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  “Agent Davis was just filling me in. She believes that Jordan is in danger,” interrupted Landry.

  A silence fell on the line. “What kind of danger?”

  “Do you know a man named Mark Donahue?” asked Jami.

  There was a brief pause from Keller. “Can’t say that I do. What does Donahue have to do with any of this?”

  “I got a voicemail from Blake. There was a struggle. Shots were fired. And this man – Donahue – was responsible for what happened to him. He was at the Hay-Adams. He got Blake and he’s after me now.”

  “Can you describe him, Jami?”

  “Younger guy, wavy auburn hair, he was in a suit. Wore a red tie.”

  There was another pause. “The man you’re describing is Max Donovan. Aid to Mike Billings.”

  “Whoever he is, the man was involved in what happened to Blake and tried to take me out, too.”

  “Bill, are you hearing this?”

  Landry didn’t know how to respond to Keller. “I learned about the situation just now. We’ll look into it.”

  “Let me be very clear, Bill – finding Blake Jordan needs to be a top priority of yours.”

  “With all due respect, tracking down the Somali men planning an attack is our top priority right now.”

  “Then I expect you to give Agent Davis whatever she asks for so this situation with Blake Jordan gets the attention that it needs,” said Keller who paused for a response from Landry. “Bill?”

  “Understood. We’ll do what we can to find Blake Jordan. Whatever Agent Davis asks for, she’ll get.”

  “Jami, I will alert Ron Gibson and Gary Wallace right now so we can involve the Secret Service with this, they’re the right people to help. What else do you need from me?”

  “If you still have people in the Hay-Adams, you need to get them out now.”

  “I’ll get them out, Jami. You focus on finding Blake. Hang on a sec,” replied Keller who pulled the phone away briefly to speak with one of his aides in the room with him. “Okay, I’m told that Wallace has stepped away so I’m going to put you in contact with Ron Gibson. Are you familiar with the defense secretary?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. I’ll have him call this number to give you an update after I brief him on Donovan and talk with Mike Billings. I’ll also need you to keep Gibson updated with your progress as well. Hang in there.”

  “Thank you,” said Jami as she waited for the call to end.

  Bill Landry leaned back in his chair. Jami knew that Landry didn’t care too much for Blake. It was understandable. Jami thought about how a few months prior, Morgan had taken over the FBI’s system, effectively holding Landry and the FBI’s Chicago field office hostage to give Blake leverage to go after Keller’s kidnapper. Jami couldn’t help but think about how Keller was kind of doing the same thing now.

  “Alright,” Landry said, breaking the silence. “What do you need?”

  Jami turned to Reed. “I want Chris’s help. Plus unrestricted access to any of the information you get on the Somalis – unfiltered and unedited. We need someone to help us get access to any surveillance footage at the Hay-Adams. And I guess we need a place to get set up.”

  “You can work from here,” replied Landry as he stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll make sure you have access to whatever you need. We’re having briefings every hour, on the hour. I’ll have someone update you or I’ll do it myself. I’m going out on the floor for a bit. If I’m unavailable, just wait for me.”

  “Can you preauthorize us for use of the armory? In case we need access and you’re not available?” Chris Reed asked, trying to think of every scenario where he and Jami might need the full resources of the FBI.

  “Reed, you’re pushing it. I agreed to assist you two in locating Jordan, not going out into the field. Conduct your search from here.”

  “Keller wanted you to give me whatever I asked for and you agreed to that,” Jami interjected.

  “But that doesn’t mean–”

  “Bill, I agree with Chris, we don’t know what we’re getting ourselves into here,” said Jami.

  Landry stepped into the hallway. “Fine. I’ll call downstairs and authorize use for twenty-four hours.”

  His footsteps echoed throughout the hallway as he left. Jami didn’t trust Bill Landry. She thought about how if Keller hadn’t called, she’d probably be out on the street right now. Although Landry was friends with Shapiro, Jami’s boss, she knew that without the president-elect’s pull, she’d be out of luck.

  After Landry stepped way, Chris pushed the office door closed and took a seat in his boss’s chair across from Jami. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on Landry’s desk, and buried her head in her hands.

  “You think he’s okay?” she asked.

  Reed hunched over Landry’s keyboard, logged his boss out of the workstation, and entered his own login credentials to access the FBI’s system. “Blake is a fighter. And if there’s a way out, he’ll find it.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I COULDN’T RECALL Chris’s number. Although I had a pretty good memory, you can’t remember something you haven’t paid attention to. A product of the digital age, I thought. I did have Jami’s number memorized, but when I tried calling, an older woman answered and I quickly disconnected the call.

  Again I tried to call Jami, but this time, the number that I was connected to ended up being out of service. I felt the back of my head. It hurt like hell. I wondered if my injury was somehow impacting my memory.

  I tried not to panic. I was relieved when a thought occurred to me. I had Ron Gibson’s card in my pocket.

  I pulled out the business card, turned it over, and stared at the number that Gibson had scribbled on the back earlier that morning as I sat with him and the president-elect. It was hard to believe that the meeting was that same day. After the hell that I had been through, it felt like a lifetime ago.

  Instead of reaching the defense secretary, I got his voicemail.

  I left a brief message explaining what had happened and where I was, according to the limo’s GPS – just east of metro DC, near Mount Olivet Cemetery.

  I turned up the heat in the limo and rubbed my hands together to try and stay warm. My breath was fogging up the windshield and the driver’s side window. I used my arm to wipe it clean and assessed my situation and what my next steps might be. I decided to try 411. I asked for FBI headquarters, DC.

  A woman answered and I asked her to put me through to Chris Reed. After a brief silence, she told me that there was no number listed for Reed, but she could connect me to Bill Landry. “Fine,” I said and waited.

  The phone rang twice. Another dead-end, I thought. But before the third ring, I heard a hesitant, but familiar voice. “Bill Landry’s office.”

  “Chris?”

  “God, Blake – hold on,” he said and I was put on speaker. “Jami’s here with me.”

  “Are you okay?” Jami asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened? Where are you?”

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, Jami. Someone tried to kill me.” I looked to my left. The window had already fogged up again. I wiped it and looked at the trees that were getting harder to see as night fell. “I’m in a wooded area, near Mount Olivet Cemetery. Can you get me?”

  “Do you know where that is? The cemetery?” I heard Jami ask Chris.

  “Yeah, it’s three or four miles out,” he replied.

  “Blake, we’re leaving now,” Jami added.

  “Alright. Just get to the cemetery, I’ll find you there. And make sure you–”

  I paused, noticing what looked like movement to the right of me.

  “Blake?”

  “Hang on,” I said.

  Headlights. I thought I saw headlights. But now they were gone.

  I lowered the passenger side window to clear the fog. Between that, nightfall, and the tinted windows, it was next to impossible to see much of anything from the driver’s
seat. But I thought I saw headlights.

  I opened the door and stood. “There’s a car headed straight for me,” I said after seeing a black sedan in the distance, rounding one of the road’s many curves and coming my way. “Just get to the cemetery, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Blake, wait–” Jami said.

  “Go to the cemetery,” I yelled.

  I grabbed the gun that I had placed on the passenger seat and ran through the snow into the wooded area. When I looked back and saw the car approaching, I dove and slowly turned around to face the car.

  I managed to crawl behind a tree trunk to hide. Not enough to provide complete cover. But I was far enough away from the approaching vehicle that, if I was lucky, would keep me hidden.

  The sedan slowed as it approached the limo and came to a stop.

  Two men emerged and walked around each side of the limo, guns drawn. When they reached the back and saw their man dead, the trunk open, and me nowhere to be found, they began to talk – I assumed – about what they should do about it.

  One of the men placed a call while the other bent down to look over the man surrounded by red-stained snow.

  After a few seconds had passed, the man who had been kneeling stood and stared at the ground. I watched his head slowly rise, looking in my direction. It looked like he was staring right at me.

  Oh God – I left tracks.

  He headed straight for me while the other man continued the phone conversation.

  Still on the ground, I started to shiver. My body temperature had dropped rapidly because of the snow. I watched as the man started to get closer. My arms had been spread apart, but as he approached, I slowly brought my hands together so I could aim the gun at the man. I just needed him to get a little closer to me.

  I slowed my breathing and closed an eye, ready to take him out. As I slowly exhaled, I pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. I again pulled the trigger of the limo driver’s gun. It wasn’t firing. No bullets.

  I lowered the weapon, rested my head on the ground, and closed my eyes, praying he wouldn’t see me.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE MAN WAS at least fifteen yards away from me. Twenty, tops. I could hear his feet crunching the snow as he followed my tracks. Night was falling incredibly fast – the only thing I had going for me.

  That and the other man, who approached to join the one that was hot on my trail.

  “He said we need to return right now and bring the vehicle with us.”

  “But look,” the man following me said. I kept my eyes closed but knew he was pointing at the tracks. I waited. Listened. Felt my heart beat so hard, the gash in the back of my head throbbed with pain.

  “It’s been almost an hour since we lost contact. Jordan isn’t here. Come, we need to go now.”

  I continued to listen and wait. I opened my eyes. The sky was completely dark now and, behind me, I could see that the cars driving on the road that separated the woods from the cemetery had their lights on.

  I heard the snow start to crunch again. I lifted my head to see the men walking back toward the vehicles.

  They stood at both ends of the dead man, one lifting his feet, the other his arms, and threw him inside the limo. I watched the men exchange a few words, and the one who drove the sedan climbed back inside and started the car while the other entered the limo and closed the door.

  The sedan backed up, turned around, and both vehicles left. I watched them slowly round the curve.

  As soon as they disappeared through the trees north of me, I turned my body around. Still on the snow, I watched the road west of my position to see them pass. A minute later, both vehicles drove right by me.

  Once they were out of sight, I stood, stuffed the gun behind me inside my belt thinking it might somehow come in handy, and started moving west through the woods in the direction of the cemetery.

  When I got to the main road, I waited.

  I stayed crouched at the edge of the woods, looking for a break in traffic so I could run across the street. I didn’t want to be seen if at all possible, realizing that a man walking out of the woods wearing a blood-stained shirt would cause onlookers to panic. A call to the police could tip off whoever wanted me dead.

  But it didn’t matter anymore, now that they know I’m alive and on the run.

  About two minutes later, there was a break in traffic. I ran across the street and entered the cemetery through a small lot. An old brick wall separated the cemetery from the road. The tombstones were large. There was no uniformity to them and as I passed, it became apparent that the graveyard was old.

  I walked through the lot, headed for a building straight in front of me. It was a large, gray stone lodge, the same color as the wall.

  There wasn’t anyone around and as I approached the lodge’s glass door, I didn’t see anyone inside, either.

  I locked the door behind me as soon as I entered and walked around the desk. There was an oversized map hanging on the wall. I noticed a sign on the desk that said that the cemetery was created in 1858. As I examined the map, waiting for Chris and Jami to arrive, I heard a car door close so I walked to the door.

  A family – looked like a son with his mother – held hands and the younger man opened the passenger side door to the car and helped the woman inside. It looked like she had been crying. I couldn’t help but think about my dad and the day I buried him. It had been almost six months but it still felt like yesterday.

  I heard a creak coming from behind me. I saw a door behind the desk that I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  I grabbed the gun tucked inside my belt and spun around.

  “Stop! Don’t shoot!” an older man cried. Not feeling like I was in danger, I lowered the gun.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I call the police.” He kept his eyes on me and reached down below the desk.

  “I am the police,” I replied and brought the gun back up. “Drop it and come out from behind there.”

  He hesitated. Then he raised both hands and slowly walked around the desk. “What happened to you?” he asked, staring at my blood-soaked shirt and noticing that I had been roughed up. I hadn’t looked in a mirror yet, but imagined that I probably had dried blood on my face. I couldn’t blame the guy for being cautious. “Someone tried to kill me. They’re still trying. Now have a seat.”

  I motioned with my gun for him to go to one of the wooden benches that lined both sides of the entrance.

  After he sat down, I lowered the gun but kept it in my right hand. I looked out the glass door to see if there was any sign of Chris Reed. Not yet.

  “Why is someone trying to kill you?” the gentleman asked. “What did you do to them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The man continued to look me over. “Can I get you some water? A damp rag to clean yourself up with?”

  Not seeing any movement out on the lot, I turned around. “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Right in here,” the man said and pointed to the room he had come from to enter the front of the lodge.

  “I’ll follow you,” I said and the man got up and started walking. We entered a kitchen and he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to me. I tucked the gun behind my back and took a drink.

  The gentleman walked to a drawer and I sensed trouble. “Think there’s a clean rag in here somewhere.”

  As soon as he pulled it open, I grabbed his left hand and reached for his right arm and brought it behind his back to immobilize him. I looked inside the drawer. It was full of knives. No rags.

  “Back out front. Thanks for your hospitality,” I said and keeping his right arm locked behind him, I forced the man to walk back with me to the entrance and I pushed him back down on the bench to take a seat.

  I kept the gun trained on the man for another five minutes until I saw Chris Reed’s car pull into the lot. I unlocked the door and looked at the olde
r man. “Thanks for the water,” I said and jogged over to Reed’s car. As Chris pulled away, I looked back and saw the man pick up the phone.

  TWENTY-THREE

  JAMI REACHED OVER from the backseat and gave me a hug. I put my right arm on her back and squeezed. “I was worried about you, Blake.” I grabbed the gun from my back and set it on the floorboard.

  “You alright man?” Chris asked as he threw a gray sweatshirt to me. “All I had in my locker. Got some jeans back at the office, if they fit.”

  As Reed sped toward FBI headquarters, I unbuttoned my white dress shirt and tucked it under the seat, by my feet. I put my arms through the sweatshirt and pushed my head through as gently as I could.

  I winced in pain. I felt Jami hold my head still as she looked me over. “You’ve got a bad laceration, Blake.”

  “The agent that walked us inside the Hay-Adams right when Chris dropped us off this morning. He pistol-whipped me. Then he stuffed me inside the trunk of a car. They were going to kill me and dump my body.”

  “They were coming after me, too,” Jami replied. “Blake, do you know Max Donovan?”

  “What do you know about Donovan?” I asked.

  “He came to the room after you left. Introduced himself as Mark Donahue. I don’t think he was expecting anyone to be inside the suite except for you. He was looking for you, Blake. I had a bad feeling about him and went downstairs to find you. I saw him go down a hallway and decided to follow him.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I overheard him and another man – he sounded older – talking to someone on speakerphone. Heavy, Middle Eastern accent. The guy on the line asked about you and the older man said you were taken out of play. Then he asked about me. Donahue, or Donovan I guess, said they were sending someone up to take care of me, too.”

  “We need to tell Keller.”

  “He knows, Blake. We talked to him half an hour ago,” added Chris. “We were in Bill Landry’s office. Keller called because you were supposed to meet with him and never showed. We got him up to speed.”