“You got it,” Ned says.

  I step out and so does Ned. I hear car horns, sirens, and the voices of people clustered on the sidewalk, looking around and pointing. A helicopter from one of the local TV stations roars low overhead, and a DC Metro Police lieutenant comes forward and says, “Gentlemen, I need to see your identification.”

  I think, Oh, shit, because it’s Lieutenant Matt Caine, who’s hated me pretty much from the first day I was on the force. He’s fleshy and overweight, and his face is always red, like he’s perpetually angry. I know from others that he thought the force started going downhill the day they let women and minorities join.

  He says, “Actually, I see only one gentleman. Hey, Detective, what are you doing here? Word is that your fat ass has been suspended.”

  I say, “Matt, we’re trying to pass through.”

  “No can do,” he says. “Orders, you know? Oh, right, fuck, you don’t know. You and your buddy Alex follow your own orders. Sorry. Not gonna work this time.”

  Ned shows his identification. “Lieutenant, I’m Agent Ned Mahoney, FBI.”

  “Good for you, Agent Mahoney,” Caine says. “We’re pretty frigging busy here in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I know and I appreciate that, Lieutenant,” Ned says, “but it’s vital that we pass through your checkpoint.”

  Caine says, “I need another form of identification, not the one you’re showing me.”

  I’m feeling hemmed in, trapped in the kind of bad dream when you’re running from danger through sticky taffy. Out of all the supervisors in the Metro Police, I have to deal with this one.

  What to do? Plead, beg, threaten?

  Ned’s voice is calm and steady when he says, “I know the ID you’re looking for. Oversize, gold-threaded, and embossed, with my photo, signature, and thumbprint, and orders underneath that I have the authorization of the president to go anywhere and seize anything I need for the good of the nation. Right?”

  A reluctant nod from Caine. “Right. And where’s yours?”

  “Stuck in a filing cabinet somewhere. I really don’t know, Lieutenant,” Ned says. “Some clerk is busy right now trying to find it. But you see I know what kind of ID is required for us to pass through. This response is called Operation Wrangler, correct?”

  “Agent Mahoney, I—”

  Ned steps closer—trying to build a face-to-face bond, I think—and says, “Lieutenant, this response package was developed when Ike was president. More than seventy years ago! It’s to be used in only the most extreme emergencies, and I need to get to the White House right now. ID or no ID. That’s how desperate the situation is.”

  I sense Caine is wavering. Ned says, “I take full responsibility. It’s all on me.”

  Caine looks at me, then back at Ned.

  I want to check to see how much time is left but I don’t dare move.

  “Why the hell is John Sampson with you?”

  Ned laughs. “The asshole said he could pass us through any police lines in less than thirty seconds. Guess I was wrong to trust him, huh?”

  Caine laughs in response, steps back, and waves to two officers to move the blue and white sawhorses out of the way. “You guess right, Agent Mahoney, and I’ll hold you to what you just said about taking responsibility. And I got witnesses to back me up.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant, and if it goes wrong, I’ll cheerfully toss John Sampson under the nearest bus,” Ned says.

  He goes back to his Impala, red and blue lights still flashing in the grille and windshield. I get in and as we pass through the checkpoint, he says, “Sorry for calling you an asshole, John.”

  Now I check my watch.

  Just seven minutes left.

  “It worked,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”

  Chapter

  151

  In a highly restricted and obscure dusty subbasement of the White House, Eliza DeVos, deputy head of the Secret Service presidential detail, impatiently waits for two burly White House maintenance men to undo the last bolt from a thick manhole-cover-type lid and drag it away. The floor is brick, and the solitary light overhead is flickering off and on.

  Trent Woodson, head of the protective detail, says to the two workers, “Safety harnesses and belts, as soon as you can. At least a half a dozen.”

  The workers exit through a small door leading to a smooth concrete corridor. Eliza uses her flashlight to check out the shelves crowded with cardboard boxes, some with scribbled dates going back to 1967.

  Trent uses his own flashlight to peer down the opening. His light illuminates the top rung of a ladder and fades out into the depths.

  “How deep?” he asks.

  “Six stories,” Eliza answers. “That’s about seventy feet.”

  “Jesus,” he says, leaning over more. “That’s one long climb.”

  “Yeah, and it’d be worse if a Russian nuke hit DC and collapsed the White House over our heads. This is plan D or E for getting POTUS out of the White House in case of nuclear strike.”

  “Any more communications from POTUS?”

  “Not for at least twenty minutes,” she says. “All of the secure comms are offline, phone lines are disabled, and cell phones won’t work with all this steel and concrete overhead.”

  The head of the protective detail says, “One way or another, we’re going to get POTUS out of there.”

  “Why?” she asks. “He’s safe, he’s secure, and we don’t know what the hell is going on up top.”

  He says, “Procedure and policy. The White House is secure but it might be breached at any moment. We get him out and on Marine One and then to Air Force One.”

  “What if he falls climbing up? He could get killed if the harness broke.”

  “Not open for discussion, DeVos,” he says, voice sharp. “We’re exfiling POTUS soonest.”

  Eliza nods in agreement. She leans over and says, “Hold on, I think I see someone down there flashing a light.”

  “Really?” Woodson says. “Where?”

  “At the bottom, at your six o’clock.”

  Woodson leans over to take a look, and with both hands, Eliza gives him a sharp shove. He tumbles down instantly and she hears a yell and then a series of thuds as he hits the ladder on the way down. He lands on the metal and concrete at the bottom with a sharp cry.

  She steps back, straightens up, dusts off her hands.

  For the past few years, she’s wanted to head the president’s protective detail, and now the job is hers.

  Chapter

  152

  For brief seconds, Sylvester and Casey and their huge Mack tow truck are almost two minutes ahead of schedule. They’re closing in on Seventeenth Street NW and the White House when Sylvester says, “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Ahead of them is a black and yellow Diamond Cab crushed between a Lexus and a Camry, steam rising up from the cab’s crumpled hood.

  All three vehicles are blocking the road.

  Lots of folks are standing on the sidewalks, coming out from the office buildings on both sides of the wide street.

  Casey says, “Well, this sucks.”

  A woman in black yoga pants and a gray sweatshirt holding a bloody handkerchief to her head runs at them. She calls, “Can you help? The taxi driver and his two passengers are trapped, they can’t get out. A mother and a little girl. Can you tow the vehicles so the EMTs can get to the injured?”

  Sylvester says, “Lady, I don’t see any ambulances around.”

  “They’re coming, honest,” she says. “And I’m a nurse. I can give them first aid before the EMTs get here.”

  Next to him Casey murmurs, “Time…”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sylvester says.

  The woman says, “Oh, bless you.”

  Casey says something but Sylvester ignores him; he puts the Mack into reverse, backs up on Pennsylvania Avenue NW, then puts the big truck in drive and pushes down the accelerator.

  Sylvester says, “Hold on to your shorts.”

  “Oh, man,” Casey says.

  Sylvester stares straight at the mess of three vehicles, gauging where the weak point is, and he shifts again and the truck picks up speed. Sylvester barely sees the shocked faces of the folks standing by when the truck strikes hard.

  The vehicles blow apart and there’s screaming and yelling, and Sylvester thinks he sees the black fencing of the White House come into view.

  Casey says, “Man, when you say you’ll take care of it, you take care of it.”

  Chapter

  153

  At the intersection of Seventeenth Street NW and Constitution Avenue—the southern end of the Ellipse and the South Lawn of the White House—Ned Mahoney swerves his government-issue Impala to a stop. He and I get out.

  Part of the plan. Send out a false alarm to get people out of the area of the White House.

  As we trot up Seventeenth Street, people are running away from the area, just like they did on 9/11 when rumors spread that a hijacked airliner was coming to strike the White House.

  There’s a row of vendor trucks selling everything from hot takeout food to ice cream, all of them abandoned. The keys to the third truck are still in the ignition. Ned starts it up, drives it back to the Impala, and parks it directly in front of the sedan. The two vehicles effectively block the entire intersection.

  He gets out, takes the keys, and tosses them down a sewer grate.

  I ask, “How in hell did you know the details of that special ID?”

  Ned leans into the driver’s side of the Impala and pops open the trunk. “Three years ago, I was reviewing DC emergency planning that had the agency’s involvement. That one just stuck in my mind.”

  The streets are distressingly empty of vehicles, though blocks away in each direction I can see the flashing lights of police cruisers.

  “Feel like we’re the only survivors in a zombie movie,” I say, going with Ned to the trunk of his car. He pulls out two ballistic vests with FBI in bright yellow letters. We help each other put them on, and he says, “Time?”

  “Ten till noon,” I say.

  “All right,” he says, coming out with an M4 automatic rifle and a twelve-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun. “Got a plan, John?”

  Without asking, I take the M4. “Their plan is for General Grissom to get to the White House and take control. You and I are going to stop him. Simple, huh?”

  “Simple as it gets,” he says, racking a shotgun shell into the chamber.

  I say, “Why this intersection?”

  He grabs a pair of binoculars, looks south down Seventeenth Street. No vehicles moving. Ned says, “This is the quickest way to get to the main White House gate from the Pentagon. He’s a general. He won’t do anything different.” Ned lowers the binoculars. “I think.”

  I check the M4 for ammo, go to the trunk, see a belt with two pouches for thirty-round magazines. Not a lot of firepower to save the nation, but it’ll have to do. I take the belt and say, “If they won’t stop, fire at the tires. That’ll slow them down. But I have a feeling they’ll stop.”

  “Why’s that?” Ned asks.

  “Because even if Grissom is planning a coup, he still has to have drivers and bodyguards with him. Working stiffs. And they’ll pause when they see our little roadblock and won’t attack us with guns blazing.”

  Way down Seventeenth Street, flashing blue and red lights appear.

  “I hope,” I add.

  Chapter

  154

  Ned lifts up the binoculars again and says, “Hope’s not a plan, John. We’ve got a small convoy coming our way. Looks like two police cruisers, three big SUVs. Maybe Tahoes or Suburbans.”

  I work the bolt to the M4, and now there’s a round in the chamber. “Time?” I ask.

  “About eight minutes to noon.”

  I say, “From everything I’ve learned from Mason’s laptop and the thumb drives, the assault kicks off at noon, with Grissom at the White House making a speech to the world. We’re not going to let that happen.”

  Ned says, “Agreed.”

  I’m standing behind the open trunk. I close the lid so my view isn’t obstructed. I say, “Ned, set up at the front of the car. You’ve got the engine to protect you.”

  Ned frowns but moves over. “What’s going to protect you, John?”

  I remove the full magazines from the ammo pouches, put them on the closed trunk lid for easy access. “Why, the full resources of the FBI, that’s what.”

  He takes the shotgun, reaches into his coat pocket, stacks up some twelve-gauge shells in the gap between the windshield and hood.

  The vehicles are coming closer. The two police cruisers are now driving side by side. A Tahoe is in the center, followed by a pair of Suburbans.

  My hands are cold and my mouth is dry, but other than that, I feel good.

  I say, “Time?”

  “Since you last asked? One minute later.”

  “Okay.”

  They come closer, and I say, “If they speed up like they’re going to ram us, you aim for the tires, I’ll aim for the drivers.”

  “Got it.”

  I can hear the engines of the approaching vehicles. Hard to believe that in one of them is the general who started this wave of terror and who’s using that false flag operation to overthrow the government of the United States of America.

  The lights keep flashing.

  The convoy keeps approaching.

  I clear my throat. “Ned?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s been an honor and a privilege working with you and having you as a friend.”

  No answer for a second. Then Ned says, “Jesus, a moment like this, you want to get me choked up and teary-eyed?”

  I laugh. “Sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  I say, “They’re almost here.”

  Chapter

  155

  Inside the Tahoe, Grissom looks up from his papers and says, “What the hell is going on?”

  “We’re slowing, sir,” Kendricks says.

  “I know that,” Grissom snaps. “Find out why and fix it. We don’t have time to screw around.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says, and she opens the door and gets out after the Tahoe comes to a stop.

  Grissom looks at his watch, irritated. About five minutes before noon. They’re two blocks away from the White House and this happens? Unacceptable.

  He takes a deep breath. It’ll be all right. He’s been driven up this route scores of times, and he’s positive this time will go as smoothly as the rest.

  There’s no doubt—

  Kendricks opens the door. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s a roadblock up ahead.”

  “A roadblock? From the Metro Police? This isn’t one of their roadblock positions. There has to be a mistake.”

  Kendricks says, “Sir, it’s not a Metro Police unit.”

  “Then who the hell is up there?”

  “Two men. One says he’s an FBI agent and the other says he’s a police detective. They’re blocking the road with an Impala and a vendor’s truck. And they’re…adamant that we can’t proceed.”

  “Well, just drive past them.”

  “They’re armed,” she says.

  Grissom puts his papers down. “Then I’ll handle it myself, damn it. We don’t have time for this shit.”

  Chapter

  156

  I breathe easier now that the two police cars from the Pentagon’s police force have come to a halt.

  That means the shooting is delayed, at least for now.

  The doors to the two cruisers swing open, and four Pentagon Police officers scramble out. One of them, a heavyset man, steps so close that I can see the color of his eyes—blue—and says, “I’m Captain Roy Jemison, Pentagon Police.”

  “Nice to meet you, even under these circumstances,” I say. “I’m John Sampson, Metro Police detective, and my companion here is Ned Mahoney, FBI.”

  He looks at us both. “You’ve got to move your vehicle and let us through.”

  I say, “Why?”

  That seems to startle him. “Because we’re escorting General Wayne Grissom to the White House and it’s vital that he gets there in the next few minutes. Step back, move the vehicle.”

  “Or?” Ned asks from the other side of the Impala.

  “We’ll be forced to take action.”

  I smile wide even though I’m not in a humorous mood. “Captain Jemison? You and your fellow officers, you need to return to your vehicles and get out of here. You’re Pentagon Police. You have no jurisdiction here. Go back across the Potomac where you belong.”

  The captain steps forward. “This is a national emergency! General Grissom needs to be at the White House now!” His hand moves to his holster.

  I raise my voice and say, “What national emergency? Do you know why he’s going to the White House? He’s declaring martial law and seizing control of the government. Captain, you’ve sworn an oath to the Constitution. The general you’re escorting is about to shove the Constitution into a shredder. You okay with that?”

  Jemison says, “That all sounds like conspiracy bullshit. I don’t care what you say. Move your vehicle. Now.”

  I say, “Captain, again, you and your officers have no jurisdiction here. I’m a member of the District police and Mr. Mahoney is with the FBI, which has complete jurisdiction throughout this location. In other words, everything you see—streets, sidewalks, parks—belongs to us. Not you.”

  I’m looking at the captain’s face, then at the confused and concerned faces of his fellow officers, and I say, “Get the hell out while you can.”

  “I have my orders.”

  “Yeah, we do too. You’re not passing through.”

  Jemison says, “You don’t move, it’s going to be escalated.”

  “Escalated by you,” I say. “Anyone in front of us reaches for a weapon, shooting is going to start. You’ve got us, four versus two, but you’re out in the open and we’re behind a barrier, the finest steel from Chevrolet. We’ve got a shotgun and an M4. It won’t end pretty.”