CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The briefing in the Situation Room was somber at best. Spies attempting to get close to the nuclear codes and some higher-ups already proven to have had access to "severely sensitive" intelligence. It was a shitshow cloaked in a shitshow and Hammer Reese was ordered, by his direct boss: the President herself, to spearhead their response. And Hammer didn't give it a second thought. Protecting the homeland was what he was born to do, and nobody did it better. He was ready.

But Amelia was on his mind.

He tried to phone her a couple times when he had a moment's break from the action, but typical Amelia wasn't answering his calls. Undoubtedly pissed at him for leaving her that morning, she'd rethink that position if she knew why he left. But that was the central problem in their relationship. He could never tell her why. Just that he had to go. All she knew was that he left her.

But he couldn't dwell on her. Because after the White House briefing, he had additional meetings and intelligence assessments in SCIFs: Sensitive Compartmental Information Facilities) at Defense, at the CIA, and at Justice and Homeland Security too. He didn't have a moment to think about anything else other than getting men in place to take down the enemy. China was the culprit this time, and it was a massive breach. Sources and methods were so badly compromised that at one time, while over at Justice, Hammer had to leave the SCIF (pronounced skiff) to regroup from all the dirt he had to listen to and answer to and be a part of. He stepped out onto the landing and leaned his head out of the open window. He even pulled out a cigarette. And took a few puffs.

That was when the FBI Director walked up to him.

"Fresh air never hurt anybody. But those cancer sticks have."

Hammer didn't respond to Director Mulvaney. He'd rather have that minute to himself. But when Mulvaney said, "Ham, there's a problem," Hammer took note and looked at the shorter man.

Mulvaney was a button down, to the point, no extra words kind of fellow. He never beat around the bush.

"Damn right there's a problem," said Hammer. "China's been eating our asses for lunch and we've been all but begging them to eat more. Nearly two dozen of our operatives have been killed in this shit already and you say there's a problem? You think?"

Mulvaney was accustomed to Hammer's hard edge. As the White House golden boy, he did whatever the hell he wanted to do. His only order was always to get it done. And he did. By any means necessary. But Mulvaney believed that when Hammer ran the CIA, and even still believed, that he had too much power. Armies had to do what he ordered them to do. He had so many secret ops in action that the mere scope would make any leader's head spin. But he always got the job done. That was the separator. That was what made Hammer head and shoulders above everybody else.

"It's not that kind of problem," Mulvaney said. "It's a personal problem. Your personal problem."

That surprised Hammer. "Mine?"

Mulvaney looked around. Seeing a couple of managers further down, he motioned for Hammer to follow him into one of the empty side rooms off from the corridor. But as Hammer walked into that room, his heart was already troubled. It was Amelia. When it was a personal matter with him, it was always Amelia.

"Does this personal issue involve my wife or my son?" he asked Mulvaney flat out.

Mulvaney nodded. "Your wife, yes, sir."

Hammer braced himself. "What's happened to her?"

"I have it on good authority that as we speak she's being transported to the Clayview county jail in Delaware."

Hammer was momentarily perplexed. What did Delaware have to do with it? And how could they have found the body this quickly? His cleanup crews were never this sloppy! But he was getting ahead of himself. "She was arrested for what?"

Mulvaney exhaled. "For murder."

He knew that would be the charge, but Mulvaney didn't know he knew. He staggered backwards. "Murder? Why that's absurd! Who are they claiming she murdered?"

Hammer knew the answer to that question too, but Mulvaney didn't know that he knew. "That's the weird part," Mulvaney said. "Stan's dead. They're saying your wife killed Stan."

Hammer was unable to wrap his brain around what he was hearing. It wasn't what he expected to hear at all! Senator Darby Reiner was dead. Who the fuck was Stan? "Stan?"

"Stanley Kucinich, Senator from Idaho. Now that I think about it, you may not know him. He was a backbencher. Sat on decent sub-committees, but never any of the top committees you would have been involved with."

"But . . ." Hammer had never felt this confused. "Why would they arrest my wife for killing some Idaho senator? Where is this coming from?"

"We're just getting the info ourselves. I, of course, have guys looking into it from a distance. But I assumed you would want to take the lead."

"I would yes." Hammer outranked the Director and could order him and his men to step aside easily. But he needed to know what was going on himself. "Put one special agent in charge," he ordered Mulvaney. "Have him answer directly to me, not to you."

"Yes, sir."

"Phone my office," Hammer added as he began leaving. "Tell them to cancel my meetings for this afternoon." Then he stopped at the exit, turned sideways but not looking the director in the eye. "I'll be back by morning," he proclaimed although he had no idea when he'd be back. He just knew he had to get to Amelia.

"Yes, sir," Mulvaney said with an angry salute as Hammer hurried out of the room. "Like I'm your fucking secretary. Fucking asshole!"

"Voice Mail again," Mick said when he tried for the fifth time to get Hammer Reese on the phone.

"Must be in one of those top-secret meetings he's always running to," Charles said.

"And what about Millie?" asked Mick. "She's rotting away in some jail and he's attending a meeting? Typical Hammer!"

They were both on Mick's plane on their way to Baltimore. Both of them had just gotten the word from Amelia's grounds security and both were worried out of their minds.

So much so that Mick gave up on Hammer and decided to make a different call.

"Who?" asked Charles before he made the call.

"Atticus," Mick said.

Charles looked at Mick. Mick was staring at Charles. It wasn't a good idea. Too many bad memories. But they both had limitations when it came to law enforcement. They had contacts. Mick had cops on the take. But nothing at the level they'd need to get Millie off. And they both knew it. Mick also knew roping Atticus in could be risky. He would abandon the idea if Charles objected.

But how could he object? They were out of options. "Do it," Charles said. "A cop would love to do a favor for an NFL owner. Who knows? And what the hell we've got to lose anyway?"

And Mick didn't hesitate.

Atticus Wales answered the phone as soon as he saw the Caller ID. He was at home, lounging around his pool, when the call came in.

"That was quick," he said as he answered.

"It's not about your situation this time," said Mick.

"Then what is it about?"

Mick hated asking anybody for anything. But his ass wanted one from him. He wanted one in return. "I need a favor."

"I thought we were working on my favor."

"That's being handled. This is different."

"Involving?"

Mick hesitated. "Millie."

Atticus hesitated even longer. "I'm listening," he said.