Kodiak Sky (Red Cell Trilogy Book 3) (31 page)

But he found nothing.

As he shoved the last drawer back into the desk and rose up, an eerie feeling came over him. As he stared at the print of a forest scene hanging on the far wall, everything else in the bedroom disappeared. Even the sounds of the bullets faded from his ears.

As a young boy he’d walked into Bill’s study one day and surprised his father hanging a picture on the wall. Rehanging, Jack realized now. Bill had made some excuse about how it had fallen from its nail, but that had struck Jack as strange, because he hadn’t heard anything fall as he was walking toward the study, and the frame looked undamaged. And Bill had seemed nervous, which he never was.

Jack put his pistol down on the nightstand and hurried to the print. As he lifted the frame from the wall, a single piece of faded paper fell from behind it and dropped to the floor. He put the print down and picked up the paper. It was the Order.

“Good job,” a gruff voice said. “My boss is gonna be real happy about that.”

Jack whipped around. A man holding a shotgun stood in the doorway, smiling smugly.

“Who’s your boss?” Jack asked, not expecting an answer, surprised when the man brandishing the weapon actually answered.

“Stewart Baxter,” he said, raising the shotgun and aiming it at Jack. “Now say good-bye, Jack Jensen.”

G
ADANZ MOVED
forward to the edge of his seat and caught his breath as the television camera panned in for a close-up of the president hugging his illegitimate daughter while the bright lights from the press gallery below the jet flashed at them like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

When Dorn and Shannon finally leaned back from their initial embrace and the camera caught a full glimpse of the young woman’s face, a thrill coursed through Gadanz’s body. Shannon was a pretty girl, but she didn’t look pretty right now. She was sick, though she had no idea
how
sick.

She’d been asleep in the one-room hut of the small town nestled into a remote river valley of the Democratic Republic of the Congo in western Africa when she’d been injected with the filthy blood poisoned by the Ebola virus. It had been fewer than twelve hours, so she couldn’t know—yet. But the doctors would diagnose her condition very quickly.

Gadanz threw his head back and laughed demonically as Dorn hugged Shannon again for the cameras and smiled that winning smile. Despite being ambushed at Harpers Ferry as he was leading his assassins toward Washington, Liam Sterling had still gotten his primary target. President Dorn had now been directly exposed to the virus and would undoubtedly fall victim to it as well.

The blood that Karen Jensen had been injected with, in that same hut a few hours later, was rife with the virus as well. Gadanz nodded to himself as he watched. This part of Operation Anarchy was still moving forward perfectly. Sterling had still executed the most important piece of this to perfection.

Somehow Troy Jensen, his brother, and other bastards of Red Cell Seven had interrupted the plan. But Gadanz didn’t care. In fact, he was happy that, based upon the reports he was receiving, Troy was going to live. Very soon, according to Sterling, who’d managed to escape the ambush at Harpers Ferry and had already called Gadanz twice, Troy was going to wish he hadn’t survived. Troy was going to be faced with a terrible decision no absolute patriot and loving, compassionate brother would ever want to face. No one in their right mind would.

Gadanz felt the familiar pain in his head coming on, and he leaned forward and closed his eyes in advance of it, as he’d become too accustomed to doing. Perhaps it was finally time to see another doctor.

He hated doctors. They rarely had good news.

He glanced at the TV as the pain in his forehead intensified. They certainly wouldn’t have good news for Shannon—or the president.

He screamed as the pain in his head turned unbearable.

T
ROY LAY
on the hospital bed. Somehow the bullet he’d taken on Route 340 had missed all the major organs in his chest. He’d lost a tremendous amount of blood, and they’d given him a heavy dose of painkillers, but he was awake.

“My father,” he whispered as an attendant moved into the room.

When the man reached Troy’s bedside, he leaned down so he could hear better. “Sir?”

“My father is Bill Jensen,” Troy gasped. “Have you heard anything about him?”

“He’s in a hospital in New York City. From what I understand, he’s going to live.” The man had no idea if Bill Jensen would live or die, but he believed it would be better for Troy’s mental state if he received good news. And the man wanted Troy to live—for now—though not for the reason the hospital’s legitimate staff did. “I have something for you, sir,” he said, pressing a note and the vial filled with amber liquid into Troy’s weak hand. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

With that, Liam Sterling exited the premises. His latest disguise had worked beautifully.

CHAPTER 38

“G
OOD AFTERNOON,
Henry,” Baxter said politely as he eased into the same chair he’d sat in the last time they’d met in Espinosa’s home study. The night they’d discussed the Order that made Red Cell Seven untouchable. The night Baxter had unleashed his ominous warning about sexual skeletons. “I appreciate you being available for me on such short notice.”

“Of course.”

Espinosa’s response sounded cordial, but Baxter knew the chief justice nominee wasn’t at all happy about this meeting. Beneath the calm exterior Espinosa was nervous, and justifiably so. The silent current running through this meeting was strained—which was exactly as Baxter wanted. It would make Espinosa pliable, like putty.

“That was a hell of a thing that happened in Harpers Ferry yesterday.”

“Yes,” Espinosa agreed, “it was.”

“I think we’re all safe at this point. But it’s still a good idea for the major players in town to lay low for a while.”

“Your boss didn’t lay low last night,” Espinosa pointed out. “That was quite a show he put on at Andrews.”

Baxter nodded. There was no denying David Dorn’s flair for the dramatic—and his understanding of how to use television. His approval rating had soared to almost ninety percent by ten o’clock this morning. No one seemed to care about his indiscretion in Vermont all those years ago. Only that he’d “manned up” and gone to meet Shannon at the airport as soon as she landed—as well as quickly defused another major terrorist attack. His tide couldn’t get much higher.

“It worked out well for him,” Baxter observed.

“It seems as if everything always does.”

Usually, Baxter agreed, though there was an issue this time. It turned out Shannon was very sick. She’d been taken from Andrews Air Force Base directly to Walter Reed Hospital and was now lying unconscious in the intensive care unit.

Now President Dorn had fallen ill, too. Doctors were running tests on Shannon and the president, and Baxter had left orders with his staff to call him as soon as the results were in. Baxter figured it was simply a bad bug, and Dorn would be back in the White House saddle quickly. Nothing ever seemed to slow the president down for long.

“Let’s get to the point,” Baxter said brusquely. “It’s time to—”

“First,” Espinosa cut in, “tell me how you knew to call and warn me the other day.”

“What are you talking about?” Baxter demanded, irritated at the interruption.

“How did you know what was going to happen? How did you know I could be a target for those people who were caught in Harpers Ferry?”

“I received a last-second intel report from the CIA,” Baxter lied.

It had been Shane Maddux who’d alerted him, but Espinosa didn’t need to know that. No one did. It seemed strange that Maddux would come to the rescue like that with the nugget of vitally important information, but so be it. Now was not the time for questions, and Baxter would never violate the personal loyalty Maddux had shown, giving the warning, by giving away his source. It had occurred to Baxter that Maddux must somehow be involved in the terrorist plot, but no one had died. Perhaps Maddux had actually had a hand in foiling it.

“Now,” Baxter said firmly as he pulled two pieces of faded paper from the manila envelope that lay on his lap and then another, fresher one, “let’s get to why I’m here.”

“Did you have Chief Justice Bolger killed?” Espinosa asked evenly. “Was that really an accident on Constitution Avenue? Or were you behind it, Stewart?”

“Goddamn it,”
Baxter hissed, surprised at the insolence Espinosa continued to show. “Don’t interrupt me again, Henry.”

It didn’t really matter to Baxter that Espinosa had put two and two together and correctly suspected the White House’s role in Bolger’s death. Espinosa would never say anything to law enforcement, because he might come under scrutiny as well—Baxter would make sure he did, and Espinosa must suspect that, too. After all, Espinosa would have a hell of a motive for being involved in a conspiracy to kill Chief Justice Bolger, and Baxter could easily connect the dots to him for law enforcement—even if the trail was completely manufactured.

And what would be the point of Espinosa saying anything? Bolger was dead. Nothing would change that. And now Espinosa was chief justice. He’d reached the pinnacle of the judicial system in the United States. He’d achieved his lifelong goal. Wasn’t that the real point?

Even more critical to Espinosa, Baxter had the video and all of its terrible, telltale pixels.

What infuriated Baxter was that, even in the face of the video coming out and being promoted by Dorn to chief justice, Espinosa still had the balls and the arrogance to ask these questions.

Well, there would be no more of them after this back-and-forth. If Espinosa needed a sledgehammer to the forehead, so be it.

“One more goddamn question out of you, Henry,” Baxter said angrily, “and I send that video to the press while you watch me do it. You got me?”

Espinosa stared at Baxter defiantly for several moments. Then his gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes, sir,” he answered obediently.

“It’s time to put an end to Red Cell Seven once and for all,” Baxter announced as he rose from the chair, handed Espinosa the papers he’d removed from the envelope, and then returned to his seat.

Commander McCoy had gone radio silent, and it was time to give up on the president’s “civil war” idea as well as on Kodiak Four. Baxter hadn’t even bothered to discuss it with Dorn. He’d made the executive decision himself when Dorn still wasn’t out of bed by noon.

“In your hands,” Baxter explained, “you have a directive, which you will sign and stamp with your seal as chief justice of the United States of America. That action will officially, finally, and for all time end the existence of Red Cell Seven.”

“I haven’t even been confirmed yet,” Espinosa pointed out.

Baxter removed his cell phone from his pocket and put it down conspicuously on the small table beside his chair. “I don’t care.” He pointed at the papers Espinosa was holding. “In your hands are also the two original Orders that President Nixon signed in 1973 to create Red Cell Seven. Today, more than four decades later, you and I will put an end to the insanity of protecting this unit at any cost. You will sign the directive I just presented you, and you won’t even tell the other justices what you’ve done.” Baxter pointed at his phone. “Otherwise, you know what will happen.”

“You have the second original Order?” Espinosa asked in a hushed voice as he glanced down at the papers he was clutching. “It’s here, too?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get it?”

Baxter enjoyed the shock registering in Espinosa’s expression. “Don’t worry about it, Henry,” he snapped. “Now that you’ve seen them both, I want you to—”

Baxter was interrupted by a commotion outside the study.

“You can’t come in here like this,” a woman yelled shrilly. “My God, I’m calling the police!”

Dear Mr. Jensen, you are now in possession of interferon zeta-A, an antidote I have developed for the deadly Ebola virus. The antidote is powerful, incredibly powerful, and it will work. There is absolutely no doubt of it. However, you have only enough of it, in the vial you are most likely holding right now, to save one life.

At this time both President Dorn and Karen Jensen have contracted the virus and are quite sick.

Good luck with your decision on who to save. I’m glad I don’t have to make that choice.

Sincerely,

Daniel Gadanz

“J
ESUS,
” T
ROY
whispered as he finished the short letter and the weight of everything cascaded down on him. He brought the tiny vial up in front of his face as he lay in the hospital bed. “I need to call Jack,” he murmured to himself, swallowing hard. He was still very weak. “Right now.”