looked relaxed and lackadaisical as he strode down the sidewalk, but inside he was methodically taking note of everything around him. Things were sure to heat up, and sooner or later someone, or some agency, would come looking
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for him. At the next block he stopped and waited to cross the street, using the pause to again look up and down the cross street for any vans or trucks. Crossing the intersection, Coleman turned left, continued for three blocks, and hailed a cab. The cab took him to a small bar near Georgetown. He ordered a beer, drank half of it, and then walked to the rear of the bar, toward the bathroom. Instead of stopping, he continued straight out the back door and into the alley.
He walked at a brisk pace. Four blocks later, he caught another cab and took it to a house in Chevy Chase. The house belonged to a seventy-eight-year-old widow who had rented him her garage for twenty-five dollars a month. He walked along the side of the house to the garage. The keys were already out, and he opened the padlock on the main garage door. Swinging the door upward, he pulled a small black box out of his pocket and held it by his hip. Nonchalantly he walked around the car, looking down at the row of green lights, waiting to see if they would turn red and tell him his car was bugged.
They stayed green. He got in the car, pulled it out of the garage, and then got back out to close the door and lock it. Sliding back behind the wheel of the black sedan, he drove slowly for the first few blocks and then gunned it. He zipped through the city, turning randomly down the narrow streets. The BMW’s diplomatic plates and a Dutch passport he kept taped under the dashboard ensured him that he wouldn’t be detained by the police. The racy driving helped release tension and served to frustrate anyone who might be trying to follow. He pulled the Beamer onto Interstate 95 and kicked in the turbo. He darted in and out of traffic until he reached Highway 50 east to Annapolis.
¦
Easing the car between two semi trucks, he slowed down to sixty-five miles an hour and stayed there for about ten minutes. When he reached Highway 424, he took it south.
The clock on the dashboard read 8:10 P.M. He checked the rearview mirror often and began crisscrossing his way down county roads.
Several times, he sped ahead and then pulled off the road, waiting in a patch of trees with his lights off, making sure he wasn’t being tailed.
After having left D.C. almost an hour earlier, he turned onto a narrow, unmarked dirt road. The gravel made a popping noise as the wide touring tires of the BMW rolled over it. The road was lined with trees and thick underbrush. It traveled down a slight hill and cut between two ponds. A thin layer of fog stretched across the gravel, and for a brief moment the BMW was surrounded by a white mist. The car pulled back out of the cloud, ascended another small hill, and then as it crested, the lights of a small cabin could be seen less than a hundred yards away. The car rolled down the gradual slope and stopped in front of the old log cabin.
Coleman got out and looked around. Pausing, he listened for the noise of another car that might have followed him down the gravel road.
Gently, he closed the car door and walked up to the porch. The floorboards creaked as he walked across the porch, and a dog barked from inside the cabin. Without knocking,
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he opened the door and stepped inside. His bright blue eyes stared across the room at the man standing in front of the fireplace. MICHAEL O’ROURKE HELD HIS .45—
CALIBER COMBATMASTER IN ONE HAND and his digital phone in the other.
Coleman looked at the gun and remained calm as Duke scampered
Over to greet him. The former Navy SEAL squatted down to meet the yellow Lab.
Coleman looked at the bandage on Michael’s forehead and asked, “What happened to your head?” Through clenched teeth Michael replied, “I was hit with something when
Erik’s limousine blew up.”
Coleman’s eyes opened wide. “You were there?”
“Yes.”
Michael stared at Coleman’s bright blue eyes and said, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the FBI right now.” Coleman stood and started to walk across the room. Michael raised his gun and said, “Don’t take another step.” In a calm voice
Coleman replied, “I know you’ll never use that thing on me, so put it away and we’ll talk.”
“I wouldn’t have used it on you before today, but now I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ll repeat myself one more time. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you in to the FBI.”
Coleman folded his arms. “I had nothing to do with what happened today.” Michael gave him an incredulous look. “What do you mean you had nothing to do with what happened today?”
“I didn’t kill Erik. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Bullshit, Scott. I was there.
I saw the whole thing.” Michael took several steps to the side to put an armchair between him and Coleman. Michael was no match for Coleman at a close distance. Even with a gun the young Congressman wasn’t entirely confident. Recon Marines were some of the best soldiers in the world, but Navy SEALS were in an entirely different class. Add to that the fact that Michael had been out of the Corps for close to six years and Coleman was obviously still at the top of his game, and Michael was outmatched. “You told me to warn Erik, and I did. He was ready to expose the President’s plan as a sham, and then you had to come wheeling in and screw everything up!”
“Put the gun down, Michael. I had nothing to do with what happened today.”
“Bullshit!” Michael yelled. “You’re just trying to save your ass!
How in the hell could you kill those Secret Service agents?” Michael extended the gun as far as he could. The
