Kodiak Sky (Red Cell Trilogy Book 3) (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

L
EIGH-
A
NN
G
OODYEAR
belted out the last few lines of “This Kiss” as the crowd packed inside the Nashville nightclub went wild.

“Thank you, thank you!” she shouted in her Southern accent as the music from the band faded and the cheering intensified another notch to fill the void. “I love y’all. We’re gonna take a little break, and then we’ll be right back for the second set.” As she headed toward the edge of the stage she took off her black Stetson, waved, and gave them another one of her light-up-the-world smiles. “Don’t go away, y’all.”

When she was out of sight of the still-roaring fans, she headed to an outside door and down a narrow set of steps to the alley, followed into the cool of the night by her backup singers, Paige and Betty. The fresh air felt good. It was blistering hot beneath the bright lights onstage.

“That was an awesome set, Leigh-Ann,” Paige called as she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Betty before lighting up herself. She didn’t bother offering one to Leigh-Ann, who never smoked. “You’re rocking the place, girl.”

“No doubt,” Betty agreed. “You look great, too. That little jean skirt and the rattlesnake boots have all the guys going crazy. And the wild thing is their dates don’t mind.” Betty shook her head. “You can steal the boys for a few hours, and their girlfriends don’t care. Even the girl who’s with that guy you pulled up onstage. I watched her. She thought it was great. They all love your voice so much. It’s amazing.”

Leigh-Ann glanced at her reflection in the window of a tricked-out Plymouth. She was a tall, wispy blond who was blessed with a powerful singing voice that belied the slim frame in the glass. She still couldn’t figure out where all the volume came from onstage, because in normal conversation her tone was quiet and her manner measured. But when the lights came up and the mike turned on, it was like she became another person.

“Thanks, Betty.” Leigh-Ann had known the girls for a year, since her first week in Nashville when she’d moved here knowing no one. Now it seemed like she knew everyone in town—or they knew her. “You’re nice to say that.”

“Tips are gonna be good,” Paige spoke up happily. “The bucket’s already been dumped twice. And there were lots of fives and tens in there, not just ones. I checked. Good thing, too. I’m late on rent.”

“You could really go places, Leigh-Ann.” Betty dragged hard on her cigarette, and then exhaled a thick plume of smoke. “I’m serious.”

Leigh-Ann took a quick sniff of the smoke. She’d never been into cigarettes. She was too smart for that. But she didn’t mind a little secondhand smoke once in a while. And now and then, she’d take a puff from a good cigar—when no one was looking.

“Well, I don’t know about—”

“Especially with all that money your family has,” Paige chimed in. “Your daddy must own half of Savannah. With that kind of dough, he could bankroll you right to the top.”

Leigh-Ann looked away, down the dark alley. Maybe it was time to set the girls straight. It wasn’t like she’d ever actually claimed to be from Savannah—or money. But she hadn’t denied what her manager had rumored, either. And she didn’t like being slick. There were times when you had to be, especially in Nashville, and
especially
in this business. Still, it never squared with her when she did it.

And then there was that other secret she couldn’t tell anyone, because no one would believe her if she did. They’d think she was crazy.

“You know, I—” Headlights down the alley distracted Leigh-Ann. They seemed to be coming on fast. “What the heck?” she murmured, pointing.

The black van skidded to a stop on the slick asphalt, and two men wearing ski masks burst from the back. They grabbed Leigh-Ann, hurled her into the van, followed her inside, and slammed the sliding door shut as the driver punched the accelerator.

Betty and Paige screamed as the black van squealed off. But it disappeared into the night before anyone could help.

CHAPTER 10

“I
T’S BAD
news.” Baxter tapped the faded piece of paper in his lap as he and President Dorn sat alone in the Oval Office. It was the same piece of paper he’d shown to Henry Espinosa an hour ago—Executive Order 1973 1-E. “Justice Espinosa says the Order is legitimate and enforceable. He seemed very sure of himself.”

“Why did he seem so sure of himself, Stewart?” Dorn asked.

Baxter regretted conveying that detail. “He’s a Supreme Court justice, Mr. President. He knows about Red Cell Seven. It’s one of the first things he learns about after he’s sworn in.”

“I know that. And you
know
I know that. Be more efficient, Stewart. I don’t have time for this. Sometimes you irritate me so damn much, old man. Sometimes I think you’re going senile.”

Espinosa’s “whipping boy” comment echoed in Baxter’s ears as his blood boiled. “Sir, I—”

“It seems like there was something more, something specific about
how
Justice Espinosa responded to you.”

Dorn was excellent at gleaning huge truths from subtle signals. But relaying anything more of his meeting with Espinosa would only make him look bad. And Baxter made it a rule never to accept accountability for his missteps.

“Why do I think you’re holding out on me, Stewart?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Espinosa’s lack of explanation for why he was holding the Order up to the light still bothered Baxter. As far as he could tell, other than the writing and the signature on the paper lying in his lap, it was clean of any other markings. He’d studied it several times in the limousine on the way back to the White House but hadn’t found anything.

“Espinosa says you would be impeached if you tried shutting down Red Cell Seven,” Baxter said. “If an RC7 representative presented the Order to the Supreme Court in a private session, you would be guilty of treason, and you could not hide behind executive privilege in that case. He was very specific on that point. President Nixon was careful and thorough in the way he structured the cell’s existence and its protection.”

“How exactly would that private session go?” President Dorn asked. “You’ve read all those confidential procedural manuscripts we keep at Camp David.”

“After the charge was presented, the procedure would start with a one-on-one meeting between only the chief justice and the Red Cell Seven representative, who I assume would have an original of the Order in his possession at the meeting as well as a list of all legitimately initiated RC7 agents. Then, as long as the chief justice was in agreement, the meeting would move to a full session of the court, though still private from the public. The agent would be found innocent immediately. It would take no more than thirty seconds.” Baxter nodded at the president, who suddenly seemed distracted. “And remember, sir, the chief justice presides over a president’s impeachment, so it wouldn’t take him long to have you found guilty. That’s why Nixon set it up as he did. Love or hate the man, it was an ingenious way to structure Red Cell Seven’s protection. Not only would the president be denied, but he or she would also be immediately vulnerable. It’s double jeopardy.”

“A one-on-one meeting with the chief justice,” the president repeated.

The glint in Dorn’s eyes was obvious. “Yes, sir,” Baxter confirmed. He hated saying “sir” to Dorn, but appearances had to be sustained.

“In other words,” Dorn spoke up, “the chief justice could theoretically stop the process on his own.”

“As we’ve discussed several times,” Baxter confirmed.

Dorn pointed at the paper in Baxter’s lap. “So having the other original of that Order is essential for us in terms of destroying RC7’s protection.”

“Yes, sir. Again, as we’ve discussed several times.”

“You
must
get it, Stewart. If I have both of them, I don’t have to worry about being impeached. I don’t have to worry about the Supreme Court or anything else, for that matter. I can do whatever I want to Red Cell Seven. I can destroy it and suffer no consequences, because Red Cell Seven would not be able to present it to the court.”

“Understood, sir.”

Baxter stared steadily at David Dorn from his chair, which was directly in front of the great desk. The press had begun calling Dorn the “presidential floor model” because of his dark good looks, intense natural charisma, and the way he’d calmly and efficiently handled the Holiday Mall Attacks.

It was ironic, Baxter thought to himself as he marveled at the description’s accuracy. Bill Jensen had come up with the flattering nickname, but now Bill was an enemy—if he was still alive. The special detail of men Baxter had assigned to pick up Bill’s trail had failed to find anything. Baxter’s men had even tailed Jack and Troy a few times to see if they were secretly helping their father. But those surveillances had turned up nothing.

“How did you get that original?” President Dorn asked, pointing again at the paper in Baxter’s lap.

“You don’t want to know, sir,” Baxter answered quietly, wondering if Dorn ever taped conversations in the Oval Office the way Nixon had.

“Yes, I do.”

“People help me, sir.”

The president leaned forward over the desk. “I’m not recording this, Stewart.”

Damn, he was good. “Of course you aren’t.”

“Did you get it from Roger Carlson’s townhouse in Georgetown?” Dorn asked directly.

Roger Carlson had founded Red Cell Seven in the early 1970s on direct orders from President Nixon. Carlson had died last autumn under suspicious circumstances.

“Yes, sir, we did.”

The president slowly raised one eyebrow. “Did getting that document have anything to do with Roger’s wife being found dead in the Potomac River a few miles south of here? Did Nancy get in the way of the townhouse search for that document? Did your people have to take extreme measures to deal with that situation?”

Baxter stared stoically across the great desk. “That would be a logical assumption,” he finally answered. “I don’t want to upset you, sir,” he added quickly. “I don’t want you to—”

“I’m not upset at all,” Dorn interrupted calmly, leaning back.

Dorn never failed to surprise. It was one of the most compelling aspects of working for the man. Baxter took a deep breath. Dorn might not take this next piece of news quite as well.

“I need to inform you,” Baxter spoke up reluctantly, “that it would appear Red Cell Seven still controls the other original, the second original of this Executive Order.” He tapped the piece of paper again.

Dorn leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together. “Where is Shane Maddux? What happened with him?”

Baxter glanced past the president at the large window that overlooked the Rose Garden, which was hidden by darkness. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve tried contacting him several times, most recently this morning. But I haven’t heard back.”

“Maddux is your friend.”

“My acquaintance.”

“You get my point.”

“He turned on me.”

“He stayed true to Red Cell Seven.”

“You may be right,” Baxter admitted grudgingly.

“I am right. I called that one from the start.”

Back in December, Shane Maddux had secretly approached Baxter to strike a deal. In exchange for immunity from being investigated in any way for his involvement in the Los Angeles assassination attempt on President Dorn, Maddux promised to bring back the second original Order from the cave on Gannett Peak in Wyoming. Maddux had also promised to round up others in Red Cell Seven who were involved in the assassination attempt.

Baxter and Maddux had known each other for years, and Baxter was convinced of Maddux’s sincerity at the time. So he’d directed him to Gannett Peak.

But it had all gone wrong. Maddux and the second original of the Order had disappeared. Baxter had sent the same men who’d searched for Bill Jensen out to the mountaintop cave in Wyoming when Maddux hadn’t responded to repeated attempts at contact. The men finally found the cave they believed had hidden the Order—but not the document itself.

It was difficult for Baxter to admit that Maddux had used him. It had been President Dorn’s opinion from the start that Maddux wouldn’t come through at the critical moment.

Now Baxter had those men who’d looked for Bill Jensen looking everywhere for Maddux, too. And they were to take him alive at all costs. Baxter wanted a few minutes with the bastard before they ended his life.

“Again,” Baxter muttered, “I apologize, sir.”

“Apologies at this level are like words written on running water. Worthless, Stewart, worthless.”

Baxter detested being on the wrong side of an ass-beating. But it seemed like it was happening more and more often with Dorn. The whipping-boy comment echoed again.

“I do have one more contact inside RC7,” Baxter spoke up, “and I’ve been in touch with him.” It was a lie, but he needed to say something right now. The president would have no way of knowing the assertion was false. “Apparently, no one inside the cell has heard from Maddux, either. Maybe he took a bullet up on Gannett Peak and died. Maybe his body’s buried beneath some snowdrift. Maybe no one really controls the last original of the Order. Maybe it’s gone forever.”

“You’re grasping at straws,” Dorn snapped, “and don’t do it again. I can’t destroy Red Cell Seven on a hope and a prayer. No, Maddux is out there plotting,” the president said, gesturing toward the darkness outside the Oval Office window. “He’s still trying to kill me. He wants to finish what he started last October in LA.”

“I’ve had your Secret Service coverage doubled, sir. You’re in no danger.”

“Don’t argue with me, Stewart,” Dorn retorted. “Maddux is a sly son of a bitch. You never know with that man.”

“Relax, sir.” Baxter knew he shouldn’t have said it, but he couldn’t help himself. It had become a reflex response. It was what he always said when he thought Dorn was going over the top. “Everything’s fine.”

“That’s what you said about my reaction to you asking for Maddux’s help in acquiring the other original of the Order.”

Baxter gritted his teeth. He wanted to go back at Dorn for that one. But Dorn was the president. Worse, he was right.

“Do you find it curious that no one has heard anything from Daniel Gadanz since last December?”

Baxter’s eyes raced toward the president. But Dorn was still gazing into the darkness outside the White House. “Sir?”

“It’s been nine months since the Holiday Mall Attacks, but no one’s heard anything from Gadanz. The intelligence reports you gave me indicated that he was mentally unstable and getting worse. And his history is to violently take revenge on his enemies. RC7 murdered his brother, and—”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s some question about that,” Baxter broke in. “Jacob’s death may have, in fact, been a real accident.”

“I can assure you, Stewart,” Dorn retorted icily, “a man like Daniel Gadanz will never believe that his brother’s death was an accident.”

It was a fair point, Baxter had to admit. “The Drug Enforcement Agency is working with many different countries, but it’s hard to track him down.”

“The DEA doesn’t have a chance against Daniel Gadanz.” Dorn swiveled around in the chair so he was facing his chief of staff again. “Tell me about the rest of your conversation with Justice Espinosa.”

“I made it clear that we might need his help again. I told him if I came to him again, it wouldn’t be just to review a document.”

“How specific were you?”

“Not at all, but he got the point.”

“Did you tell him what we know?”

“I made a reference to people having skeletons hanging in their bedroom closets, but I wasn’t specific.”

Dorn stared across the desk at Baxter with a fierce expression. “I like that. Wondering what we have is worse for him than knowing. All right then,” he said loudly as he stood up. “It’s possible we won’t need Espinosa, anyway. I may have another way of taking care of Red Cell Seven that doesn’t involve getting that second original of the Order.”

Baxter’s ears perked up. “What?”

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” the president answered, checking his watch impatiently. “I want to think on it more overnight.”