Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(93)
The SEALs shuffled closer to the yawning black hole as a unit. Then, “Holy shit!” Leo laughed, whipping off his sunglasses and glancing over at Boss as the shop filled with the smells of damp concrete and stale, fishy air. “Who the hell do ya think you are? Batman or somethin’?”
“Or something.” Boss winked, turning to watch as a yellow wash of headlights appeared in the tunnel. “You know as well as I do, guys in our line of work often have need for an extra bolt-hole. Plus it’s a f*cking handy-dandy little thing to have onsite when, say, the president of the United States wants to make a covert visit.”
Now it was Leo’s turn to whisper, “The hell you say.”
Boss nodded, then turned to watch a lumbering black SUV pull out of the mouth of the tunnel. After the vehicle rocked to a stop, all four doors opened simultaneously. From the front seats poured two guys in off-the-rack suits and slicked down Don Draper haircuts—Secret Service. From the back emerged President Thompson and Navy General Pete Fuller, the head of the Joint Chiefs. Both men were dressed in the civilian garb of jeans and polo shirts. But there was absolutely no mistaking who they were.
President Thompson had a full head of silver hair that the press liked to say made him look trustworthy, and a confident smile that had won over the hearts of Americans not once, but twice. And Pete Fuller? Well, he had a buzz cut that would do any drill sergeant proud. And when you added that to the perpetual scowl he wore, a person was almost forced to both fear and respect the guy in equal measure.
Steady hid a grin when the SEALs snapped to attention, their hands stiffly lifted to their heads in salute, their chests puffed out like a bunch of peacocks.
“At ease, gentlemen,” General Fuller said after returning their salutes.
Leo and the rest of the Alpha platoon boys lowered their hands only to formally lace them behind their backs, spreading their feet and keeping their eyes straight ahead in the standard military pose. Sí, it’d taken Steady a while to get over that particular bit of training after he’d joined BKI and began seeing the president and the general on a fairly regular basis. He’d finally stopped the day the general told him, “Cut that shit out, will you, Soto? I’m saluted so often, I’m developing tennis elbow in my right arm. And you standing there, staring straight ahead, not meeting my eyes, makes my * pucker.”
Pete Fuller had a way with words. No doubt.
“Welcome back to BKI, General. Mr. President.” Boss stepped forward to shake both men’s hands. Steady did the same, lifting a brow at the leader of the free world.
“I wanted to tell you again how much I’m indebted to you for saving my daughter,” the president said, pumping his fist. Sí, sí. But that’s not what he wanted to hear from the man. Then President Thompson leaned in close, his expensive aftershave tunneling up Steady’s nose. “And I received your messages. You’re right. You deserve an explanation. But first, we need to deal with another issue.”
And that’s what Steady had been waiting to hear. The relief that poured through him was nearly enough to bring him to his knees. Regardless of the hard-assed front he’d been wearing these last couple of days, the truth was he’d been beside himself with worry. Worry for Abby and how she was dealing with the press. Every news headline had been some mishmash of the words “President” and “Daughter” and “Abducted.” Worry over why in the world she’d think she was the one responsible for Rosa’s death—he didn’t even entertain the possibility that it might be true; not Abby, not sweet, wouldn’t-harm-a-flea Abby, not the woman he loved both heart and soul. Worry over whether or not she loved him. I mean, she never came out and said it. And perhaps she’d let him take her in that hot jungle hut not due to love, but due to some grossly false assumption that she somehow owed him because of her confusion surrounding his sister’s death.
“…obvious the scope of Winterfield’s thievery is far greater than anything we or the CIA ever imagined,” the president was saying, and Steady joined the group that had gathered near the motorcycles. He shot Boss a wide-eyed look then let his gaze slip over to the SEALs who were standing by, listening intently.
The general caught his expression. “It’s okay, Soto. Given that these boys were responsible for securing the nukes, it’s only fair they know exactly what we’re dealing with here.”
The nukes…
What the press didn’t know, what no one knew, was that the CIA had discovered weeks ago that their rogue agent’s betrayal didn’t begin and end with the revelation of the locations of the black sites. There’d been a big to-do involving a terrorist group, a couple of old marine sonar specialists, the Black Knights, and the coordinates of the handful of missing pre– and post–World War II nuclear weapons sitting at the bottoms of the world’s oceans that had occurred as a direct result of Winterfield selling classified information on the black market. Leo and his men had been working tirelessly to retrieve the decades-old warheads from their watery graves ever since. And everyone had hoped that when they pulled the last weapon from the depths of the South China Sea, it would be the end of Luke Winterfield’s treasonous activities.
Apparently not. Hue puta!
“Understood.” He nodded, then shook his head. “And sorry, I’m coming in a little late.” He turned to the president. “Are you saying Winterfield was the one who supplied Umar Sungkar with the Intel on Abby’s security detail and their protocols?” His thoughts pinged back to his hotel room in Kuala Lumpur when he and Dan had been quick to disregard the possibility because it’d seemed so far-fetched.