a statement. They have some kind of virus like Ebola and I think they are going to try to release it here, tonight.”
“Do you have any idea who’s delivering it, or how?” Carter asked earnestly. “Because frankly, I’m totally willing to believe you if the President’s safety is even slightly compromised, but I need more information.”
“I’m not sure how,” Mercy admitted, “but I got the information directly from the man who plotted the whole thing.”
Agent Carter frowned, and Mercy realized how odd her statement had sounded. “And where is he now, ma’am?”
She groaned inwardly. “He’s dead.”
“Well, if he’s dead—”
“Agent Carter, please don’t be an ass,” she said impatiently. “The virus is real. You can check with the L.A. office of the Counter Terrorist Unit. They know about it.”
Carter nodded. “I’m really not trying to be uncooperative, ma’am,” he said. “You’re a detective and we take local law enforcement’s warnings seriously. But we’ve had calls already from CTU. They warned us about the house up on the hill, and our agents confirm that everything’s fine.” He pointed up the slope to the right of the complex, where the silhouette of a house stood out from the hilltop. She wondered what the house had to do with anything, and if Jack Bauer was there. Carter continued. “But you’re not giving me anything to go on. I’m not sure that I can evacuate the President on a rumor, especially when our agents are in complete control of the environment.”
“Can I at least come in?” she asked. “I don’t need to see the President, but I’ve been around one or two of these ecoterrorists, and I might recognize someone.”
Carter hesitated. She watched him oscillate between his desire to keep her out, thus eliminating a variable, and letting her in to thoroughly explore any hint of danger to his protectee. Finally, he nodded.
The street was as quiet as any street in any affluent neighborhood. Jack parked his car well away from the white house at the end of the lane and he and Sharpton got out. Jack saw no option but the straightforward approach. If the Secret Service caught them sneaking in, it would cause more trouble than it was worth. So he strode up the circular driveway with Sharpton in tow, expecting at any moment to be stopped by an agent stepping around a corner. But none came.
Jack’s internal alarms would have gone off even without the security failure. There was a gardener’s truck in the driveway. The trucks themselves were common enough in affluent neighborhoods, but it was rare to see a gardener at work after sunset. Jack drew his SIG-sauer, recovered from the riots, and held it low at his side. Sharpton took his cue and did the same.
Mercy was impressed by his demeanor. Carter was calm and professional, neither overreacting to her dire prediction nor ignoring her vague warnings. Of course, she wanted to shout at the top of her lungs that the President should be evacuated immediately, but she could not blame the Agent in Charge for his discretion. She’d given him almost nothing to go on.
She had to find something, she knew. She was desperate for some means of convincing the Secret Service that she was right. Mercy found herself doing something she never thought she would. She thought,
He’d find another way to move the President to safety, she thought. And he’d do it without regard for himself or his reputation. And in that moment Mercy formed her plan. When she was close enough, she was going to draw her own weapon and fire. The Secret Service would take her down, she knew, but they would also evacuate the President, remove him immediately from the premises to some secure, controllable haven. He’d be safe. Copeland’s plot would be foiled.
She steeled her resolve as they marched up the wide, shallow travertine steps and through the great double doors. The foyer of the Vanderbilt was more than two stories tall, with several hallways leading in different directions, with signs promising displays from ancient Greece, the Renaissance, and the Impressionist era. One especially magnificent hallway directly across from the doors led straight to the Main Gallery, a central room housing the finest of the complex’s works of art. Two agents were stationed there, as well. Carter waved to them and they let Mercy pass. Art hung on the hallway walls, but Mercy noticed none of it in her eagerness to reach the gallery. The hallway ended at a T-intersection, with short hallways to either side and an archway in front, leading to another magnificent room. Four agents guarded this door, and two of them were Chinese. Beyond, she saw a table set in exquisite fashion, with two empty chairs, almost as though the dining set were an exhibit itself, the vacant chairs offering some statement about the emptiness of modern life.
“This is as far as I can take you,” Carter said. “If there’s anything more you can tell me, tell it now.”
Mercy glanced around, but what she was looking for would not be found in art. She needed evidence, and she had none. At the far end of the gallery she saw two men strolling casually from masterpiece to masterpiece. She became hyper-conscious of her pistol’s bulk against her left ribs. She would have to do it. She’d have to.
Three figures in white coats suddenly burst out of the hallway to her left, carrying silver trays topped with silver covers. Yet another Secret Service agent was with them. That agent gave a thumbs-up sign to the agents at the door. Even so, the door wardens stopped each waiter briefly, lifted the covers, and examined their contents, then waved them past.
“Detective?” Carter asked. He rested a hand gently on her forearm.
Mercy barely heard him. Something about the waiters bothered her. She studied their backs, trying to put her finger on the problem. The waiters strode almost lock-step across the floor and laid their trays on the table. With long, graceful motions, they placed precious porcelain dishes full of food onto the table.
Not all the waiters, Mercy thought. Just that one. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on a waiter with dark hair. She’d seen his back before. She’d seen it. And as he turned, his eyes fell on Mercy. In a split second his look of confidence turned to one of sheer terror, a look Mercy had seen on his face before — when she’d crashed into the vials of virus.
“Him!” Mercy yelled. “That’s him!”
Stan felt like someone had kicked him in the liver. Seeing the LAPD detective standing there knocked the wind out of his lungs. She shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t be here. How could she have figured it out?
Her shout broke the spell, and Stan knew what he had to do. He bolted. But he didn’t run for the exit. He ran straight to the nearest masterpiece, the portrait of Louis XIV that was taller than he was. With all his might, Stan grabbed the frame and yanked the picture off the wall. He knew the picture frame was bolted to the wall. He knew that, even bracing his feet against the wall, he would most likely fail to pull it entirely free. He also knew that it didn’t matter. He didn’t care about the picture, nor did he need to pull it entirely free. He just needed to trigger the security measures.
Jack moved through the foyer of the Mountaingate house. He and Sharpton had spared a few moments to clear the large front yard, and Jack had made short work kicking in the door. The house was dark except for a pale light from the kitchen shed by fluorescents built under the cabinets. Jack motioned for Sharpton to go upstairs. He cleared the kitchen and the garage quietly, not really expecting anyone to be there. If the Vanderbilt Complex was the target, then the backyard would be the best position. But Jack didn’t want anyone behind him when he reached the back of the house. He moved toward the living room.
Alarms shrieked the moment the waiter grabbed the painting. The sirens were so loud that even the best- trained agents flinched for a moment. The Secret Service agents in the room were already moving, two of them going after the waiter and two of them covering President Barnes, dragging him toward the exit. Agent in Charge Carter moved forward, his weapon already in his hand, when he realized something unexpected was happening. A sheet of thick Plexiglas was dropping down from the top of the arched entrance to the Main Gallery.
“What the hell is this!” he shouted. The Plexiglas barrier was halfway down. He dropped underneath it and rolled into the gallery, scanning the room past his gun sights, seeing several Chinese agents eyeing him over the barrels of their own weapons.
It all happened fast after that. The two Secret Service agents reached the waiter and laid hands on him. He
