The President's Vampire

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Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Farnsworth, Christopher.

The president’s vampire / Christopher Farnsworth.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-51424-5

1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. United States. President—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.A726P
813’.6—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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To my grandparents, Ben and Dorothy,
who always protected us from the monsters

This world is a farm, and we are the crop.

—CHARLES HOY FORT

PROLOGUE

NOVEMBER 29, 2001, NEAR PARACHINAR, PAKISTAN

N
athaniel Cade watched the men from his hidden perch as they walked up the narrow mountain path.

One was clearly in pain. He stooped, despite his height, and a younger man helped him along, at times almost carrying him.

To the north, the bombing at Tora Bora continued. The 10,000-pound daisy cutters slammed into the caves, one after another, the impact felt more than heard as earth and sky shook with each explosion.

It would have been impossible to block all the treacherous, winding paths out of the area, but the Americans had not even tried. That job went to the Pakistani military and a few warlords who switched sides only weeks before the invasion.

At least, that was the cover story.

Cade recalled how the general swore when told to keep this escape route open. Cade had been around a long time, but the general managed to surprise him with the inventiveness of some of the obscenities.

The order came direct from the president. The general probably assumed it was a political deal with the Pakistani military—a chance to prove themselves in the War on Terror. And a chance to conveniently forget all the help they’d given to the bad guys in the past. The general could not imagine they were actually going to let the target leave.

And yet, Cade watched as the most wanted man in the world simply walked away. Stumbling and weak, but still walking.

Osama bin Laden was almost free.

IT HAD TAKEN SOME DOING to convince the president. Seventy-two hours earlier, in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center below the White House, Cade did not think it would happen.

“Gonna cost me the damn election,” the president said, face pinched with anger. He’d already been stewing about reports that questioned his absence on September 11—fleeing from one secure location to the next, while the wreckage still burned in New York and D.C.

Griff, Cade’s handler, sat across the table. He’d been on the receiving end of many presidential tantrums in his career. He was used to it.

“Sir,” he said. “You want to use Cade. This is the only way we can do it.”

“We can’t at least, I dunno, bring back the sumbitch’s head, or something?” the president asked.

“All missions related to Mr. Cade are above top secret. You know that,” the vice president reminded the president.

The president gave him a look.

“Sir,” the veep added.

“I just want people to see what we do to the bastards who do things like this to us,” the president insisted.

“Believe me, so do I, sir,” the veep said. He stood and placed a hand on the president’s shoulder. “But there are things here . . .” He paused, looking for the right words. “Things here are complicated. Things it’s better for you not to know.”

The president squinted. “You mean that spooky shit, don’t you? I don’t like that.”

“Which is why Mr. Cade will handle this.”

The president appeared to waver. Then the vice president spoke again. “Besides, George—there might be advantages to always having Bin Laden out there. Nice to have a boogeyman whenever you need it.”

“Yeah. All right,” the president said. “Do it.”

He walked to the door, still grumbling. “Gonna cost me the damn election.”

At the door of the PEOC, he stopped and turned. He addressed Cade directly—something he rarely ever did. “Least you can do is make it messy, right? You make the sumbitch hurt.”

Cade nodded. He could do that. It would be little enough payment for the wounds inflicted on the United States. He was still a patriot. Even if he was no longer human.

CADE LOOKED DOWN at the Arabs again. At this rate, they would take another fifteen minutes, at least, to reach him at the crest of the ridge.

Cade shifted, feeling the wound in his gut. It was healing, but it hurt. The only thing keeping his intestines inside his body was a heavy-duty neoprene sheath. Of course, anyone else would have been killed.

Cade had spent most of the day of 9/11 in an underground parking garage, pinned to a concrete pillar by a sword driven through his torso.

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