IN THE Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. He sat behind the wheel and sipped a cup of piping hot Colombian coffee he had just picked up at the Starbucks two blocks away.
He looked down at his digital phone and then up at the Ford Explorer that was parked three cars ahead of him. It belonged to the man he wanted to talk to. O’Rourke had already called up to the apartment twice and had got the answering machine both times.
O’Rourke was growing impatient. He desperately wanted to talk to the man who lived in the building. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel and guessed that his friend was out for a jog. O’Rourke knew he was in town because he had called his office and checked. Five minutes and half a cup of coffee later, he saw a man with a dark blue baseball cap and a large backpack thrown over his shoulder round the corner.
Michael set his coffee in the center console and got out of his truck.
Straightening his tie, he walked up onto the curb and locked eyes with the man.
“You’re awfully hard to get ahold of.” The lean individual gave Michael a surprised look.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been on the run.”
“Don’t you get your messages?
I’ve called a dozen times in the last three days.” Michael stuck out his hand, and his friend grabbed it. “Sorry, I’ve been awfully busy.”
The man, who was six years Michael’s elder, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and glanced up and down the street with his alert eyes.
Michael looked around. “Am I keeping you from something?”
“I have a lot to do today, but I can always spare a few minutes for my little brother’s best friend.” O’Rourke was warmed by the comment.
The man standing before him was Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark
Coleman, O’Rourke’s best friend who was killed a year earlier.
Scott Coleman was the former commander of SEAL Team Six, America’s premier counterterrorism unit. He also happened to be the person Michael had been worrying about since last Friday. Coleman had left the SEALS almost a year ago after a highly decorated sixteen-year stint. Despite his illustrious career, he did not leave on a happy note. He had lost half of his SEAL team in a mission over northern Libya the previous year.
Upon returning from the mission Coleman was informed that their assault on a terrorist training camp had been compromised because a high-profile politician had leaked the mission. When his superiors refused to reveal the identity of the politician, Coleman resigned in disgust. O’Rourke had found out through Senator Olson, who was the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, that Senator Fitzgerald was the person
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in question. Michael had labored as to whether he should tell Coleman. They had grown closer since the death of Mark Coleman, and while on a hunting trip the previous fall
Michael finally decided to confide in the warrior. Seamus was right: if they were his men, he would want and deserve to know. Coleman had taken the news about Fitzgerald in silence, and that was the only time he and Michael had discussed the issue. But when
Senator Fitzgerald turned up dead a week ago, Michael could only wonder. O’Rourke put his hands in his pockets and shifted uneasily.
“That was quite a deal with the President’s helicopter this afternoon.
You wouldn’t by chance know anything about who might do such a thing, would you?”
“Nope.” Coleman stared unflinchingly at Michael with his bright blue eyes. “Do you remember that hunting trip we went on last year?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember that bit of information I passed on to you?”
“Yep.” Michael returned Coleman’s stare and nodded. After several moments of silence Michael decided to change his approach. “So what do you think about the assassinations?” Coleman’s face stayed expressionless. “I’m not doing a lot of mourning, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No.” O’Rourke shook his head. “I didn’t think you would be. Any idea who might be behind them?”
Coleman cocked his head to the side. “No, do you?”
“I might.” Michael rocked back and forth on his heels. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t by chance talked to anyone at the FBI lately?” O’Rourke shook his head.
“Good. Are you planning on talking to anyone at the FBI?”
“No. I think you and I can handle this one-on-one.” Coleman raised one of his eyebrows and shot Michael a questioning look.
“Hypothetically,” asked O’Rourke, “if you knew who the assassins were, do you think you could give them a message from me?”
“Hypothetically?” Coleman folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose almost anything is possible.”
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“Tell them” - Michael leaned in close-“that there has been enough killing. Tell them to give us some time to implement their reforms before this thing gets any uglier.”
