Ben Whalen and Chip Faircloth landed at LaGuardia’s private jet terminal a little after two in the afternoon, and the pilot taxied over to one of the hangars, shutting down when they were stopped.
The copilot came back. “What’s your pleasure, guys? We can refuel and return to Andrews, or if you’re only going to be a couple of hours we can stick it out here.”
“Head back to the barn,” Ben said. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here. Maybe even overnight.”
Chip had gotten back on his computer once they’d landed, and he looked up now. “I suggest that if we’re going to Cassy’s bank we start at the top. CEO’s name is Reid Treadwell. I did a bio check on him: The guy is well-connected, but he’s considered one of the top sharks on Wall Street.”
“I’ll start with him, but you’re going back to D.C.”
“I’m in this too,” Chip said.
“It’s probably going to get messy, and you’re still wearing a uniform, which means you answer to the admiral. But I’m in civvies, which means I can quit.”
“Huggard will never dump us, at least not till W is certified. Anyway, you’re just a grunt who’s going to need some backup. So I’m staying here in case the waves start piling up.”
The copilot had opened the hatch, and he turned back to them. “Looks like whatever you guys are up to has already started to create waves. We’ve got company.”
Ben got up as a stocky man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, dressed in a sport coat and tie, came aboard, holding up his NYPD ID wallet, a gold shield badge on his belt. The copilot stepped aside.
“My name is Sergeant Adams,” he said. “Which one of you is Benjamin Whalen?”
“That’s me,” Ben said.
The sergeant pocketed his ID. “You’re under arrest. Do I have to cuff you?”
“That depends on what I’m charged with.”
“Threatening an individual with bodily harm.”
“If you’re talking about my telephone conversation with the chief of security at Burnham Pike, it’s not how I remember it.”
“You were recorded, and I listened to it,” Adams said. “What’ll it be, tough guy, cuffs or not?”
“I’ll talk to the admiral, and we’ll straighten this out,” Chip said.
“I don’t think we have a lot of time,” Ben said.
“I’m on it,” Chip said. “We’re going to stick around for a bit,” he told the copilot, who nodded.
“You and this aircraft will go back to where you came from,” Adams said, but Chip was on the phone again, and the pilot was in his seat in the cockpit.
“Let’s get this over with,” Ben said.
“I said I want this aircraft out of here.”
“Sorry, Adams, but you don’t have the authority,” Chip said, and he turned back to his phone.
“We’ll see,” Adams said.
He turned Ben around, cuffed him, and, taking his arm, led him down the steps and across to the backseat of a waiting Chevy sedan, another man behind the wheel.