President Elect. Jack MarsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      He was forty years old, and had been in the Secret Service for nearly fifteen years. He had been the head of the President’s home security detail for more than two years. It had come about by accident, the result of a disaster. He had been on her personal security detail the evening of the Mount Weather attack, when she was the Vice President. He had almost certainly saved her life. Everyone else on the team had been killed.

      He had changed that night. He only saw it in retrospect. He had already been thirty-seven years old, in a job with a high level of responsibility, and married with two children – but in a sense, that was the night he became a man. He became who he was supposed to be. Before then? He was just a big kid with a job that let him carry a gun.

      Susan trusted him after that night. And he trusted her. More than that – he felt protective of her – and not just because it was his job to feel that way. He was younger than her by a decade, and yet he felt almost like he was her big brother.

      Survival – saving someone’s life – is an intimate thing.

      He knew there was nothing to these corruption charges, or this murder charge. And he’d be dipped if he was going to allow anyone in to take the President of the United States into custody – especially not a bunch of yahoos wielding a fake bench warrant from far outside any reasonable claim to jurisdiction.

      He had just done a perimeter check on foot. He was moving up the driveway, back toward the White House. Just ahead of him, a dozen heavily armed men in business suits moved briskly along the road. It was a sunny day, and cold. The shadows of the men on the ground showed sharp, high-powered rifles and shotguns poking from their sides.

      The guardhouse was just up ahead. It was protected by concrete barriers. There was both a STOP sign and a DO NOT ENTER sign on the fence. More men in suits stood by the entrance. The body language of the men was alert, tense. They had the overstuffed look of men wearing bullet-proof vests or armor under their clothes.

      Construction vehicles were setting down taller, thicker, and heavier barriers in front of the existing ones. They were just putting the finishing touches on the barriers now. The new barriers created a narrow chute, which was also a Byzantine maze of sharp right and left turns. It would force any vehicle to slow to a crawl. Wider vehicles, like trucks or Humvees, wouldn’t be able to pass through it at all.

      NOTICE, a sign read. RESTRICTED AREA. 100 % ID CHECK.

      There weren’t going to be any ID checks today. No one was going in or out.

      In the near distance, perhaps two hundred yards away, men in black uniforms moved into position on the roof of the White House. Those guys were the real deal, Berg knew. The shooters. Secret Service snipers, any one of whom could easily put a bullet through his heart from this distance.

      A Black Hawk helicopter took off from a helipad behind a copse of trees on the White House grounds. It headed east, then banked lazily to the north. Snipers lounged in the open bay doors.

      This was just the visible defense. There were more than a hundred men and women guarding the perimeter of the White House grounds, including military units. No inch of the fencing or the walls around the property was not under surveillance at this moment. In addition to the circling Black Hawks, there were three Apache helicopter gunships hovering out over the Potomac River. Those Apaches could take out the entire approaching line of police vehicles in seconds.

      It was the mismatch of all mismatches. The NBA champions versus the local junior high school B team.

      Chuck pulled out his cell phone. He had this crazy sheriff from Wheeling, West Virginia, on speed dial. Was the man on a suicide mission? Chuck was about to find out.

      The phone rang three times.

      “Paxton,” the man said. His deep, gravelly voice had a slight drawl to it. You wouldn’t necessarily call it Southern. You might say it was Appalachian hillbilly.

      Chuck pictured him in his mind. He had requested a research brief on the sheriff when he first heard they were coming. Bobby Paxton was a broad man in his fifties, an ex-Marine who still sported a flattop haircut. He was known as a no-nonsense, law and order type. More than that – for years, his department had been dogged by police brutality complaints, especially against young black males in custody.

      Paxton himself was also on the record as flirting with any number of cockamamie conspiracy theories, up to and including the idea that elements of the federal government were cooperating with a race of seven-foot-tall aliens from outer space, who had given the American military advanced technologies like particle beam weaponry and anti-gravity flying machines.

      It was possible that Paxton was insane. And if so, this could turn into a long day.

      “Sheriff,” Chuck said. “Where are you now?”

      “We are two minutes from your location. You should get a visual on us shortly.”

      “Sir, I’ve said this to you before, and I’m going to say it one last time. Any message you have for the President is one I will accept from you at the front gate. Neither you, nor any of your personnel, will enter the White House grounds. There is no way – a zero percent chance – that you will take the President into custody today. You have no jurisdiction on federal property, nor within the city of Washington – ”

      “We do have jurisdiction,” Paxton said. “My entire force has been – ”

      Chuck continued without missing a beat. “And the department with jurisdiction, the Washington, DC, Metro Police, has declined to enforce the warrant that you carry.”

      But Paxton didn’t stop either. “…deputized as auxiliary police officers of the city of Washington, DC.”

      “Sir, you are on a fool’s errand, and a dangerous one at that. I’m concerned that someone is going to get hurt out here today. And I can tell you that it won’t be any of my people.”

      “Son,” Paxton said, “you are on the wrong side of history. If you have any sense, you will step aside and let me do my job. We are coming in, regardless of what you decide.”

      Chuck Berg’s shoulders slumped. He sighed heavily. This was how the man was going to ride this? Straight into a brick wall? So be it.

      “Sheriff, we have helicopters in the air. We have marksmen on the roof. You are already in our crosshairs. You must know that. Please also know that five minutes ago, I authorized the use of deadly force to maintain the integrity of the security zone around the White House and its grounds. I urge you to leave your paperwork with me at the guardhouse. If you, or any of your men, attempt to go any further than that, you will be responsible for the consequences. If you, or any of your men, draw a weapon, you will also – ”

      “And you will be a murderer shoring up the dying rule of a despot,” Paxton said. “Is that the legacy you want? Is that how your children and grandchildren will remember you?”