a split second, Luke thought he saw a splash. A man might have dived into the bay and disappeared. Luke blinked to clear his eyes, then looked again. He wasn’t sure.
Either way, the man called Brown was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
9:03 p.m.
Bethesda Navy Medical Center – Bethesda, Maryland
The light of the laptop computer flickered in the semi-darkness of the private hospital room. Luke sat slumped in an uncomfortable armchair, staring at the screen, a pair of white ear buds extending from the computer to his ears.
He was almost breathless with gratitude and relief. His chest hurt from gasping for air the past four or five hours. He sometimes thought about crying, but he hadn’t done so yet. Maybe later.
There were two beds in the room. Luke had pulled some strings, and now Becca and Gunner lay in the beds, sleeping deeply. They were under sedation, but it didn’t matter. Neither of them had slept a wink between the time they were abducted and the moment when Luke stormed the safe house.
They had spent eighteen hours in sheer terror. Now they were out cold. And they were going to be out for a good long while.
Neither one of them had been hurt. True, they were going to carry emotional scars from this, but physically, they were fine. The bad guys did not harm the merchandise. Maybe Don Morris’s hand had been in there somewhere, protecting them.
He gave a brief thought to Don. Now that events had played out, it seemed right to do so. Don had been Luke’s greatest mentor. Since the time Luke joined Delta Force at twenty-seven years old, until early this morning, twelve years later, Don had been a constant presence in Luke’s life. When Don first created the FBI Special Response Team, he had made a place for Luke. More than that – he had recruited Luke, wined him, dined him, and stole him away from Delta.
But Don had turned at some point, and Luke never saw it coming. Don had been among the conspirators who had tried to topple the government. One day, Luke might understand Don’s reasoning for all this, but not today.
On the computer screen in front of him, a live stream played from the packed media room of what they were calling “the New White House.” The room had at most a hundred seats. It had a gradual slope, upward from the front, as though it doubled as a movie theater. Every seat was taken. Every space along the back wall was taken. Dense throngs of people stood in the wings on both sides of the stage.
Images of the house itself briefly appeared on the screen. It was the beautiful, turreted and gabled Queen Anne–style 1850s mansion on the grounds of the Naval Observatory in Washington, DC. And it was indeed white, for the most part.
Luke knew something about it. For decades, it had been the official residence of the Vice President of the United States. Now, and for the foreseeable future, it was the home and office of the President.
The screen cut back to the media room. As Luke watched, the President herself came to the podium: Susan Hopkins, the former Vice President, who had taken the oath of office this very morning. This was her first address to the American people as President. She wore a dark blue suit, her blonde hair in a bob. The suit seemed bulky, which meant she was wearing bulletproof material beneath it.
Her eyes were somehow both stern and soft – her media people had probably coached her to look angry, brave, and hopeful all at once. A top-flight makeup artist had covered the burns on her face. Unless you knew where to look, you wouldn’t even see them. Susan, as she had been her entire life, was the most beautiful woman in the room.
Her resume thus far was impressive. It included teenage supermodel, young wife of a technology billionaire, mom, United States Senator from California, Vice President, and now, suddenly, President. The former President, Thomas Hayes, had died in a fiery underground inferno, and Susan herself was lucky to be alive.
Luke had saved her life yesterday, twice.
He undid the mute feature on his computer.
She was surrounded by bulletproof glass panels. Ten Secret Service agents stood on the stage with her. The crowd of reporters in the room was giving her a standing ovation. The TV announcers were speaking in hushed tones. The camera panned, finding Susan’s husband, Pierre, and their two daughters.
Back to the President: she was holding her hands up, asking for quiet. Despite herself, she broke into a bright smile. The crowd erupted again. That was the Susan Hopkins they knew: the enthusiastic, gung-ho queen of daytime talk shows, of ribbon-cutting ceremonies and political rallies. Now her small hands made fists and she raised them high above her head, almost like a referee indicating a touchdown. The audience was loud and grew louder.
The camera panned. Hardened Washington, DC, and national journalists, one of the most jaded groups of people known to man, stood with moist eyes. Some of them were openly weeping. Luke caught a brief glimpse of Ed Newsam in a dark pin-striped suit, leaning on crutches. Luke had been invited as well, but he preferred to be here in this hospital room. He wouldn’t consider being anywhere else.
Susan came to the microphone. The audience quieted, just enough so she could be heard. She put her hands on the podium, as if steadying herself.
“We’re still here,” she said, her voice shaking.
Now the crowd exploded.
“And you know what? We’re not going anywhere!”
Deafening noise came through the ear buds. Luke turned the sound down.
“I want…” Susan said, and then stopped again. She waited. The cheering went on and on. Still she waited. She stepped back from the microphone, smiled, and said something to the very tall Secret Service man standing next to her. Luke knew him a little. His name was Charles Berg. He had also saved her life yesterday. Over an eighteen-hour span, Susan’s life had been on the line almost nonstop.
When the crowd noise died somewhat, Susan stepped back to the podium.
“Before we talk, I want you to do something with me,” she said. “Will you? I want to sing ‘God Bless America.’ It’s always been one of my favorite songs.” Her voice cracked. “And I want to sing it tonight. Will you sing it with me?”
The crowd roared its assent.
Then she did it. All by herself, in a small, untrained voice, she did it. There was no celebrity singer there with her. There were no world-class musicians accompanying her. She sang, just her, in front of a room full of people, and with hundreds of millions of people watching worldwide.
“‘God bless America,’” she began. She sounded like a little girl. “‘Land that I love.’”
It was like watching someone walk out onto a high wire between buildings. It was an act of faith. Luke’s throat felt tight.
The crowd did not leave her out there by herself. Instantly, they began to flood in. Better, stronger voices joined her. And she led them.
Outside the darkened room, somewhere down the hall in the quiet of an after-hours hospital, people on duty began to sing.
In the bed next to Luke, Becca stirred. Her eyes opened and she gasped. Her head darted left and right. She seemed ready to spring out of the bed. She saw Luke there, but her eyes showed no recognition.
Luke took out his ear
