knife.
 
You never know when you might need one. 
 
Flynn shook his head as he stared at the relics of past missions. 
 
What are you doing? Are you out of your mind? You’re an investigative reporter now, not some vigilante hero. 
 
As quickly as the thoughts pinged around his head, he dismissed them.
 
Osborne needs me.

As Flynn closed one of his drawers, he froze. A creaking noise put him on alert. Breathless, Flynn waited another moment or two. Nothing.
 
Must be the house settling.

He pulled open his top drawer to fetch his final necessary item—his lucky bullet, complete with a chain around it. Flynn wore it on all his missions after a doctor retrieved it from his stomach following an incident in the Congo. Tasked with identifying the buyer of weapons dealer Joseph Kyenge’s cache of long-range ballistic missiles, Flynn made a mistake during his surveillance. The sun glinted off his binoculars while he lay prostrate on a cliff above Kyenge’s camp. After avoiding the initial hail of bullets, Flynn suffered a near fatal shot when one of the bullets glanced off a rock and lodged in his stomach. The agony of driving while trying to escape capture was a memory he couldn’t shake. He managed to lose Kyenge’s guards and found his way back to the bush plane where his pilot flew him to a village with a visiting doctor from the U.S. Flynn learned later that there were a few tense moments, but the doctor saved his life as he put together a makeshift operating room, retrieved the bullet and sutured the wound. He never found out who purchased the weapons—and it ate at him.
 
Those stupid binoculars
 
.

Flynn stared at the warped bullet in his hand. It stirred courage in him like nothing else.
 
Not even a bullet can stop me
 
. He knew he was overstating his ability to survive such a hit, but he didn’t care. If he dwelled on the reality of how close he came to dying, he might lock himself up in a room and never see the outside world again. He lived in a dangerous world for a long time, but he also knew he could just as well die in a car accident or from a heart attack going about his everyday life. Dead was dead.
 
Better to die doing something meaningful
 
.

Creeeeeeeak!

Flynn froze again.
 
Am I imagining things? 
 
He waited a couple of seconds before moving.

Without warning, Flynn’s closet door burst open as an assailant raced toward him. Flynn recognized him immediately—Ivan. Flynn dodged the blade being waved about. Thinking on his feet, Flynn used the bullet chain to grasp Ivan’s blade-carrying hand, forcing the blade to the floor. The two exchanged blows before Ivan earned the upper hand, taking Flynn down with a swift kick to his outer shin and pouncing on top of him. Flynn struggled beneath Ivan’s imposing frame.

Ivan pinned Flynn’s arms to the ground and grabbed the closest object he could find—Flynn’s bullet chain. He began choking Flynn. Squirming to relieve the pressure on his neck, Flynn freed his arms and jammed the fingers on his right hand beneath the chain to prevent rapid asphyxiation. With his left hand, Flynn groped underneath his bed. He kept trying to wrestle away from Ivan as he felt several items. A pair of socks. Dirty boxes. 
Where is it?
 
Then, he found it—the cold cylindrical can of bear spray. Gasping for air, Flynn directed the spray right at Ivan, who rolled off him, clutching his eyes in pain. The agonizing yelp pierced Flynn’s ears.

Flynn fished out the pistol from his bag and held it on Ivan as he kicked the knife away from him.

“Now get up!” Flynn barked.

Ivan staggered to his feet, still burying his face in his hands and whimpering from the pain.

Flynn jammed his gun into Ivan’s back. “I’ve got a lot of questions for you—but I don’t have time to ask them now. Unfortunately for you, I’m going to let someone much more unpleasant than myself ask them.”

Flynn led Ivan down into the garage of his townhome and tied him to a support pole, at least eight feet away from any other object in the garage. He then proceeded to pat down Ivan and search for any other objects that might assist him in cutting himself free. Satisfied that Ivan was devoid of any chance at escape, Flynn shook his head as he looked at Ivan.

“The press is going to have a field day with you,” Flynn said.

Ivan spit at him and then hung his head.

Unbothered by Ivan’s gesture, Flynn headed up stairs and turned the lights out.

He locked the door as his cell phone buzzed.

“Where are you?” Osborne demanded after Flynn answered.

“I’ve been a little busy.”

Osborne didn’t seem interested in Flynn’s excuse.

“We don’t have any time to waste. Get down to the airfield now.”

“Sorry, I was just busying apprehending the President’s assassin. You can thank me later.”

Osborne stopped panicking.

“You did
 
what
 
?”

“You heard me. Ivan jumped me in my house and tried to kill me. But I left him for you in my garage. Send someone over here quick to pick him up.”

“Good work. Now hurry up! You’ve got a war to stop!”

CHAPTER 42

GERALD SANDFORD WATCHED the activity swirling around his office. In just a few short hours, he would unleash his pent-up fury on Russia for taking his daughter from him. Though it was a different kind of taking than he initially believed. Sydney wasn’t dead—and he hoped she wouldn’t become a pawn in this high-stakes game. But he was going to make sure Russia paid for whatever part they played in her disappearance from his life for the past 15 years.