The car ended facing precisely the way it had come. The engine idled. The monster that followed slowed to a trot then held its position a dozen yards in front of its prey, blocking escape and pacing side to side., as if something had tugged on its leash.
'Just as I thought,' Knox said as he spied the approaching Suburban.
'W-what?' Nina held a hand to the bump on her head.
Gordon reached across her lap to the glove compartment. There he found a small sack holding a shiny metal sphere about the size of a baseball and sporting a red button.
Knox told Nina, 'Get out with your hands up, but leave your door open.'
'Huh?'
'Just do it. You'll know when it's time to jump back in.'
Gordon exited with his hands held high, although one of those hands palmed the device he had taken from Omar Nehru before abandoning Pennsylvania.
The Suburban stopped alongside the pacing Speed-Lion. A chubby policeman stepped from behind the wheel with a revolver pointed in their direction. The Witiko Skytroop with the slaver device descended and hovered a few feet above the pavement with his jet pack hissing and his legs bent as if auditioning for the part of Peter Pan in a stage play.
Gordon waited for the other door to open. When he saw who got out, he nodded his head in a manner that suggested admiration for how well they had all been deceived.
'Now looky here,' Ray Roos said. 'If it ain't Gordon Knox holed up in a corner.'
'Ray Roos,' Knox volleyed. 'I always figured Evan had a friend working at the estate. Jones couldn't do it by himself. Got to admit, never guessed it was you.'
'Oh, now, Mr. Knox, we all do what we have to do.'
'Like what Jones was doing at I.S. Central in D.C., the day Trevor was killed?'
Roos smiled, 'Now, c'mon Gordon, you don't think I'm going to stand here and read you the whole laundry list, do you? Things only work like that in James Bond movies.'
'Of course not,' Gordon admitted. 'But you've already given me what I needed to know for now. I'm sure it will all come clear in a few days.'
'Well, now, see that's the problem, Gordon. I let you sneak away up in PA 'cause I had to do things the boss' way. But now, well, I'm just going to have to get this over with. But which would you prefer: a couple of bullets or this thing over here to rip you up?'
The pacing Speed-Lion's eyes focused not only on Gordon and Nina, but also on the men standing to its side. Gordon could nearly feel the rage the beast felt for those who had entrapped it; enslaved it. Nonetheless it would follow the command from the Witiko to kill. Unless, of course, that command failed to transmit. 'Hey Ray, do you know how that slaver-device thing the Witiko has works?' Roos-unimpressed-shook his head, 'No.' Gordon smiled. 'Omar figured it out.'
Gordon hit the button on the silver ball. An unheard, unseen blast of radio waves cut the control between the Witiko's wrist and the implant in the monster's skull. It reacted immediately to its freedom and grabbed the nearest meal-the chubby policeman-in its gaping jaws. Hobbs' revolver discharged harmlessly in the air.
Knox and Nina reacted nearly as fast. He got behind the wheel and she grabbed her rifle from the car.
The Witiko Skytroop swept a shocked Ray Roos up in his arms and ignited his jetpack to full power, rocketing them away from the ambush-gone-bad, dodging shots from Nina's assault rifle as they disappeared over the nearest building.
'Get in!'
She followed Gordon's orders, closed the passenger side door, and the BMW drove off, leaving the hungry Speed-Lion with its meal and Gordon and Nina with a better understanding of their enemies.
18. The Dead Speak
The President walked from the residence to the West Wing with a bounce in his step. His assistant-a woman with strawberry hair and a scar-offered a cup of coffee, that morning's D.C. Post, and a smile.
'Good morning, Mr. President.'
Oh how sweet that sounds.
She warned, 'Your new Press Secretary, Jim Huffman, was cornered by reporters this morning and there's something you should see on page two; a lot of talk about the military maybe trying some kind of, well,' she whispered, 'trying to take over.'
Evan drew a serious face and responded, 'Well, they'll have to get by you first.'
His smile returned. She blinked bashfully and sat behind her desk.
Evan, of course, did not worry about the rumblings of a military takeover because he directed those rumblings with the skill of a concert pianist.
The window behind his assistant offered a view of the rose garden's rich colors. The President enjoyed that view, sipped the piping-hot java, and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulations in regards to the political concerto he played in the papers.
His assistant grabbed his attention once more as she read from a stack of notes. The music in Evan's head turned a sour note. 'Lots of messages for you, Mr. President. First, Senator Trimble called yesterday while you were playing tennis and wanted to set up a meeting. She said she has not heard from you on the creation of a committee to begin drafting a new Constitution.'
'The Senator has to learn patience.'
'Also, General Brewer sent a fax from the estate. He has the report you wanted on future force deployments and recruitment, but he's confused about the level of detail you need.'
Evan generated more busy work for the neutered General: 'Um, yes, tell him I need exacting detail. I want all the nuts and bolts. That should keep him busy for another week or so.'
'Yes, Mr. President. Also, Secretary Hutch called. He said something about you needing to give a contract to the Boston Laborers Guild.' 'What? I've already given them four contracts! I can't give all the work to his friends.' 'Of course not, Mr. President. Would you like me to call him?' He gulped a mouthful of coffee. It did not taste as good as it had on first sip. 'No. But our Labor Secretary needs to think in bigger terms than paying off his buddies.'
'I imagine so, Mr. President. Also, Senator Whitman called. Oh yes, this had to do with Senator Trimble, too. He says that Senator Trimble is circulating a petition to demand a Constitutional convention in thirty days. Apparently she's planning a press conference-'
Evan slammed the coffee cup on her desktop. A blob of the drink splashed out. The President's face turned nearly as red as the roses waving in the breeze outside the window.
How dare she! I am the President!
Evan regained control, changing from quick jab-like breaths to deep inhales followed by slow exhales. 'I'm sorry,' he straightened his tie. 'I seem to have spilled my coffee. Would you be so kind as to clean that up?' She nodded, slowly. The phone buzzed once…twice… 'Are you going to answer that, or shall I?' That broke the trance. She answered the phone.
'W-white house. President Godfrey's office. Yes, he is here,' she hit the hold button. 'It's Director Roos for you, sir.'
Evan walked into the Oval office saying, 'I'll take it in here.'
The President closed the door and entered his fiefdom. He kept the office perfectly clean, his desk clear, and the fixtures well-dusted. Evan believed in appearances and he refused to appear anything other than organized, confident, and in control. Nonetheless, before he answered the phone he walked to the window, closed his eyes, and held his hands out to either side. 'Here I am. If you're going to kill me today, get it over with.' He waited. A bird chirped. As with the day before, and the day before that, no assassin's bullet came.
Evan dropped his arms, stood behind his desk, and pushed the speaker button on the phone. He listened to Roos while scanning the front page of the paper. The dateline read: Tuesday, July 1 ^ st. The headline exclaimed: MILITARY OPPOSES FORCE DRAWDOWN.
