Grant Mendez pressed his com and spoke softly. “Tycoon is on the way down.”
“Roger that.”
One Secret Service agent led the way, a second agent to the primary’s immediate right. Grant followed behind, trying not to stare at the duck tail Tycoon’s shoe-polish black hair made in the back. Maybe Elvis was his inspiration. Earl was the right age for that.
They commandeered an elevator. One of the agents produced a pass key that allowed them to ride down to the private section of the parking garage.
“Please wait here, sir,” the agent in front said. He walked out, looked around, then gestured for President Charles Earl to come out.
Earl walked quickly to the waiting limo. He stuck his nose in the air, ignoring the assistance one of the Secret Service agents offered. Grant followed them to the car and started to get into the front, but Ken Doll One stopped him. “You go in the first decoy car.”
The Secret Service hated the president’s private security. The Red Sky team returned the sentiment, nicknaming them all Ken Doll with an appropriate number. Grant thought the name fit. Though well chiseled and quick with their reflexes, their suave ways and expensive suits made them seem like fashion dolls. Red Sky men were soldiers, tested in battle.
Grant schooled his face to show no reaction and walked up to the front limo. An identical vehicle idled behind the one Tycoon had gotten into. They mixed up the order at random.
“You get to wear the toupee.” Brad Rogers held out a jet-black wig styled to look like Tycoon’s hair.
“Aw, man. I wore it last time,” Grant objected.
“But it looks so good on you,” Brad said.
Their driver snickered.
The darkened windows of each limousine hid most of the inside from view, but just in case a shaft of light penetrated the film, somebody had to play decoy. Grant grabbed the wig and stuffed it on his head.
“It’s backwards.” Brad reached out to straighten the wig, but Grant slapped his hand away.
An agent tapped on the roof of their limo, and the driver pulled out into the street.
Brad had gotten him this job with Red Sky after their tour in Afghanistan. The pay was four times his old army salary and the work much easier so far. The skills he’d gained on his tour of duty were a perfect fit for this job, but the group honed those skills to a fine point. When they weren’t on active assignment, they trained together, working on several forms of martial arts, weapons training, explosives, and electronics. The group offered advanced training in spy craft, counterintelligence, hacking, and computer surveillance. Whatever the person’s aptitude suggested. Grant hadn’t decided what to specialize in yet.
Plus, the guys hung out, drank, and caroused together. Perfected barbeque sauces in fine Carolina tradition. Hell, he didn’t even mind the humidity and mosquitoes. Coastal North Carolina hosted several special ops teams and private security firms. They were a unique community who understood each other. He couldn’t be happier.
Today’s event was a fundraiser at a private home near Richmond. Tobacco and cotton money mostly—and these people had plenty of it. As they approached the house, Grant smirked when he saw two of those old-fashioned statues of a smiling black man welcoming guests to the house so often on display in the South. But it turned out they were real people. Two men in white outfits and red vests opened the gates. They didn’t smile quite as much as the statues. His gaze darted over to Derrick, who widened his eyes in disbelief. They both quickly schooled their faces back to neutrality.
The limos drove through a tunnel of old maples, then emerged next to a mansion straight out of Gone with the Wind. White columns topped with crowns supported a colonnade on two stories. Black wrought-iron railings ran between the columns. An elaborate frieze topped the house. Grant found himself craving a big piece of white cake with lots of frosting.
Their car continued around the drive, passing a rounded side of the house that reminded Grant of a medieval tower, although he was sure this wasn’t the proper name for it. Earl’s car headed to the front of the house, and the other decoy car arrived behind them. The men hopped out and they were herded into a back room by another servant dressed in the same outfit as the men at the gate. The house buzzed with security and further in, kitchen staff rushed through two large swinging doors carrying trays of canapes.
Brad started issuing orders. “Grant, Derrick, you’ve got the back of the room. Watch all the doors and windows. Any sudden movements from guests. They set up the standard metal detector in front, but these old houses usually have a stash of guns.”
“Roger that,” Derrick said.
“George and I will be in the front.”
They did a coms check before stepping into the ballroom. Small tables filled the middle and a raised platform stood at one end. An American and Confederate flag hung on the wall behind it.
Suddenly, the buzz of conversation ceased. Grant looked up to see President Earl in the doorway. He wore his usual blue suit with a red tie dangling too low in front. The lifts in his shoes didn’t achieve the desired effect of making him look taller. Instead, he looked as if he’d pitch over any minute.
Earl opened his arms in a magnanimous gesture. Unfortunately, his dyed black hair paired with his paper-white skin made him look like a famished vampire inviting everyone in for a bite. Grant supposed this was close to the truth.
“Friends, friends, it is a pleasure to see you all here in this fine home.” Earl started shaking hands and talking to people individually. He waded into the throng, his Secret Service detail at his side.
Grant kept his attention on the crowd in the back of the room and the various servants moving around. His gaze followed every hand reaching into a purse or pocket, every waiter reaching for a new tray. He watched facial expressions carefully. The bartender near him reached under his table and Grant moved a little closer. He stepped back when the man stood up with a fresh bottle of Scotch in his hand.
Earl stood on the podium where the head tables were set, and the host tapped on a champagne glass to get everyone’s attention. Near the door that led to the kitchen, the butler whispered frantically, “Champagne trays. Hurry.”
A row of young men in tuxedos filed out looking like a row of penguins. They circulated, offering trays filled with slim glasses. People grabbed them and soon the group all held their goblets of the golden liquid up.
Earl cleared his throat. “A toast to all the fine people here. We stand at a crossroads. The socialist agenda of the Democrat Party is threatening our way of life. They want to open the borders to everyone. To bankrupt the country with their free college. Most of all”—he paused and pasted a wicked grin on his face— ‘’they want to raise our taxes and we can’t have that, can we?”
The genteel crowd chuckled. A few men said in voices pitched to be heard, “Certainly not.”
“So, let’s keep America great.” Earl raised his glass and there was polite applause. Not thunderous like his red-meat base. No shouting of campaign slogans. These people were too rich to make a racket.
Earl downed his champagne and plopped down in his chair.
Brad waved Grant forward. “Take my place behind him for a minute. I have to check on something.”
The host sitting to Earl’s right spoke into the president’s ear. Earl nodded, then waved him to silence. He took a big bite of his steak. His potato swam in butter and sour cream, but Earl added another spoonful of both. Grant was grateful he didn’t have to protect the president from his own diet. He never exercised, either.
Grant would have loved running with Clarkson. That one had kept in shape, plus he knew how to party. He had more class, too. O’Connor also jogged, but he was a saint compared to Clarkson or Butler. At least that’s what the older Secret Service guys said.
Grant scanned the crowd, watching when people reached for their steak knives or put their hands under the table. He eyed the waiters bringing the red wine for the steak course.
After an hour and courses of fish and salad, then dessert, the host stood and appealed for everyone to dig deep and donate generously. “This is a defining moment in our history. Will immigrants and socialists run our country, or will we keep the reins of government firmly in our own hands where it belongs?”
Grant watched carefully as the men at the front tables reached into their pockets. They pulled out check books and started writing. Earl wiped his hands, stood, and walked to a few tables, speaking to people Grant didn’t recognize, patting them on the shoulders, shaking hands. Then he headed for the door.
“Tycoon is on the move.” Brad’s voice sounded in his earpiece.
Grant made his way down the left side of the room, watching the people as they stood and applauded. Derrick waited by the door in the back, his gaze moving from person to person. With a nod, he followed Grant into the back hallway. They walked to the waiting limo and piled in. Derrick got the wig this time.
Brad jumped in. The Secret Service agent tapped the roof and they pulled out, taking the middle of the group of cars this time.
“Party tonight?” Grant asked.
“Boys, we’re going on a quick trip. Tycoon has been called to see the Boss.”
“Man, it’s too cold there,” Grant objected, looking out the window at green pastures and grazing thoroughbreds.
“Nah, this time we’ll be in Kosovo.”
“Near the beach?” Derrick asked.
Brad gave him a withering look.
“Roger that,” he said.