The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,22

she’s in the rear of a black Washington Flyer taxicab, seat belt fastened, now en route to her home in Arlington.

Her chest is aching, and she realizes why as she sits back.

She’s nearly forgotten to breathe.

Thankfully, the cab is driven by a man who introduces himself, says hello, and keeps his mouth shut as they exit the airport. Tammy squeezes her hands together, remembering all of Harry’s promises, including about someday flying on Air Force One during his second term, once he separated from the First Lady.

“It’s something to look forward to, I promise,” Harry had said. “You never touch your luggage. Any kind of meal you want. The gentlest, quietest flight in the world. Your own cabin with me up forward, with hundreds of movies to choose from, or live television, or anything else you want for entertainment. Damn, there are so many attendants on Air Force One I swear to God there’s one tasked just to pick up your napkin if you drop it. It’s an experience you’ll never forget, one you’re going to have, and soon. I promise!”

Now?

Now a dark, deep part of her wonders if all those promises had been empty words, not pledges. Ever since the start of their … relationship (she felt like calling it an affair cheapened it), he had followed through by protecting her, always keeping his promises about their get-togethers, and treating her … well, like a woman liked to be treated. With respect, affection, and love.

Then, back in Atlanta a few hours ago, he had abandoned her, letting the Secret Service hustle him away without seeing if she was all right in the midst of the ambushing reporters.

And—

On the opposite highway she now sees something horribly wrong at a road construction site, something not right, as a black pickup truck speeds and bounces over the dirt median, and she shouts at the driver as the truck grows large in her vision, slamming into the side of the cab, plunging her into pain and darkness.

CHAPTER 19

MY CELL PHONE starts ringing just as the First Lady’s horse trots closer, and I yell, “Somebody grab that damn horse and check it out!”

Brian Zahn is the closest agent, and he manages to get up to the horse, grab its bridle and reins without spooking it. “What am I looking for?”

Another ring from my phone. “Damn it, any blood, or signs of injury, or her freakin’ foot torn off and still in the stirrup!”

I answer before the next ring. “Grissom.”

“Hey, Sally,” comes the concerned male voice. “It’s Gil.”

I nod with satisfaction. Gil Foster, a trusted colleague of mine who works with the Secret Service’s Technical Security Division, and a man I had called earlier while we were just a few minutes away from the horse farm, siren off.

“Gil,” I say. “Tell me you have something.”

I make out a shaky sigh. “I can tell you that the First Lady’s cell phone was on and operating as of three hours ago, and based on the cell phone tower triangulation and the internal GPS transmitter, the phone was at the Westbrook Horse Farm, fifty meters to the east of the main stable.”

“Great,” I say. “That’s where I am right now. Anything else?”

“At eleven sixteen a.m., it went dark.”

“How did it go dark? Did the battery die?”

Gil says, “Even if the battery were to die, the GPS would continue to signal. It’s powered by a radioactive source, good for a year.”

“Then what happened?”

Gil says, “Something happened to the phone. It was damaged or destroyed.”

“Wait, I thought those suckers were pretty much indestructible.”

“They are,” he says. “But if someone really wants to do something … like take a blowtorch to it or put it through an industrial-strength shredder, or break it open and dunk it in the water, then—”

A thought comes to me. “Gil, okay, thanks, you’ve been great.”

“Sally,” he says quickly. “I’ve got to know … when you called me, you said this was an unannounced drill, right? A security drill to see if the First Lady can be found via her cell phone.”

“That’s right,” I say. “Just a training drill.”

“But … well”—and he utters a nervous laugh—“the way you’re talking, well, it seems like it’s the real deal. Not a drill.”

“Gil?”

“Yes, Sally?”

“Anybody asks, from your shift supervisor to a congressional committee someday, to the best of your knowledge, this was a goddamn drill.”

I switch off. “Pamela!”

She’s over by the horse, along with Brian and Tanya, the other agent. She looks up, and I say, “Show me that map