THE PILOT IN THE LEAD HELICOPTER LOOKED at the display on his global-positioning monitor and announced that they were five miles out from their target. On his mark, both he and the pilot of the Black Hawk turned off their running lights and donned their night-vision goggles. In conjunction they slowed their airspeed and dropped down to an elevation of one hundred feet. The terrain was rolling countryside with sporadic patches of trees. Both pilots scanned their path for power lines. As they neared Nance’s property, the helicopters slowed to a hover and moved in behind a patch of trees located at the base of two small hills. Straight ahead, less than a mile away, was Nance’s rambler. The helicopters were positioned directly to the north of Nance’s house. The pilot of the medevac chopper spoke into his headset. “Delta Six, this is Cherokee One. Why don’t you slip around to the south and see what you can pick up on thermal?”
“Roger that, Cherokee One.” With that reply the Black Hawk slid out of formation and started a slow traverse of the property line.
Director Stansfield had put on a headset and was listening to the pilots talk. The pilot of the medevac reached up and adjusted a knob on his night-vision goggles. He scanned the area around Nance’s house and picked up a heat signature. “I’ve got a rover,” announced the pilot. “Check, make that two rovers. They’re patrolling the area around the house.” Rover was the designation the team used for a guard dog.
The leader of the tactical team, who was sitting right behind the pilot, asked, “Do they have handlers, or are they on their own?”
“They’re on their own,” responded the pilot. He then glanced over at Stansfield. “Sir, do you want me to check and see if I can pick anything up on the directional mikes?”
“No. He has an electromagnetic field around the house. Our mikes can’t penetrate it. Delta Six,” asked Stansfield, “see if you can get us a body count on the inside of the house.”
“Roger that. Give me another thirty seconds to get into position.” The Black Hawk slipped behind another hill and lined itself up with a patch of trees that was about five hundred yards from Nance’s house. The chopper moved forward at about thirty miles an hour. The wind was coming out of the east and would help carry their noise away from the house. When they reached the clump of trees, the pilot brought the chopper up just enough so the nose of the helicopter had a straight shot at the full length of Nance’s house. The copilot of the Black Hawk manipulated a small joystick on the dashboard and moved the camera in the nose pod of the helicopter. A small, ten-inch screen relayed a thermal image of the house. The copilot started at the southern end and worked his way to the north. The camera read the variations in temperature as it went. Halfway down the house, the copilot called out his first body. A bright red orb appeared near the front door. When he made it to the northern wing, he called out four more bodies.
Stansfield asked, “How are the four bodies arranged?” The director had been in the house before and knew which room they were talking about.
“One appears to be sitting, two others are standing close by, and the fourth is sitting down about fifteen feet away from the other three.”
The tactical team leader in the back tapped Stansfield on the shoulder. “We’re going to have to take out those dogs before we hit the house.” Stansfield nodded his approval and the team leader told the pilot, “Bring us in behind that hill three hundred yards up on the left and I’ll deploy my sniper.”
The nose of the blue-and-silver chopper dipped slightly, passed over the treetops, and then dropped down to a mere fifty feet from the ground as it worked its way up the small valley. The pilot slipped the helicopter in sideways behind the hill and brought the chopper to within three feet of the ground. In the back of the helicopter, the team leader pointed at one of the men wearing jeans and a leather jacket and said, “Tony, take up position on top of this hill and get ready to take out the rovers.” The man nodded and rose to get out. One of the other team members opened the sliding door, and the man jumped to the ground and disappeared into the darkness.
Stansfield adjusted his mouth mike and asked, “Delta Six, how do things look in your area?”
“Everything is clear with the exception of the dogs,” crackled the pilot’s voice.
“All right, we’re coming over to join you.”
The pilot of the medevac turned the chopper 180 degrees on a dime and worked his way back to their original position. From there they continued south toward Delta Six’s position. As they neared, Stansfield pointed at a patch of trees that were fifty yards to the north and another two hundred yards away from the house. The pilot brought the chopper in behind the trees and announced, “Delta Six, we’re about six hundred feet back at seven o’clock. Do you copy, over?”
The pilot of the Black Hawk craned his neck around and spotted the heat signature of the medevac’s engines. “I copy. I’ve got your position marked, over.”
Stansfield looked through a pair of night-vision binoculars. He concentrated on the large wing to the north. Lights were on, but the shades were drawn. “Delta Six, did you say you marked four signatures in the room at the far north end of the house?”
“That’s affirmative, sir.”
“All right,” announced Stansfield. “Everybody pay attention. I am going to make one phone call to the occupants of the house. I am not going to announce our presence. I repeat, I am not going to announce our presence. Depending on how the call goes, I will either give you the green light, or we will stand down. If I give the green light, this is how it’s going to go. When I tell Delta Six to move, I want the dogs taken out. Delta Six will then move into a hover position just above the north end of the house. Team One will then fast-rope to the ground and enter the house. The estate has pressure pads and motion and tremor sensors. The second you hit the ground, you are going to have to move fast. The best point for entry will be the French doors at the southern end of the north wing. I repeat, the southern end of the north wing. I have used the doors before, and they are operational.
“We have a potential hostage situation, so your rules of engagement are as follows. If you are fired on, you may return fire. If any of the men in the room attempts to kill one of the other men in the room, you are to prevent that from happening. Are there any questions?”
No one had any. The two teams were well versed in what they were about to do.
“Team Two will back up Team One. Team One, are you ready to move?”
The leader of Team One replied, “Give us thirty seconds, sir.” The team commander banged his fists together and then pointed his thumbs at the doors. The long, dark doors of the Black Hawk were yanked open and into the locked position. Each man secured his rappelling rope to special hooks located above the door and kneeled at the ready position. The two men who carried the shotguns were the first men on each side. They were the entry men, and their job was to get the doors open. The entry man on the left tapped his partner on the shoulder and then stabbed himself in the chest with a finger. He then pointed up and then straight ahead, signaling that he would blow the top and middle locks on the French doors. His partner nodded and signaled that he would take out the bottom lock. The next three men in line were in charge of clearing the room. They entered the room, literally on top of each other, with each man taking a third of the room and sweeping it for hostiles. The sixth and seventh men covered the left and right flank of the landing area, and the eighth man covered their “six,” or their “ass” as the men referred to it. The team leader looked at each of his men, and one by one they flashed him a thumbs-up. The leader radioed back to Stansfield that they were ready.
Stansfield pulled his headset off his left ear and dialed Nance’s number. After several rings, Nance’s assistant answered. “Hello.”
“Mike Nance, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not in right now. May I take a message?”
“No. Tell him Director Stansfield is on the line, and I need to speak with him immediately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize your voice. Mr. Nance isn’t in right now, but I will pass a message on to him if you would like.”
Stansfield stared through the darkness at the house not more than a thousand yards away. “I know he’s there. Go get him now!”
The assistant on the other end cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir.”
O’Rourke had taken the brunt of the most recent electric jolt, but Jarod did not come out of it unscathed. As soon as the electricity had faded from Jarod’s body, the mercenary delivered another gloved chop to the bridge of O’Rourke’s bleeding and broken nose. Michael, having absorbed most of the electricity, was still incapacitated when the karate chop landed. The pain that was delivered to O’Rourke’s already broken nose was unlike anything he had ever felt. Wave after wave of nausea and agony washed over him.
O’Rourke began to wonder how much more of this he could take, but the thought of getting half of his brain fried from some truth serum was motivation enough to push on. Michael sat up a little straighter in his chair and eyed Jarod, who looked more than a little uncomfortable himself. O’Rourke attributed his pained expression to the kick in the groin.
Michael spit some blood on the floor and looked up at Jarod. “How do your nuts feel?”
Jarod took a step forward and raised his fist. Michael kicked his legs in an effort to keep his torturer at bay. Mike Nance yelled, “Enough! He’s only trying to postpone the inevitable.” Nance put a hand on Jarod’s shoulder and told him to relax. “Now, Congressman, let’s get down to business. What is your association with the people who are trying to blackmail Mr. Garret and myself?”
“Nothing. I got up this morning and a package was on my front step. I don’t know who in the hell is behind any of this. All I know is that you and your sick dead friend had Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist killed!”
Nance shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think these assassins just picked you out of the blue. I think you know who they are.” Nance looked at Michael for a response. “Don’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Fine, I guess we’ll have to use the drugs.” Nance walked over to a steel gun safe in the corner and dialed the combination. “If you aren’t going to cooperate, we’ll have to help you.” Nance pulled down on the lever and opened the heavy door. An array of shotguns and rifles occupied the bottom two-thirds of the safe, and on a shelf near the top was a tray. Nance pulled the tray out and set it on the bar. Michael could see two clear vials and a syringe.
Nance picked up one of the vials and held it out for Michael to see. “You would be amazed what kind of things people will say when you pump just the smallest amount of this into them. No secret is safe. The only problem is you never know what it will do to their brain. Some people come out of it a vegetable, some people have massive memory loss, and others go through the rest of their life suffering from severe migraines. Some doctors claim they can administer the drug without leaving any permanent damage, but I’m not an experienced doctor.” Nance smiled. “Now which is it going to be, Congressman? Would you like to tell me what you know on your own, or would you like me to help you?” Nance picked up the syringe and waved it in the air. Michael was about to tell Nance where to stick the syringe when there was a knock on the door.
Nance turned around and asked, “What is it now?”
A muffled voice from the other side replied, “Director Stansfield is on the line. He wishes to speak with you.”
Nance yelled at the closed door, “I told you I did not want to be interrupted!”
The timid voice responded, “He said that he knows you’re here. He wants to speak with you immediately.”
Nance angrily stomped to the door and opened it only a foot. “Tell him I’m busy and that I’ll call him back in ten minutes.” With that Nance slammed the door.
Nance’s assistant walked across the large foyer, punched a blinking red light, and picked up the handset. “Director Stansfield, Mr. Nance says he will call you back in ten minutes. Is there a number where he can reach you?”
Stansfield looked over the dark countryside at Nance’s house and tightly squeezed the handset of his phone. Instead of replying to the man’s request for a phone number, he simply hung up and pulled his headset over both ears.
Wasting no time, he asked, “Delta Six, are you ready?” The reply came back a positive, and Stansfield turned to look at the leader of the second team. The man gave him a thumbs-up. Stansfield adjusted his mouth mike and said, “Delta Six, commence the operation.”
Team Two’s sniper squeezed the butt of his rifle a little tighter and centered his crosshairs on the head of the rottweiler closest to the helicopters. The two dogs were roaming the area due west of the house about a hundred yards out. The sniper squeezed the trigger and the rifle recoiled slightly. The bullet hit the dog dead in the ear and sent it to the ground. The second rottweiler snapped its head around to see what the noise was, but before he could investigate, a bullet smashed into its large, block head. Five seconds later the ominous dark helicopter passed over the dead canines and toward the house.
All eight members of the tactical team were standing and leaning out the doors of the chopper. Their grip on the rappelling ropes was the only thing keeping them from falling to the ground. Their weapons were slung in the frontal ready position. Just before reaching the house, the tail of the helicopter dipped like that of a bird coming in for a landing, and the four large rotor blades braked the machine into a midair stop. The helicopter leveled out ten feet away from the house and twenty feet above the roof. The team leader yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”
In unison, all eight men kicked away from their airborne platform and loosened the grip of their black leather gloves on the ropes. They dropped forty feet in the blink of an eye and squeezed the ropes again at the last second, breaking their descent. Landing like cats, they yanked the extra few feet of rope from their assault harnesses and grabbed their weapons. The Black Hawk cleared the area while floodlights sprang to life all around the team.
They ignored the lights and went to work. The two entry men were on the door two seconds after hitting the ground. The man on the left blasted away the top of the door, and the man on the right started at the bottom. The Shok-Lok rounds thudded into the wood, splintering the locks from the frame. With the locks taken care of, the entry men stepped to the side to make way for the room clearers. The point man stepped forward with a flash-bang grenade in one hand and his MP-5 in the other. He kicked in the door from the center and rolled the grenade into the house. “Flash-bang away!” rang out through all of their headsets, and every man closed his eyes.
The deafening bang sounded, and a bright flash of phosphoric light lit up the area. The three room clearers flooded through the blown doorway, their thick, black silencers sweeping from right to left while they screamed, “Hands up! Hands up!”
Nance had been waving the syringe in front of O’Rourke’s face and giving him one last chance to answer the questions without the aid of drugs when the commotion started. Jarod, who was standing next to Nance, had just enough time to react. He stepped backward and dropped to one knee behind a chair and an end table. As he was drawing his gun, he saw the flash grenade roll across the floor. Knowing what it was, he ducked behind the back of the leather chair and kept his gun trained on the door. As soon as the grenade exploded he began squeezing off rounds. His first shot hit nothing, but the second shot glanced off the side of the lead man’s helmet and hit the next man in the shoulder. The lead man saw the flash of the pistol and let go a five-round burst at Jarod’s head. All five shots were on the mark and sent Jarod’s semidecapitated body to the floor with a thud.
The smoking MP-5 snapped up from firing on Jarod and instantly found Nance and O’Rourke. “Down on the floor! Right now!” The man repeatedly screamed the phrase at the top of his lungs as the tip of his barrel closed to within ten feet of the two men. His partners were at his side training their weapons at the other two sectors of the room. The second man, who had been hit in the shoulder, ignored the pain and followed through with his assignment. Four of the other five men ran into the room and began checking behind furniture and closet doors. One man remained outside for cover while the rest of the team worked. They continued their sweep with amazing speed and precision. After just twenty seconds, every man had called “Clear.” The team leader instructed four of the men to check the rest of the house and informed Stansfield that the room was secure.
The second helicopter came in and landed on the front lawn. Stansfield got out of the chopper, and his bodyguard followed. The director stepped over the broken glass and splintered wood. His eyes immediately fell on the bloody O’Rourke. The always composed director of the CIA fought with all his might to control his anger toward Mike Nance. He took several steps forward and looked at the dead man on the floor. The marks left by the bullet holes made recognition impossible. Next his eyes fell on the young congressman’s bound wrists. “Cut him free,” Stansfield directed the nearest man. The man slung his shotgun over his shoulder and cut O’Rourke’s wrists loose with a knife.
The team leader approached Stansfield. “Sir, one of my men took a hit to the arm, but he should be all right.”
“Thank you. Please take your men outside and leave us alone for a moment.” The black-clad commandos exited the room, but Stansfield’s bodyguard remained, his Uzi drawn and ready. Stansfield walked over to the bar and examined the two vials of clear liquid and the syringe. “I can’t believe the mess you’ve created.” Stansfield tossed the syringe back onto the tray. “What were you going to do, drug him?”
Nance ignored the question. Garret rose from the couch and approached. “Thomas, I told him this was a crazy idea. I pleaded with him, but he ignored me.”
Stansfield pointed toward the shattered door. “Go wait outside. I’ll talk to you later.” Garret looked at Nance meekly and left. Stansfield looked at O’Rourke. “Are you all right, Congressman?”
Michael stood and wiped some more blood from his nose. “I’ll survive.”
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Stansfield handed it to O’Rourke and looked back at Nance. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
Nance ignored the question and walked over to a humidor that was sitting in the middle of a large oak coffee table. Stansfield’s bodyguard aimed his machine gun at Nance’s head and took a step forward. The national security adviser looked up and frowned. “Thomas, call off your dog.”
Stansfield replied, “Carl, if he makes a wrong move, kill him.”
Nance ignored the statement, retrieved a cigar from the box, snipped off the end, and lit it. He blew several clouds of smoke in the air and smiled. “Thomas, you would have done the same thing if you were in my shoes.”
“I would have never gotten into your shoes.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Do you want to even attempt to explain this?”
Nance shrugged his shoulders. “No. I can see when I’m beat. I’ll announce my resignation in the morning.”
“It might not be that simple.” Stansfield looked at his watch.
“Why not?” asked Nance in between puffs.
Nance’s cocksure attitude was infuriating. With sarcasm Stansfield replied, “Oh, I don’t know, Mike. Perhaps your kidnapping of Congressman O’Rourke may have changed things a bit.”
Coleman stopped his truck at the main gate of the Naval Academy. A U.S. Marine stepped out of the guard booth and approached the car. Coleman rolled down the window and said, “Good evening, Corporal. I’m here to see Sam Jarvi.”
The Marine held out his hand and asked, “Identification, please?” Coleman handed over his driver’s license. The Marine studied it briefly and then handed it back. “Sam just called, Mr. Coleman. Do you know where to find him?”
“Yes.”
The Marine stepped away from the car and motioned for Coleman to proceed. “Have a nice evening, sir.”
“Thank you. You, too.” Coleman drove onto the campus and grinned, thinking of the surprise the feds were in for.
Two blocks back, Skip McMahon had pulled over. The other three cars were waiting several blocks back. He watched Coleman pass through the gate and then got the bad news over his walkie-talkie. “What do you mean you can’t follow him?” he yelled over the radio.
The pilot of the helicopter elaborated, “It’s restricted airspace.”
“Damn it. Can’t you call someone and get clearance?”
The pilot had come across this problem before and knew it was not an easy obstacle to overcome. “I could try, but it will take a lot of time and they’re going to ask more questions than you’re gonna want to answer.”
“Can’t you just tell them it’s official FBI business?”
“It doesn’t matter. The military is rather particular about people flying over their land. Even us. If you want clearance, the best way to get it is to work from the top down. If I call the local tower, they’re gonna want to know why, and then they’ll have to go to the top to get approval. They have to go through the chain of command and that takes time.”
“Damn it.” McMahon tapped the rubber antenna against the side of his head. His orders were to keep as tight of a lid as possible on their surveillance. Calling the local tower might set off too many bells. It would be better if he called headquarters and worked it from that angle. Maybe Roach could call some admiral and quietly get them clearance. McMahon pressed the talk button. “Cars two, three, and four, let’s find out how many exits this place has and take up positions. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get the chopper some clearance.” McMahon set his radio on the dash and reached for his digital phone.
Coleman zigzagged his way through the old campus. He parked underneath a large oak tree near the administration building and dialed Stansfield’s number. Someone else answered and told him to wait. Stansfield was on the phone in short order, and Coleman asked, “Did you find the congressman?”
“Yes.”
“Is he all right?”
Stansfield looked at O’Rourke. “He’s a little roughed up, but other than that he’s fine.”
Coleman breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Are you at Nance’s house?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s time we had a meeting.”
Stansfield was caught off guard by the proposal. He turned his back to the rest of the group. “In person?”
“Yes. You, Nance, and Congressman O’Rourke.” Coleman paused. Stansfield’s apprehension was obvious. “You have nothing to worry about, sir. There are some things we need to discuss, and I would like to see with my own eyes that the congressman is safe.”
“And if I decline?”
“The tape gets released.”
After a long pause, Stansfield asked, “Why should I trust you?”
“Director, we have gone to great lengths to try and find a way out of this mess. My beef is not with you, it’s with Mr. Nance. Am I clear?”
Stansfield considered the last statement. “I think so. Where would you like to meet?”
“Do you still have your helicopter?”
“Yes.”
“Get on board with O’Rourke, Nance, and one pilot. If anyone else comes along, it’s off. Tell the pilot to fly to Dutchman Point and then head due east five miles out into the Bay. I will call you in twenty minutes and tell you where to go from there.” Coleman paused. “And, Director, I don’t want any surprises. We have Stinger missiles, and if I see another aircraft within a mile, I’ll have my men blow it out of the sky. Understood?”
“Yes.”
Coleman hung up and pulled away from the curb. He had made up the part about the Stingers, but Stansfield didn’t know that. Coleman was on his own with no backup, but if his gut feeling was right, Stansfield could be trusted.
The Naval Academy had its own private harbor located at the east end of the campus. Coleman worked his way down the narrow streets and parked in a small lot adjacent to the harbor. Standing next to the plain gray harbormaster’s hut was his old friend and former Navy SEAL Sam Jarvi. Jarvi was the current dive master at the Academy. Coleman got out of the car with the scramble phone and metal trunk in hand and walked over to Jarvi.
Jarvi tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. The menacing little pit bull, as Coleman used to call him, was no taller than five six. If one counted his bristly, short, gray hair he may have been five seven. Back when Coleman was trying to become a SEAL, Jarvi was one of his instructors, or tormentors, depending on how you looked at it. When Coleman went through BUDS, the twelve-week boot camp that the Navy uses to make sure only the toughest of the toughest become SEALs, Jarvi was there every step of the way screaming and yelling.
Jarvi stuck out his hand. “So you got some bad guys on your ass?”
“Yep.” Coleman set both cases down and the two men hugged each other tightly.
Jarvi picked the larger Coleman off the ground, then set him back down. “It’s good to see you, brother.”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
Jarvi motioned toward the selection of boats in the harbor. “You need a little transportation?”
“Yeah, if you can spare one.”
“Anything for a buddy. I already cleared it with the harbormaster. He’s an old crusty frog. He said as long as it’s going to a SEAL, it’s okay.” A large smile broke across Jarvi’s face. Coleman tried to return the smile, but failed. Jarvi picked up on his old friend’s unease and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just some business I have to take care of.”
Jarvi went from jovial to no-nonsense in a second. “Do you need some help?”
Coleman shook his head. “No, but thanks. I’m running solo on this one.”
Jarvi showed his displeasure with a furrowed brow. SEALs didn’t like to hear other SEALs use the word solo. They were trained and conditioned to do everything in pairs and teams. The solo concept was foreign to them. “Scott, you say the word, and I’m in.”
“Thanks, Sam, but this is something I have to do on my own.” Coleman slapped Jarvi’s shoulder. “I’ll be all right.”
Jarvi nodded solemnly. “I won’t keep you waiting. Follow me.” Bending over, Jarvi picked up the heavy trunk. “Shit, what in the hell do you have in this thing?”
“Tools.” Coleman grinned.
“I don’t wanna know, do I?”
“No.”
Jarvi led the way down one of the docks. “I gassed up a twenty-eight-foot Whaler. She’s got a one-hundred-fifty hp outboard on her, and she’s loaded with all the new navigational crap.” Jarvi waved a hand in the air. “Global-positioning system, depth finder, the works. These little shits around here can’t find their ass without a computer and a satellite.”
Coleman jumped into the Whaler and grabbed the trunk from Jarvi. He primed the engine and fired up the motor. Jarvi untied the bow and aft lines and nudged the bow away from the dock with his foot. “If you break it, you buy it.”
“I’ll bring her back in one piece.” Coleman slipped the boat into gear and started to pull away. Over his shoulder he said, “Hey, Sam, if the FBI comes looking for me, tell them you never saw me.”
“Whatever you say, brother.” Jarvi gave his old friend a curt salute.
Coleman stood behind the small center console of the Whaler and pushed the throttle to the stops. The whine of the outboard matched the increase in speed. The small white boat kicked up a foamy wake as it sped out of the harbor and toward the expansive Chesapeake.
When Coleman cleared Greenbury Point, he headed southeast across the channel. There was a slight chop on the water, but as the wind died down, the bay would get smoother. Once he reached the other side of the channel, he called Stansfield and gave him the final location of the meeting place. Coleman had picked a small sandbar just outside of the channel that appeared during low tide. He pulled the throttle back as he neared the hump of sand. The sandbar was crowned in the middle and at its widest point was fifty feet across. The strip ran north-south with the current of the channel. He brought the Whaler in on the north end and beached her. Coleman knew the Chesapeake as well as one could expect for such a large and shapely expanse of water. When he ran SEAL Team Six, they had spent countless hours training in and around the bay during every possible weather condition both day and night.
Coleman opened the metal trunk and grabbed a flashlight and black tactical hood. He studied the hood for a moment and decided that for theatrical reasons it would be needed. He pulled the hood over his head and adjusted it so a one-inch slit was around his eyes. Next he grabbed his 9mm Glock and stuck the gun in the back of his pants.
He leaned against the center fiberglass console and waited. Several minutes later he heard the familiar sound of a helicopter chopping its way through the air. Not long after that he spotted its blinking running lights. Coleman turned on the flashlight and pointed it in the direction of the helicopter. He waved it back and forth several times, then pointed the light at the crest of the sandbar.
The helicopter looped around to the south and came in for a landing without the assistance of its powerful floodlight. Sand was whipped into the air as the spinning rotors displaced the air beneath. Coleman shielded his eyes but did not turn his back. The retractable landing gear extended into the locked position and touched down softly on the sand. The whine of the turbine engines slowed immediately and with it the speed of the blades.
The fury of flying sand died, and the calm, quiet night returned. Coleman stepped out of the boat and his foot splashed into several inches of water. He stayed next to the boat and eyed the helicopter. From his vantage point, the only person he could see was the pilot. One of the side doors opened and three men stepped down onto the sandbar. Coleman recognized all of them. Shoving the flashlight into one of his pockets, he moved forward to meet them. His boots sloshed through the water for his first several steps until he made it onto the drier portion of the tiny island.
The four men stopped several strides away from one another. Nance stood in the middle, and O’Rourke and Stansfield stood on either side. Coleman looked at his friend’s battered face and said, “Michael, I apologize for getting you involved in this.” The former SEAL hesitated before proceeding with the next part of his plan. It was a gamble, but if he had gauged Stansfield’s character correctly, one that should work.
Coleman pulled off the black hood and addressed Director Stansfield. “Sir, I am Scott Coleman, United States Navy retired. Congressman O’Rourke knew nothing about what was going on until this morning. The recent political assassinations were conducted by myself and a network of men that shall remain unknown. Congressman O’Rourke was brought in after my people interrogated Mr. Higgins and found out that he and this idiot here”—Coleman pointed at Nance—“were behind the killing of Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist.
“Congressman O’Rourke was a close friend of my deceased brother. We needed someone we could trust, so I contacted Michael this morning and gave him Arthur’s confession along with a list of our demands. I failed to foresee the possibility that Mr. Nance would try something so desperate.” Coleman looked from Stansfield to O’Rourke. “Michael, I can’t apologize enough for pulling you into this.” Michael stood in silence, completely dumbfounded that Coleman had revealed his identity.
Coleman paused for a moment and then glared at Nance. Through clenched teeth he asked, “You just couldn’t walk away, could you?”
Nance shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Coleman, the issue of America’s national security is my responsibility, and one that I have always taken very seriously. When someone blackmails the president, they are threatening the national security of this country. Did you honestly expect me to do nothing?”
Coleman frowned. “Wait a minute. I think you’ve left something out. How does killing Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist fit into your idealistic and noble protection of America’s national security?”
“In hindsight that may not have been the best decision, but we felt we had to do something to slow you down. Your actions were very destabilizing to our political system and—”
Coleman interrupted, “In hindsight? You are so full of shit. Don’t insult me with your blabbering. You didn’t kill Olson and Turnquist to protect America’s national security. You killed them for your own perverted, selfish interests.”
Nance shrugged his shoulders. “And you didn’t kill Senator Fitzgerald and the others for your own selfish interests?”
Coleman stepped back and crossed his arms. He studied the reptile in front of him for a moment. “I killed those other men because they were a prime example of what is wrong with our political system. Year after year they promised to do the right thing, but in the end, all they were concerned about was winning and holding on to power. They were running this country into the ground. They were, in your language, ‘a direct threat to the national security of this country.’”
Coleman hesitated for a second. “For most of my adult life I’ve been flying all over this damn planet killing people that were a threat to our national security. I finally realized that assholes like you”—Coleman reached out and jabbed his finger into Nance’s sternum—“and all of your egomaniac political friends were doing more damage to America than any of the terrorists and dictators you’d sent me to kill. Politicians like Fitzgerald and Basset spent all their time dividing our country. They pitted the right against the left, the wealthy against the poor, and they didn’t believe half of what they said.” Coleman jabbed his finger a little harder this time. “I put my ass on the line for jerk-offs like you. I’ve seen my men get killed because people like Fitzgerald didn’t know how to keep their mouth shut. You sit in the White House and it’s all one big fucking game. You decide you want someone killed, you pick up the phone, make a call, and twenty-four hours later the person is dead. Have you ever been in the field? Have you ever killed anyone? Have you ever seen eight of your closest friends blown out of the sky because some drunk senator doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut?” Coleman stared at Nance and waited for an answer he knew he’d never get. “Of course you haven’t. You’ve walked around your whole life with a silver spoon shoved up your ass! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking head off.”
Nance took a half a step backward and held his chin high. “I can see when I’m beat. I will agree to your demands and quietly withdraw from public life.”
Coleman scoffed, “Do you think I trust you?”
“Mr. Coleman, I understand your animosity towards people like myself and Director Stansfield. I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.”
“Wait a second.” Coleman held his hand up. “Leave him out of this. You created this cluster-fuck by yourself, now it’s time to stand alone and pay the piper.”
Nance continued in his confident tone, “As I was saying, I don’t expect you to like what I do, but nonetheless, I have served our country well. I have made my fair share of mistakes over the years, but they have been honest ones. I think I deserve the chance to retire and live out the rest of my life in peace.”
“Like Arthur. I know your type, you can’t just sit on the sidelines. You will continue to meddle. You’ll try to find out who else is in my group, and if you have the chance, you will kill me without hesitation.”
Nance remained aloof. “This country needs people like me whether you like it or not. I’m sorry you disagree with me, but that’s the way it is, and the way it will always be. I give you my word that I will walk away from everything.”
“Your arrogance alone is enough to make me want to kill you!” Coleman reached for his gun and pulled it out. “First of all, you deserve to die, and second of all, I don’t trust you as far as I could kick you.” Coleman extended his arm.
Nance stared down the barrel of the gun and looked to Stansfield. “Thomas, you are going to have a very hard time explaining my death.”
Coleman took his eyes off Nance and looked at the director of the CIA. Stansfield replied, “If you could kill him in the same manner that you killed Senator Fitzgerald, it would make things much easier.”
It took a second for the comment to register, and then Coleman replied, “My pleasure.” The former SEAL put the gun back in his pants and stepped for Nance. Nance turned to try and run, but O’Rourke reached out and grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. Like a rag doll, O’Rourke swung Nance back around and presented him to Coleman.
Nance’s cool demeanor had for once vanished. With a pleading voice and a panicked face he screamed, “Thomas, you will never get away with this! You can’t do this, Thomas!”
Coleman delivered a quick punch to Nance’s solar plexus, ending any further conversation. The national security adviser instantly buckled over and gasped for air. Coleman grabbed Nance by the hair and pulled him down and into the sand. The muscular killer dropped down with all of his weight, sending his knee into the center of Nance’s spine. His hands reached for the underside of the chin, and in a quick burst of strength he yanked up and then twisted Nance’s head to the side. A loud crack broke the still night and echoed off the water. Coleman held his tight grip for several moments, then let the lifeless head drop to the moist sand.