Bill McMahon had always considered himself a simple sort of fellow. He took pride and pleasure in the little things. Stripping and refinishing the pair of rocking chairs on the front porch. Talking to his grandkids on the phone, now well into adulthood, and even the great-grandkids, of which there were two so far and hopefully more on the way. The start of the NCAA football season; go Mountaineers.
Or the taste of a good bourbon on the back of his throat on a late-August evening as he stood on the deck of his home in Six Springs, West Virginia, not two hours from D.C. as the crow flies but so much a world apart. He had twenty-five acres here, mostly field, a stretch of woods, the house he’d had built to spec fifteen years ago. He had met Gwen here in this town, had started his political career here; it only made sense that they would retire here and, if he had his way, die here someday.
Gwen. What an incredible woman she was. Seventy-nine years young and still ever the butterfly, flitting from charity auction to tea with the Ladies’ Auxiliary to volunteering at hospice without needing a break. He was amazed by her daily, as the aches crept into his old bones and getting out of bed each morning got a little tougher.
Still, her absence afforded him an occasional sin, since he was not, in fact, supposed to be drinking bourbon. At least that’s what the doctors said. But what did they know? That was just a recommendation based on his age. He was a very healthy eighty-four, all things considered, and still quite capable for such a ripe old coot.
About a hundred and fifty yards out he saw Sadie and Bruce tearing across the field, chasing each other. Those dogs practically lived outside these days, except on the coldest of nights. They slept in the shed and caused mischief all over the property, coming in now and then for chow and ear scratches. They’d been a gift, those two rascals, from Gwen for their fiftieth wedding anniversary four years ago. She had a wicked sense of humor—since gold was the preferred anniversary gift for a fiftieth, she had gotten him two golden retrievers.
Bill stuck two fingers in his mouth and blasted out a long, sharp whistle. “I’m locking up, you two! Come on in, or you’ll be sleeping in the shed!”
He heard a playful yip in the distance, and a flash of cream-colored fur dashing for the tree line. That would be Sadie, the fairer-haired of the two, and a few seconds later Bruce trotted along after her, his golden fur shining in the setting sunlight.
Bill chuckled. “All right then, you feral mutts. Go chase some squirrels.” He headed inside, slid the glass door closed, and locked it behind him. “I really shouldn’t,” he told his empty glass, and then went into the kitchen for an ice cube and two more fingers of Jim Beam.
He had always considered himself a simple sort of fellow, who took pleasure in the little things. Former president or not, he didn’t need any fancy, expensive liquor when the good stuff came cheap.
The sharp clack of billiard balls rang from the rec room, and then a groan of disappointment. Bill grinned; Tony was awful at breaking, and always managed to blame the table, the cue, the chalk, or anything under the sun except how bad he was at the game.
“Hey now, Bill,” said Jim as Bill entered the rec room.
“Boys.” Bill sank into a recliner in one corner. The rec room was practically where the boys lived these days, when they were here in Six Springs. Jim leaned against one end of the pool table while Tony lined up a shot on the opposite side.
“Watch this,” Tony announced. “Three ball, corner pocket.”
Jim scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m watching.”
Tony took the shot; the cue ball bounced off the rail, missed the three ball entirely, and sank into the opposite corner. A scratch.
Jim laughed and slapped the table. “Should have put money on that.”
Tony grunted. “It’s the table. Balls aren’t shooting straight. You saw it.”
“I just re-felted that table myself last month,” said Bill teasingly. “Did I do it wrong, Tony?”
“Course not, Bill,” he muttered. “Jim was leaning on it. I bet that was the problem…”
Tony and Jim were good guys—“the boys,” as Bill liked to call them. Secret Service agents usually had a shelf life of about twenty years max, if that, so it wasn’t all that strange that these two were semi-retired in their early fifties. They could have taken the pension and settled down, but neither wanted to call it quits just yet, which was how they came to be Bill McMahon’s personal security in his golden years.
It was, to him, a little amusing to even think that he needed security. He hadn’t been president for thirty years now. His time in the White House felt like a lifetime ago. Hell—neither of the boys were even old enough to vote when he took office.
But he liked having them around. Since Gwen kept busy and his no-good dogs were fond of abandoning him in favor of romping through the trees and digging up gophers, it was nice to have the boys and their constant chatter filling his home. Funny, in the beginning they were Agent Kopchak and Agent Sloan, and wore ties and black blazers and carried their guns in hidden holsters and called him “Mr. President.” Now he was just Bill, and they spent most of their days shooting pool, watching whatever sporting event was on, bumming about in denim and flannel, and getting love handles off of Gwen’s country-style gravy and biscuits.
At least that’s how they conducted themselves when in Six Springs. When they were out there, out in the world, the blazers and ties were back and they were all business. Professionals, these two were—but chummy and casual behind closed doors.
“Busy day tomorrow, Bill,” Tony noted as Jim lined up his shot and sank it easily.
“Busy week,” Bill replied. “Enjoy it, boys; this is your last evening of beer and billiards for a little while.” Tomorrow they would be embarking on an eight-day circuit, starting with a press conference in D.C., then on to Baltimore for a speaking engagement, and up to New York to appear on a morning show. From there they’d be flying west, out to Michigan, to lend their efforts to Bill’s favorite charity, the Home Again Foundation, which built houses for the homeless out of recycled construction materials. They’d be there for three days; Bill had never been a photo-op kind of guy and he wasn’t about to start now. He liked to put the work in, and to work with his hands while he was still able to. Tony and Jim would be there, griping and ribbing each other the whole time, but working right alongside him.
Bill hadn’t been this active in the public spotlight since he left office. But these last several months had seen significant change, brought about by the man currently sitting behind the Resolute Desk, President Jonathan Rutledge.
Rutledge had, at first, seemed a bit timid to Bill. After all, the man had never even run for the seat; he’d been promoted from Speaker of the House straight to the top rung when his predecessors were impeached. But after a period of acclimation, Rutledge started to show some real spine. He appointed a brilliant young woman as his VP, and he set about keeping the promise that he had made to bring peace to the Middle East.
What he had achieved so far was staggeringly impressive, and while Bill had once promised himself that he wouldn’t get back involved in politics, he couldn’t very well keep silent. After an all-night discussion with Gwen, he decided to publicly lend his support to Rutledge and his efforts in whatever way he could.
Bill McMahon didn’t have a publicist, but he didn’t think he needed one. He could handle his own appointments—or so he had thought. Shortly after a phone call with the White House to announce that he would be making himself available, his own phone started ringing off the hook with requests for appearances. Tony had become an unwilling receptionist of sorts when Bill simply couldn’t tolerate the sound of a ringing phone any longer.
After their stretch with Home Again, Bill and the boys would be flying to California for four more press appearances. The thought of spending three days building houses outdoors was invigorating; the thought of spending three more days wearing a tie and talking to pundits sounded exhausting.
Jim lined up a shot carefully, but failed to sink the twelve. “Bill, you want winner?”
“Much as I’d love to,” said Bill, “the game’s starting soon. We’re playing Texas Tech, I think. Besides, I don’t think either of you boys needs to be embarrassed by an old man.”
Jim laughed as Tony staked a claim on the seven. “Watch this now, Jim, you’re about to get an education…” He drew back the cue stick, gave it a couple of slow practice strokes—
And the lights went out.
“Dammit!” Tony hissed as he miscued, the white ball merely spinning in place. “Not fair, I should get another shot!”
“What’s that about?” Jim frowned.
Bill rose slowly and craned his neck. He couldn’t hear the refrigerator running, or the hum of the air conditioning unit. It wasn’t just the lights.
“Power outage. Nothing to worry about, boys. I’m sure it’ll be back up in a few minutes, but if not we can power up the genny. Can’t have the freezer spoil—”
From elsewhere in the house, a window shattered. Bill froze—did a storm whip up suddenly? was his first thought—but the two other men turned instantly into professionals.
In two long strides Jim was at the mini-bar, behind which was a Sig Sauer P229, loaded with .357 rounds, and a twelve-gauge Remington shotgun. Tony went to the door of the rec room, keeping his body out of sight as he silently but quickly closed it.
Jim tossed him the shotgun and Tony caught it deftly, racking a round into the chamber. “Stay with him,” Jim ordered. “Get out the back door if you need to.”
Tony retreated, walked backward until he was positioned directly in front of Bill. “Stay behind me, Mr. President,” he said in a solemn whisper as he brought the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed it at the door.
Jim’s white teeth flashed in the darkness as he counted softly. “One… two… three.” On three he yanked the door open and raised the pistol.
Bang!
A single shot rang out, impossibly loud in the otherwise silent house.
Jim’s head jerked backward, and his body followed. Dark blood spattered against the far wall, across the felt of the pool table, almost black in the darkness.
Bill’s stomach turned. What was happening? Was this really happening? A minute ago they’d been laughing and shooting pool. And now…
Tony kept his composure perfectly. He didn’t jump at the sound of the gunshot or budge as Jim’s body fell. Instead he aimed the Remington squarely at the open door, waiting for the moment. “Back door, Bill,” he said quietly. “Check it first. If there’s no movement, I want you to—”
Something came through the door. Not a body, but an object, something small and round that clattered across the floor.
“Grenade!” Tony dropped the shotgun and wrapped both arms around Bill. Before he knew what was happening, the larger man was pulling him down, covering him with his own body. Bill barely had time to process the word, let alone realize that this man was willing to give his life for him, to sacrifice himself, and was about to be shredded by an explosive that had been tossed into his rec room…
But no explosion came. Five seconds went by, and then seven, and nothing happened. At last, after what felt like a minor eternity, Tony pushed his weight off of Bill.
“A dud.” He let out a sigh of relief as he reached for the shotgun again. “It was a dud—”
A second shot hit Tony in the side of the head, and he fell dead in an instant.
Tony.
Jim.
Bill’s hands shook. When he looked up again, he saw he was not alone in the room; five others had entered. Four of them were dark-skinned men with beards and wraps around their heads in a fashion that told him they were Muslim.
The fifth was Caucasian, his face scarred, wearing tactical gear and a lopsided smirk and carrying a pistol, no doubt the pistol that had ended the boys’ lives.
“Not a dud,” said the white man. “A prop. Comes in handy for distractions.”
“You sons of bitches,” Bill murmured. His hands shook, but not from fear. From anger—an anger unlike he’d had reason to feel for years, an anger that he felt bubbling up in his chest, consuming him totally.
“Yeah,” the man sighed dismissively. “On your feet, Bill.”
He complied; not because the man had told him to, but because if he was going to die, it was going to be on his feet. He stood, refusing to look down at the mess that was now Tony’s head, and he faced the five armed assailants.
“Take him,” said the commando.
The four Islamic men advanced. One of them pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
They didn’t mean to kill him. They meant to kidnap him.
The one with the handcuffs grabbed Bill’s arm roughly. He responded by shaking off the grip and cutting across the guy’s chin with his other fist. The shock of the impact sent pain shooting through his hand and up his arm, but it was worth it.
Bill was old, but he was far from helpless.
The man snarled at him, blood eking from his lips, and then there was a gun in Bill’s face as the man spat something vitriolic in a language he didn’t understand.
“Hey!” shouted the commando. “Alive, remember? We need him alive.”
Bill stared down the barrel. His gaze met the eyes of the man pointing it at him. This man, Bill could tell, had killed before and would do it again. But not today. He was under orders… from this American, somehow.
Finally the man lowered the gun, and two others grabbed Bill roughly. He squirmed and fought and protested, but they were younger, stronger than he was, and after several seconds of expletives and writhing about, the handcuffs clicked around his wrists.
The commando grinned. “Not your first time with a gun in your face, huh, Bill?”
Bill stared back at him. “Not my first time being kidnapped, either. Though it is my first time by an American. Is that Oklahoma I hear?”
The commando grinned wider. “Good ear. Let’s go.” He led the way, two following him, stepping over Jim’s body, and the other two half-dragging Bill along. His feet brushed against Jim’s boot.
You deserved better, my friend.
They dragged him out of the rec room, right out the front door, and into the back seat of one of two waiting SUVs, where he was flanked by two of the Islamic guys. The American commando rode in the front passenger seat.
“What’d I tell you fellas, huh?” he laughed. “Easy-peasy.”
Tires squealed and the two SUVs raced down the long driveway. Bill thought he heard a familiar sound, and he twisted just enough in his seat to see two shapes in the dim red glow of the taillights. It was Bruce and Sadie, barking and chasing the SUV that held their master. But they couldn’t keep up, and soon the dogs vanished from sight.
They were good dogs. Loyal. But they couldn’t save him from whatever fate these men had in store for Bill McMahon.