Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(86)

“I’m so sorry Senator Aldus,” she gushed, wringing her veiny hands before pushing her trifocals up the long bridge of her nose. “I told them you were in a meeting, but they just pushed past me.”

“It’s okay, Janice,” Aldus assured her, though by the looks of the men striding toward him it was anything but.

Secret Service?

That’s sure as hell what the guys looked like, with their matching dark suits and those clear, plastic wires snaking up from their starched white collars to disappear unobtrusively into the shells of their ears. The Men in Black, up close and in person.

“Senator Aldus,” one of the men said in an accent that was no accent at all, “you need to come with us now.”

“Ron,” Aldus turned toward the blatantly curious man seated across from him. He was very careful to keep his own expression bland. “We’ll have to discuss this later.”

“Er…sure,” the New Jersey senator scrambled to his feet, making no attempt to hide his nosiness as he eyed the two automatons who were moving in to flank Aldus.

He waited patiently until Ron left with Janice close on his heels before standing, and slowly and carefully closing the double buttons on his ultra tailored, Hugo Boss suit. Shooting his gold-linked cuffs, he regarded his stoic companions with all the audacity of a U.S. senator.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his tone not-so-slightly condescending, “just what the hell do you think you’re doing barging in here and ordering me to—”

He thought the vein in his temple was going to explode when Man in Black I interrupted him. “We’ve been instructed, senator,” was it his imagination or was that a sneer on the guy’s face when he used that title? “to escort you to the White House immediately.”

He opened his mouth, and it was then that Man in Black II decided to pipe up. “You should know, sir, we’ve also been instructed to take you forcibly, in handcuffs, if you refuse to come peaceably.”

Cold sweat instantly popped out on his forehead and dampened the armpits of his shirt beneath his suit jacket, more slid nauseatingly down the small of his back. Despite that, there was a definite chill spreading through his veins.

“What is this in regard to?” he asked, but could think of only one thing that would bring the Secret Service to his door with orders to escort him, forcibly if need be, to the White House.

Those f*cking files.

He hadn’t heard from Johnny since they’d learned of Rocco’s death, but he hadn’t really expected to until tonight. Johnny had promised that Miss Morgan and former sergeant Weller were as good as dead. With the menacing tone of vengeance ringing in Johnny’s rough voice, Aldus had believed him.

Now, he felt the weight of the prepaid phone like a lead brick inside his jacket pocket.

Was it possible Johnny had failed? Had the files been found?

It was the only thing that made sense. And for the first time in Alan Aldus’s entire gilded life, the threat of personal doom loomed like a poison-fanged monster in front of him.

***

Frank glanced around the Oval Office and shook his head.

Not only had he never thought to be sitting in this room with its antique furniture, plaster reliefs, and genuine oil painting of, you guessed it, that’d be the original GW, George Washington, he certainly hadn’t thought to be sitting in this room with the strange amalgamation of folks surrounding him.

President Thompson was seated at his desk, looking very stern and powerful. His Joint Chiefs, including General Fuller, were arranged here and there. Some seated on the sofas in the center of the room, some standing along the walls. General Fuller was actually pacing, looking mad enough to take the entire country to DEFCON 1.

Ex-CIA agent Dagan Zoelner was beside the door. He’d unflinchingly answered the questions the president and Joint Chiefs had thrown at him, his personal integrity evident in every well-thought-out word. Now, Zoelner was looking for all the world like he’d rather be any place but there, and his position indicated he’d take the first opportunity to vamoose himself. Frank noticed the man’s one good eye never stayed still, constantly darting about. It caught every subtle move, every vague facial expression on everyone in the room. The guy was certainly wound tight, like most spooks, but Frank had to admit to being a little intrigued. Zoelner’s file—he’d read it on the flight to DC—was something of a page-turner.

Then there was Ghost, leaning against the back wall, still dressed in his biker leathers with dried blood streaking down his shirt, looking completely out of place. Not that Frank was all that tidy, but, shit, the least Ghost could’ve done before meeting the president was change his f*cking shirt. Of course, he supposed the guy wasn’t all that concerned with his current lack of hygiene.

Ghost had something entirely different plaguing his sleep-deprived brain, and Frank was sure he had a pretty good idea just what that was as he caught the guy sneaking another surreptitious glance at Ali—who was doing her level best not to slide right off the stiff little high-backed chair she was sitting in. The woman had been through hell and back in the last couple of days. She’d been mugged, shot at on two separate occasions, bruised, battered, and all of that was on top of losing her brother.

After learning of her situation, the commander-in-chief demanded to hear the details from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, which had earned her a place at this meeting.