“Yes, I am. That’s no secret.”

  “You’re going to call her.”

  “What, use the Metro Police to defend the White House?”

  “No, something else,” John says. He turns and looks at the wounded, unconscious Deacon. “I’ll tell you, but we have to make another call first.”

  Ned says, “For her?”

  “Yes, and quick,” John says. “We have a new enemy—time.”

  Chapter

  142

  General Wayne Grissom walks out of a rarely used side entrance to the Pentagon and over to his personal armored black Tahoe, idling at the curb. In front of the Tahoe are two white Pentagon Police cruisers, and behind the Tahoe are two black Chevrolet Suburbans carrying members of the Pentagon’s protective service.

  Colonel Kendricks opens the rear door for the general, and he nods in appreciation and climbs in, his briefcase in his steady right hand. She comes around to the other side and says, “Don’t forget your seat belt, sir.”

  He fastens the seat belt in silence, looks over at one of the world’s largest office buildings, and remembers with a half smile a joke one of his predecessors had allegedly made during a newspaper interview: “How many people work at the Pentagon?” he was asked. “About half” came the wry answer.

  Well, he thinks, that’s still pretty true. Over the years, though, he’s quietly located those who do work and who will work in the nation’s interests to follow his orders today.

  Simple to do, really. All generals and colonels have staffers and NCOs underneath them who, for the most part, do the real work. They make the phone calls, prepare and write orders and memorandums, and present papers to be signed. So it’s easy to block information from getting to a superior officer or issue orders in that officer’s name.

  Happens all the time.

  His little procession exits the Pentagon’s parking lot and heads toward the on-ramp that will bring them to I-395. To his left is the massive parking lot for the building, and to the right is a fence and a steep sloping grassy hill leading to the adjacent highways.

  Traffic slows as they approach I-395, and he checks his watch, a gift from Janice when he received his first star.

  “We’ve got only twenty-nine minutes,” he says to Colonel Kendricks.

  Her smile is full of love and confidence. “No worries, sir. Soon enough, the way will be clear.”

  Chapter

  143

  After making the two necessary phone calls—one lasting under a minute, the other lasting much longer—Ned Mahoney says, “Time to move, John.”

  John says, “Give me a second.”

  “You got it,” Ned says. “I’ll start my car. You come out when you’re ready.”

  John kneels down by the couch, takes Elizabeth’s hand, and stares at her bandaged head.

  Ned goes through the large kitchen and out the side entrance. He hears a heavy knocking on the front door and sees two DC Metro Police officers standing there.

  He turns to go back into the house but it’s too late—he’s been spotted.

  “Agent Mahoney,” one cop calls out. “We see you there. We need to talk to you. Now.”

  Chapter

  144

  Back in the day, Sylvester had been an army specialist driving heavy fuel trucks to and from Baghdad. Your butt was always tense then because you were waiting for an IED to tear through you and turn you into a crispy critter, but driving the truck today is worse, much worse, he thinks.

  They’re heading down Pennsylvania Avenue and traffic is stop-and-go as they merge onto Washington Circle.

  He looks at the dashboard clock. Twenty-five minutes left to get into position, and he doubts they will make it.

  His passenger, Casey, says, “What’s bugging you?”

  “What the fuck do you think?” he asks. “We’re not going to get to the rendezvous point in time. And that’ll throw the whole schedule off.”

  Casey says, “Told you we should have left earlier.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Casey laughs. “Man, say a prayer. You gotta believe.”

  “In what?”

  “In miracles.”

  Sylvester is about to tell Casey where he can shove his miracles when he hears the distant howl of sirens.

  The sirens grow louder, and in his rearview and side-view mirrors he sees a line of DC Metro Police cruisers coming their way, with a cruiser peeling off at each intersection, blocking traffic.

  Casey says, “Okay, maybe not a miracle from God, but how about one from the DC police?”

  Sylvester checks the clock once more. The tight feeling across his chest eases.

  “I’ll take it,” he says.

  Chapter

  145

  Ned Mahoney slowly opens the door and nods to the two police officers, both heavyset fellows who look like they’ve been on the force for twenty years and never advanced up the ranks but don’t really mind.

  “Guys,” he asks. “What’s up? I need to get back to the Hoover Building as soon as possible. Can’t this wait?”

  The one on the left shakes his head. “No, sir. A while ago we received a BOLO for a dark blue Mercedes sedan with Virginia license plates involved in a mass shooting over at Crystal City.”

  He stops talking, and his partner picks up the story. “Thing is, we just located that Mercedes, parked down the street. One flat tire, rear window blown out, bullet holes in the rear and trunk, and fresh blood on the upholstery.”

  Ned says, “That’s awful, but I didn’t hear or see anything that can help.”

  “Are you certain?” the cop on the left says. “Are you certain you can’t help us?”

  Too late, Ned realizes he’s stepped into a trap, and he keeps his mouth shut as the same cop says, “Well, that’s odd to hear, Agent Mahoney, because there’s a trail of blood going from that shot-up Mercedes through your side gate and right up to your side steps. See?” The cop taps a black shoe near a smear of blood.

  Ned says, “Officers, really, I don’t have time and I need to—”

  “Sir.” The man’s voice is cold and no longer so polite. “We’re going to need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he says, wondering what they would say if he told them he had less than half an hour to stop a coup d’état.

  “Sir, move,” the other cop says, “or we’ll have to secure you by force.”

  Ned says, “Please, this can all be explained.”

  The first cop steps back, removes a yellow pistol-shaped weapon from his utility belt, and says, “You have ten seconds to submit, sir, or you will be tasered.”

  Chapter

  146

  As his assistant promised, the traffic does clear and soon they’re making good time on I-395, approaching the Potomac River and the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Earlier, Grissom had told his staff that he didn’t want any sirens for his trip to the White House, just an escort, which he would need only in the unlikely event that something went wrong.

  Everything is to be done right.

  To Kendricks he says, “You know where I was born and raised?”

  She’s focused on her iPhone but instantly answers, “Massachusetts.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “A town just outside of Boston. My parents were active in politics back when the average voter could make a difference. This was before the lobbyists, focus groups, and pollsters came along and took it all away from the people.” He folds his arms, looks down at the slow-moving Potomac River, then up at the barely visible Jefferson Memorial.

  What is that Jefferson quote? That’s right: “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”

  Grissom thinks, Not bad, Long Tom, not bad.

  Aloud he says, “There was an election for governor when I was a kid, a Democratic primary between a liberal candidate and a conservative candidate back when the Democrats actually had conservatives. To everyone’s surprise, the conservative candidate won. And later, one of his campaign consultants said the key to victory was taking all of the hate groups and stirring them into one pot.”

  The way ahead is still clear.

  “That’s what we’ve done,” he says, “and I make no apologies for it. Eventually they were going to tear this nation apart. I just took them under my wing, and in twenty-four hours, I’m going to crush them all.”

  Kendricks doesn’t answer.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  “No, sir,” she says. “Everything’s on schedule. The president is still in the underground bunker and all three power sources to the elevators are offline. Communications were cut just as the president was in the middle of a phone call.”

  “Do we know who he was talking to?” Grissom asks.

  “The DC mayor,” Kendricks says.

  “Oh, that’s fine,” he says. “Glad he wasn’t talking to anyone important.”

  Chapter

  147

  I slip out of Ned Mahoney’s house, carefully move across the fine lawn, and take cover behind the bushes and shrubbery so I can get a clear view of the two DC Metro Police who are trying to arrest him.

  From that position, I call out, “You two, freeze, or I’ll blow your damn heads off!”

  There are three surprised folks in front of me, Ned and the two cops, and I move a bit more so they’re square in my sights. I say, “Gents, I’ve got a nine-millimeter pistol pointed at you, and you’re both wearing ballistic vests, but I’m a goddamn good shot. If you move or try to come at me with a weapon, I’m going to drop you both. But I don’t intend to harm you. Do I have your attention?”

  I hear a strained but murmured “Yeah” from each one, and I say, “Each of you, with your left hand, take your service weapon by the muzzle and drop it to the ground. Your Taser as well.”

  They both comply, and the one on the right says, “Big John, is that you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “It’s Gus Tinnamen from the Second District. I did backup for you and Alex Cross two years back. You remember?”

  He starts to turn and I say, “Gus, when I say don’t move, I mean don’t friggin’ move.”

  “I just want to talk,” he pleads. “Can’t we work this out?”

  “No,” I say. “And I don’t want you to move, ’cause if I shoot you, I don’t want to see your face. Now. With one hand, unbuckle and drop your utility belts. Good. Now put your hands behind your heads, fingers intertwined, drop to your knees, and cross your ankles.”

  As they move, the other cop says, “You won’t get away with this.”

  “I just need to get away with this for a couple of hours.”

  When they’re on their knees, I go forward, kick away their weapons, strip their utility belts of their handcuffs—two each, perfect—and in less than a minute, their hands and ankles are cuffed and I’ve gently laid them on the ground. Eventually they’ll be discovered by neighbors or the FBI medical team that’s coming, but by then, we’ll be long gone.

  “Sorry, guys,” I say. “If this works out, I’ll buy you both beers, apologize, and tell you why I did this.”

  Gus says nothing. The other cop says, “You can take that beer and shove it up your ass.”

  I don’t answer. Ned joins me, briefcase in one hand, key fob in the other.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Someone coming here for Elizabeth?”

  “Less than ten minutes, John.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks—one less thing to worry about.”

  We race to his black Impala, and I’m thinking, Yeah, but there’s still a boatload of things to worry about out there.

  I check my watch.

  Twenty-three minutes left.

  Chapter

  148

  They are two blocks away from their target point at the White House, and Sylvester downshifts and slows the big tow truck as four armed DC Metro Police officers step out from behind their parked cruisers and wave them down.

  “All right,” he says to Casey. “Dig out the IDs. We’ll see if they work.”

  “And if they don’t work?”

  Sylvester says, “We proceed. Mission is always first.”

  Casey goes through a leather pouch. “Boy, such big brass ones you have.”

  “Screw you,” he says, bringing the truck to a halt. “Give me my ID.”

  Casey passes over the large embossed plastic card, and Sylvester lowers the window on his side. Casey does the same, and a cop clambers up and looks inside the truck’s cabin.

  Even before he and his companion ask, Sylvester and Casey pass over their forged government-issue identification cards. The cop’s nervous-looking face is sweating, and he almost drops the oversize card.

  Even Sylvester thinks the gold-threaded and embossed ID cards look pretty intimidating. Underneath Sylvester’s name, photo, signature, and thumbprint is this:

  UNDER ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, THIS INDIVIDUAL AUTHORIZED TO PASS THROUGH ALL LOCAL, REGIONAL, AND NATIONAL CHECKPOINTS. ALSO AUTHORIZED TO TAKE COMMAND OF LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AND USE ALL CIVILIAN AND LAW ENFORCEMENT RESOURCES AS NECESSARY.

  The cop passes the card over. “Okay, go through. Any idea what the hell is going on?”

  Sylvester shrugs. “I’m just following orders like everybody else.”

  His companion gives Casey’s pass back and says, “Any chance this is some sort of drill?”

  Sylvester revs up the diesel engine. “What, you think the biggest traffic jam ever to hit DC is going to be a drill?”

  The cop nods. “Then…I mean, what are you here for? You and your truck?”

  Sylvester shifts the truck into first. “When you have collapsed buildings and lots of destroyed cars, that’s the best way to move debris, right?”

  The cop nods and jumps off the side of the truck, and Sylvester rolls up his window and starts driving toward the trees surrounding the White House grounds.

  Casey says, “Jesus, did you see how pale that cop’s face was? I thought he was going to pass out.”

  Another shift of the gear. “Oh, the kid was all right,” Sylvester says. “He was scared, but he knew one important thing.”

  “What’s that?” Casey asks.

  “To follow orders.”

  Chapter

  149

  Grissom checks his watch.

  Well, we’re at least five minutes ahead of schedule. Always good to have some slack in your timeline.

  Kendricks says, “Look at that, sir. Just as planned. The Metro Police are holding traffic back, and there’s a single checkpoint coming up.”

  “You have our IDs?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” she says, removing two identification cards from her leather briefcase. The driver and security officer up front have similar cards, as do the officers in the vehicles behind them and the Pentagon Police up ahead.

  He takes the card and says, “Amazing that an old contingency plan is still useful.”

  “All a matter of timing, sir,” Kendricks says.

  Grissom rubs the smooth plastic, eyes his photo. He looks…composed? At peace? Ready to do what’s necessary?

  “My son, Nathan, and his unit were due to be rotated out in two days,” he says, voice soft. “Can you believe that? Just forty-eight hours later, he’d have been at Bagram Air Base, ready to come home. Instead, what was left of him was put in a metal box and sent home to Dover. And for what? A sacrifice he and thousands of others paid for with their blood and that this nation spent billions on—and for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll make sure that kind of soul-killing mistake never happens again.”

  “I know you will, sir,” she says. “Beginning today.”

  He rubs the card again. “Timing.”

  Up ahead there are blue and white wooden sawhorses marking a DC Metro Police checkpoint. The Tahoe starts to slow.

  “Sir?” she says.

  “You know who Alexandre Dumas is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” she says. “The French author who wrote The Three Musketeers.”

  “That he did,” he says. “But he also wrote The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  The little convoy comes to a halt.

  His identification card is in his lap. He looks down, and for a strange moment, the person in the photo seems to be his son, Nathan.

  Grissom says, “In that important novel, Dumas wrote: ‘The difference between treason and patriotism is only a matter of dates.’ As this day progresses, let’s keep that in mind, Colonel.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” she replies.

  Chapter

  150

  As Ned races to the White House through the crowded streets of DC, lights and siren on, I send a quick text to Bree Stone:

  SITUATION IS EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. MAKE SURE EVERYONE IN THE FAMILY IS OFF THE STREETS.

  Ned says, “Okay, John, we’ve got a police roadblock up ahead at I Street. And we’ve got about fifteen minutes before we hit noon. Should we blast through it?”

  “No,” I say. “Let’s try something else.”

  “Like what?” Ned asks.

  “I’ll come up with something, don’t worry about it,” I say, rapidly texting. “Hold on, almost done here.”

  IF SOMETHING HAPPENS, TELL WILLOW I LOVE HER VERY, VERY MUCH AND NEVER STOPPED THINKING OF HER. PLEASE, YOU AND ALEX RAISE HER AS YOUR OWN.

  I send off the text as the Impala comes to a halt in front of the two DC Metro Police cruisers and six heavily armed MPD cops.

  I say, “They’re jumpy. Let’s move slow and let me take lead.”