True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(60)

A man with wild green hair leaped out of a green Crown Vic and, illuminated in the sixty thousand lumens of harsh white light from the helicopter above, snatched the badge from his belt and held it up for Thane to see.

“Charlie Vine, LAPD,” the green man said. “You’re nipped in the bud, scumbag.”

It was an obscene joke, a horrific indignity, and Thane deserved so much better. He screamed in unbridled rage and pointed his HK416 assault rifle at the green clown and just as his finger began to squeeze the trigger, the two dozen cops hidden in the blackness behind the spotlight’s glare opened fire.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Wilton Cross saw it all. The police. The news choppers. The brief gun battle that ended with the death of all but two of his men, who dropped their weapons and surrendered.

“The twist is that the hit team is caught in the act by the police,” Ian said in his ear. “On live television.”

It wasn’t the first time Cross had been tricked, outmaneuvered, and humiliated. But before it had always been covert, playing out in some dark corner of the globe, and known only within the shadow world of international espionage. Never like this, witnessed by dozens of cops and a live television audience. Within minutes, it would go global, if it hadn’t already. This would be on every newscast in every country on earth and all over the Internet. It was an unimaginable disaster. There would be no way to bury this or cover it up.

Everyone in the situation room stared at the media wall in shock as the nightmare continued to unfold. The image was so big, it was like they were right in the middle of it, too.

The police, their guns drawn, closed in on Ronnie, who put his hands on his head and dropped to his knees as ordered. He was quickly forced to the ground, handcuffed, and then escorted to a black-and-white. In the midst of that, nobody noticed Cross slip out of the room with the phone to his ear. Or, if they did, they wisely ignored it, not wanting to look at their boss and see his fury or his profound humiliation.

“But here’s the beauty of it,” Ian said into Cross’ ear. “The hero doesn’t have to tell his unbelievable story. The bad guys have done the job for him. They’ve taken themselves down. The investigation resulting from their actions will reveal the whole shocking conspiracy.”

Cross knew that Ludlow was absolutely right. It wouldn’t take long for the investigation in Los Angeles to lead back to Blackthorn and, eventually, to him. There would be years of trials and Senate hearings, dozens of arrests and indictments, and a scandal that would permanently damage the CIA, the presidency, and the nation, all of which he’d spent his life protecting.

Cross entered his office and sat at his desk.

“I think it’s a very credible, relevant story of corruption, greed, and political arrogance that could easily happen today and be in the news tomorrow,” Ian said. “What do you think?”

Cross sighed, feeling oddly relaxed after the heightened anxiety he’d felt only moments ago. The game was over and he’d lost. All he could do now was attempt to lessen the damage but it would still be catastrophic.

“This is why we don’t have anyone with imagination in the intelligence business,” Cross said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Imagination isn’t what’s dangerous,” Ian said. “It’s people like you.”

“People like me are the ones who make the sacrifices and tough decisions necessary to keep America safe.”

“Is that what you did for the people on TransAmerican Flight 976 and in Waikiki?” Ian said. “What have you sacrificed, Willie, that can match what they lost?”

Cross’ desk phone rang and the line button lit up that indicated that the call was from the receptionist at the front desk. He set his cell phone down on his blotter, picked up the telephone receiver, and answered the call.

“Yes?” he said.

“Director Healy and Ms. Jones are here to see you, sir,” the receptionist said.

“Send them in.”

Cross hung up and sat there for a moment, considering his options and anticipating possible outcomes, a strategist to the end. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Cross said.

Healy strode in, his forced smile making him look nauseated. Cross couldn’t blame him if he was. At his side was Loretta Jones, a statuesque African American woman who, before pursuing a career in law that led her to the White House, was an exceptional long-distance runner eyed as a potential Olympic medalist. She held a leather binder under her arm that was embossed with the presidential seal.

“Sorry for intruding so late. I take it you know Loretta Jones, the White House counsel?” Healy said. Cross nodded. “She has an executive order to read to you.”

“You will not be given a copy, for obvious reasons,” she said. “But if details or the scope of the order are ever in question, you or your counsel can contact me directly for clarification.”

“I can’t say I’m happy about this, Will,” Healy said. “But I can’t argue with success.”

Cross smiled at that and opened his desk drawer. “Especially when you get all the credit for it, Mike.”

“You’re getting something out of it, too,” Healy said.

“I certainly am.” Cross took the Glock out of the drawer, put the muzzle under his chin, and pulled the trigger.