The Sixth Man

bright, educated woman. She loved being a wife and mother, but she was no wallflower. She had questioned him at length about what was going on. The little he had told her had frozen the woman’s blood.

She had never wanted to know exactly what he did. She knew it was in the government arena, something to do with protecting the country, but that was all. The security team that he employed she had assumed was for this reason and also because the Buntings were wealthy and such people needed security. On the other hand she had her hemisphere of existence: her family, her charities, the wonderful social life of a New Yorker with money to burn. It was really all that she could have wanted in life.

But a colder reality had just settled into her bones. And she had felt guilt for wanting to remain oblivious to his world all these years, especially when it had provided her with such a wonderful existence.

She had asked him, “Are you in danger?”

She loved her husband. They had married before he had had money. She cared about him. Wanted him to be safe.

He would not answer her, which was an answer in itself.

“What can I do to help?” she’d asked him.

And the plan had been hatched.

Now it was time for part two of that plan. This segment her husband had insisted on. And she understood quite clearly why. He had taken her through the paces time and again until she felt she could perform it flawlessly. The children had been prepared; the staff the same. She had tried to make it seem like a game to her youngest child, but the older kids knew something was very wrong.

Their father had sat with each of them before heading out in the box. He had told them that he knew they would be brave. He’d told them that he loved them all very much. He told them that he would see them soon. Julie Bunting could tell that it was only this last statement that her husband didn’t quite believe.

She had gone to her luxurious spa-like bathroom, cried her tears, washed her face, and emerged ready to do what she needed to do. She headed up the stairs, where her children were huddled in her oldest child’s room. They sat on the bed staring at her. She looked back, tried to give them an encouraging smile.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Each of them nodded.

Her youngest said, “Is Daddy coming back?”

Julie Bunting managed to say, “Yes, sweetie, he is.”

She went downstairs and opened the pillbox her husband had given her. She took three of them. They would make her very sick, but that was all. They would mimic medically all the symptoms she wanted to have happen to her. She next picked up the phone and made the call. She told the dispatcher she had taken the pills and needed help. She gave her address.

Then she collapsed to the floor.

The men watching from across the street heard the sirens long before they saw their source. The cop cars, ambulance, and fire engine pulled up in front of the Bunting brownstone five minutes after Julie Bunting put down the phone. The emergency personnel rushed into the house with their equipment along with two uniformed police officers. Two more police cruisers showed up and the men in them set up a perimeter outside the house.

One man across the street called this development in to their superiors and asked for instructions. They were told to sit tight. They did.

Fifteen minutes later the stretcher came out with a haggard and pale Julie Bunting lying on it; an IV was running into her arm. Moments later the Bunting children came out, all looking terrified and the youngest one crying real tears. The man impersonating Peter Bunting held this child in his arms. All bundled up because of the cold and surrounded by EMTs, the fake Bunting was well obscured from the surveillance going on across the street. They all climbed in the ambulance with Julie Bunting and it headed off, with one cop car in front and one behind.

The same man from across the street called this in.

“Looks like the wife is really sick. The whole family went with them to the hospital, including Bunting.”

He listened, nodded. “Right. Got it.”

Most of his men stayed at their current location while he sent two of his people after the ambulance.

CHAPTER

66

THE PRIVATE WINGS TOUCHED DOWN, the stairs were lowered, and Peter Bunting stepped off into the chilly air flowing into Portland, Maine, from the ocean. He had not used the company jet; that was too easily followed. He’d flown in on a rental jet hired by one of his companies. During the flight he’d gotten a text from the man impersonating him.

It said simply, GTG, which was their code for “good to go.” If Bunting had gotten any other message he would have known they were compromised.

He walked quickly to the car. There was no driver. No security detail. The wheels were just waiting for him. He climbed in and drove off. As both a New Yorker and a pampered CEO he hadn’t driven a car by himself in years. It actually felt good.

Sean edged his head around a corner of the building. Clancy’s Restaurant was just across the main street. There were few people about because of the lateness of the hour and the cold weather. Sean huddled in his coat and glanced down the road to his left. Somewhere out there was Michelle, holding a sniper rifle chambering 7.62 175-grain NATO rounds that had an overabundance of knockdown power. She had brought the weapon back with her from Virginia. She had carried the rifle and her sniper stand, disassembled in a black nylon bag, off into the darkness. But Sean was in communication with her through his earbud and power pack. He had lived with a communications bud in his ear for years while standing post as a Secret Service agent. Back then it was his job to look for threats against the president and sacrifice his life for the man if it came to it. Now the threats he would be looking for would be aimed directly at him.

Before leaving for Portland they had arranged for Megan to be brought to the cottage. The local police could manage only a single deputy to guard her at Martha’s Inn, and he was nearing retirement. On meeting him Sean had not been impressed with either his skill or his enthusiasm.

Sean had called Eric Dobkin and asked him to watch over Megan while they were gone. He had come immediately. Sean had told him some more of what was going on.

“Real heavy hitters,” Dobkin had said. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“We need you here with Megan,” said Sean. “No one knows we’re here, but then again, there are no guarantees they won’t find out.”

“I’ll do my best, Sean.”

“That’s all I can ask. And I really appreciate it.”

Megan had once more complained bitterly about not being kept in the loop, and while Sean was sympathetic to this plea, he was in no mood to discuss it.

Finally he’d said testily, “The less you know about it, Megan, the safer you’ll be. If anything happens you do exactly what Officer Dobkin tells you to do, understood?”

Megan had stood in the middle of the cottage, a defiant look on her face. “Fine, but just so you understand, when you get back, I’m out of here.”

“You ready?” Sean now said into his wrist mic, as his gaze swept the street.

“Affirmative.” Michelle’s voice floated into his ear.

“Location?”

“High ground, a hundred yards west of you. I can see everything from here. Perfect sight line to Clancy’s.”

“How’d you get high ground?”

“Empty building, pathetic back door lock. Everything in place?”

“Affirmative.”

“Good, stand by. Let me know when you see him.”