A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [57]
“If your plan is to sacrifice more people to keep me alive, count me out. Regardless of what you think, or why you had me thrown into prison, I’m just not in the business of killing.”
“That’s why those men and women are there along with you. Now, you have your job to do. I suggest you keep your concerns limited to that.”
The connection went dead.
Griff sank back into his seat. The van accelerated. Angie set her hand on his knee.
“They have no way of knowing the number of lives you’ve saved,” she said softly, “or the personal risks you’ve taken to do it.”
“But that was my life at stake, and my choice to risk it.” Griff turned away and stared out the window.
“The men in that chopper made their choice as well,” Stafford said.
“And what did sacrificing their lives accomplish?” Griff asked. “Clearly Genesis knows who I am and they probably know where I’m going. So what did giving up those men accomplish?”
Stafford turned to him.
“You really don’t know?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Genesis isn’t after you anymore, Rhodes. Thanks to those men and their heroism, the enemy thinks you’re dead. Now you damn well better pull it together and do your part.”
CHAPTER 25
DAY 3
10:00 A.M. (EST)
“Hey, buddy, can you spare some change?”
The panhandler had set up camp on the front steps of the S&S Trading Co. Matt Fink had to suppress the urge to kick him across the street. Instead, he tossed a dollar onto the urine-soaked blanket that was probably helping to keep the grizzled old man from freezing to death.
“I’ve had a good day,” Fink said, hands on hips, “and I’m feeling generous. But if you don’t take your lazy, begging ass somewhere else, I’ll crush your windpipe and watch you drown in your own blood.”
Grinning, the giant watched as the beggar wheeled away his rusted shopping cart. Then he used an electronic key to unlock the massive steel sliding door that concealed the electronic center and warehouse of Genesis. His eyesight adjusted to the dim interior. Alex Ramirez, his bodybuilder’s shoulders bulging beneath a cut-off sweatshirt, sat in front of the bank of monitors. Most of the screens were black.
“So, how many cameras do you figure they got?” Fink asked.
“They missed a few, but I think they’re still looking.”
“Men’s room?”
“Actually, two in the men’s rooms and the two in the ladies’ rooms are still operational.”
“I told you they’d be among the last to go.”
Fink guessed that 90 percent of the cameras Ramirez and his “workmen” had installed over the two months leading up to the State of the Union Address had been discovered by the increasing surveillance sweeps, and had been rendered inoperative. It had been Fink’s idea to place equipment inside the washrooms, a brainstorm that netted them some serious dividends. Not only were those units still operational, the conversations they recorded provided the intelligence that Cain had used to order the missile strike.
Fink had done the rest.
“I wanted that shot,” Ramirez said, as if reading his mind.
“Ah, it was a thing of beauty, my friend. Absolute perfection. I promise you the next one, whatever it may be. Meanwhile, get me Cain.”
“Where are the others?”
“Still disassembling the pickup out back. One shot. One hit. Now that’s what I call perfection.”
“You think anyone saw the launch?”
“Doubtful. By the time the bird was in the air, I was back under the tarp. We drove along, business as usual. The streets were largely empty, too. Everybody is either outside the Capitol, or home watching it on TV.”
“I’m holding you to your promise, Fink. One of these other jerks can work the monitors. I need some action.”
For emphasis, Ramirez reached down beside his chair and hoisted a fifty-pound dumbbell half a dozen times.
“I’ll make sure Cain knows,” Fink said. “This little success should have him pleased as punch.”
“It does.” Cain’s voice crackled from the wall-mounted speakers.
“Ah, Cain, old sport, good to hear your voice.”
Fink considered elaborating on the complexity of what he had done, especially given the short lead time to plan, but he knew Cain would have been