Boundless Ambition: (Kyle Achilles Book 5) Page 2

  C C C

  Luci was pleased with her debut performance. She had them hooked—and they hadn’t even heard the big news yet.

  “By all means, do continue,” Ben said with wonder and admiration in his voice.

  “I’m not about to offer Saxon this windfall with nothing but an implied quid pro quo in mind. Remember, it’s Ames who’s placing second in the polls. He’s the obvious alternative. The easier alternative. Saxon’s third-place status means he’ll be much more eager than Ames. Much more malleable than Ames. So after dangling the golden carrot before Saxon, I’m going to make three demands—then throw in a kicker.”

  Luci let the tension build before elaborating. She could see they were both brimming with enthusiasm. She doubted either had been this excited since their last bonus discussion. “In exchange for our support and Hughes’ unprecedented endorsement, Saxon must agree to let us pick his Secretary of Defense, Secretary of Energy, and Secretary of Homeland Security.”

  “Giving us significant influence over policies and purse strings,” Ben said with a smile that nearly split his face.

  “In the areas that matter most,” WZ added. “What’s the kicker?”

  At last, Luci sat. “As you’re well aware, Cabinet members control their own kingdoms. I want to ensure that we reign on Pennsylvania Avenue as well. Once Saxon has swallowed the bitter pill of allowing us to pick three Cabinet positions, I’m going to insist that he permit us one more key appointment.”

  “Which is?”

  “White House Chief of Staff.”

  The two men turned to meet each other’s eyes. After a moment of silent mind-melding, they turned back toward her and WZ spoke. “I get the feeling you’re not just positioning us for general success. You have a specific end in mind, don’t you? Some grand plan for using this unprecedented influence?”

  “Indeed I do,” Luci said, raising her glass at last. “Tell me something, William Zacharia. What’s the biggest score ever orchestrated by an American company in your industry?”

  “What do you mean by orchestrated?”

  “She’s referring to the marketing two-step,” Ben said, beginning to nod along. “First you create a need, then you fulfill it.”

  “Precisely,” Luci said.

  WZ grew a wry smile as he too caught on. “That would have to be Iraqi WMD. Halliburton scored about $40 billion off that contract.”

  “Indeed they did. A substantial score and yet just a slim slice of the trillions Uncle Sam has doled out funding recent foreign crusades.”

  “You have our attention,” WZ said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  Luci took a sip of whisky, then set her glass aside and said, “If you gentlemen will indulge me, I’d like to tell you about a plan I’ve code-named Operation 51.”

  PART I

  One Year Later

  Chapter 1

  The Letter

  PRESTON SAXON closed the thick white door, cutting off the clamor so completely that it was like God had flipped a switch. He stood still for a second with his hand still on the knob. As he surveyed the empty office just redecorated to his design, he felt his face stretching to accommodate a smile. How many times had he fantasized about this moment? Ten thousand? Twenty? Today would undoubtedly rank as the pinnacle of his life—but would this high prove to be a peak, or the start of a new plateau?

  Saxon wasn’t sure.

  As his smile faded, he walked to the Bronco Buster sculpture and ran a sweaty hand over the cool bronze. In his heart, Saxon knew he shouldn’t be there. Wouldn’t be there—if three Texas CEOs had knocked on another door that cold night in New Hampshire.

  But they had selected him over Ames and the others.

  And then they’d delivered.

  Now it was his turn.

  He took a deep breath and stepped behind the desk. The desk. Pressing his knuckles atop the recycled English oak planks, he mused that it was undoubtedly the world’s most expensive piece of rental furniture.

  At the moment, it displayed just three objects: a large black telephone, a shiny silver letter opener, and an embossed white envelope with his name and new title. Handwritten by the previous renter. As was the custom.

  Saxon picked up the envelope and read the proud words aloud, “President Preston Saxon.”

  His smile returned.

  Everyone had to address him with deference now. Even his predecessors. Even his enemies. He was no longer a mere man. He was an office. An institution. An administration.

  President Preston Saxon settled into his new chair and stroked the rich leather with his fingertips. This would do. This would definitely do.

  He slit the thick envelope and extracted two folded sheets of matching stationery. The letter was written with the same hand that had penned the envelope.

  Saxon tested his new chair’s rollers and recline ability, then put his feet up on the Resolute Desk.

  Dear President Saxon,

  Before you know it, you will be writing your own version of this very letter. As you put pen to paper, you will find yourself reflecting on the most important years of your life. You will be cursing your foes, congratulating your friends, and contemplating your legacy.

  Losing power forces one to look back at opportunities lost. Something that you and I will inevitably do for the rest of our lives. Given that, I want to take this opportunity to share with you a few thoughts on minimizing your regrets.

  As I reflect, I wish that I’d done more to embrace the first half of our name. We are the United States. Unity is what drives our success and our power. Red is made stronger by Blue, and vice versa. All too often, I lost sight of that bigger picture.

  I should have acted more as the office and less as a person. As veterans of this lofty office, we will never have another serious want or need. We are set for life. The country, however, has countless crucial but contentious concerns that can only be served by selfless executive attention. In other words, taking will gain you nothing; giving will bring you peace.

  That sentiment leads to the final observation I hope to impress upon you. I wish I’d ignored everyone lobbying for self-serving reasons. The whole lot. The ninety-nine percent. It was the one percent pushing agendas that benefited others who proved to be the people worth heeding. They initiated the actions that now make me comfortable confronting history’s mirror.

  My prayers are with you,

  President William Silver

  Saxon shuffled to the second page.

  P.S.: Get to know Chef Cristeta. She has a knack for brightening the darkest of days with small insightful acts of culinary kindness. Think of your Secret Service agents as angels. That mental trick makes them feel much less intrusive. And finally, when you find yourself needing something important done discreetly, call Kyle Achilles.

  Saxon looked up from the letter toward the bust of Abraham Lincoln and then the portrait of Andrew Jackson before glancing back at his predecessor’s closing words. “What an ass. Good riddance, Bill.” He crumpled the two sheets and tossed them into the trash.

  As the President headed for the Oval Office door and the jubilant chaos waiting on the other side, he remembered the policy on preserving paperwork. One of the many inconveniences to which he’d swiftly have to become accustomed. He pulled the first sheet of Silver’s letter from the basket, ironed it with his hands, and slid it back into the envelope for posterity.

  Six Months Later

  Chapter 2

  The Knock

  KYLE ACHILLES slid the Lonely Planet travel guide into the outer pocket of his bag and zipped it shut without stretch or strain. His strict carry-on-only policy could be challenging when visiting colder climates, but packing for tropical Fiji was easy.

  He was excited about the trip. The cageless shark diving in Fiji was reputed to be the best in the world, and the cliff diving was supposed to be spectacular. Achilles had learned to cliff dive as a safety precaution, given all the sea cliffs he climbed without the aid of ropes—a
nd the very real potential for falls.

  The shark diving just struck him as really cool.

  He looked over at his wife. Katya had covered the bed with half the contents of her closet. Knowing better than to comment on the scene, he simply said, “I’ve got extra room if you need it.”

  She remained focused on her folding. “I’ll figure it out.”

  As Achilles unzipped his bag, intent on leaving it at Katya’s feet, someone knocked on their front door. The unexpected visitor hadn’t rung the bell, and he wasn’t using a polite tat tat tat. The unexpected visitor was pounding with an authoritative thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk.

  “Someone’s trying to exude authority KGB-style,” Katya said.

  Achilles checked the bedside security monitor while grabbing the Glock 19 from his nightstand. The screen showed two large men in dark suits at their door and a black Chevy Suburban in their driveway. “It’s not a neighbor looking for his lost dog.”

  Katya followed him downstairs as the knocking continued. Glock in hand, he cracked the door with the chain still in place and his foot bracing it for further support. “Can I help you?”

  “Pardon the intrusion, Mr. Achilles. Mrs. Achilles. We just drove down from Sacramento to ask the two of you a few questions. I’m Special Agent Richardson, and this is Special Agent Reed. May we come in?”

  “May I see your credentials?”

  The special agents took turns holding their credential wallets up to the gap in the door. Both looked perfect. “You can come in, but you’ll need to leave your sidearms in the car.”

  “That’s against FBI policy.”

  “My policy is not to allow armed strangers into my home. But that’s okay, we can talk through the door crack.”

  Richardson shook his head, disappointed but defeated.

  Reed said, “If it’s just the two of you home, we could leave our weapons by the door—assuming you’ll do the same.”

  “It’s just us.” Achilles opened the door and gestured to the entryway table. “Guns go there.”

  After they’d disarmed, Achilles added his Glock to the collection, then followed his wife and the special agents to the kitchen table. As everyone took their seats, Achilles asked, “How long have you guys been with the FBI?”

  The men glanced at each other before answering. “Ten years for me,” Richardson said.

  “Five for me,” Reed said. “But this really isn’t about us.”

  “Who is it about?” Katya asked.

  Richardson and Reed kept their eyes on Achilles. “You’ve done some work for former President Silver.”

  “I used to work for the government, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’m not referring to your years with the CIA. I’m talking about some off-the-books work you did specifically for Silver.”

  “I’m afraid you have me confused with somebody else. I resigned in 2015 and returned to rock climbing. I’m a competitive free-solo climber. Hardly the kind of guy who hangs out with former presidents.”

  “Rumor has it you saved Silver’s life in Russia a few years back.”

  “Rumor has it you guys have aliens locked up in Nevada.”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “I’m telling you that to the best of my knowledge, I didn’t save the president’s life.” That was true. The attack from which he’d saved Silver was intended to be crippling, not life-threatening. “Not the kind of thing a person would forget,” Achilles added.

  “It’s a crime to lie to federal agents, Mr. Achilles. You could go to jail for up to five years.”

  “I have no concerns regarding my compliance with Title 18 of the United States Code, Section 1001. But I don’t take kindly to being threatened, so now I’m asking you to leave my home.”

  “We also understand that he’s called on you a few times since, for assistance on special projects.”

  Achilles shook his head as he rose to his feet. “Thirty-two, fifty-three. I’m sorry you guys wasted a trip based on bad information.”

  “Thirty-two what?”

  “Thirty-two, fifty-three,” he repeated, his eyes on his wife. “It’s another U.S.C. regulation. Look it up when you’re back in the office.”

  The attack the agents launched as they rose was a slick and seamless effort, unfolding without covert signals or coordinating glances. One second they appeared to be gracefully accepting a temporary defeat, the next Reed had Katya in a chokehold and Richardson was flying toward Achilles.

  Chapter 3

  The Caller

  KATYA WAS SURPRISED to hear her husband ask the FBI agents to leave their sidearms by the door. He’d never done that before. It was the first sign that he didn’t believe they were who they claimed to be. Then he slipped in a confirming question about how long they’d been with the Bureau. An innocuous and typical icebreaker among people establishing a common connection, but another incongruity with her husband’s normal behavior.

  For a moment, she wondered why he’d let them in, but quickly figured that out. He wanted to learn what they were after. If the pair were serious about achieving their objective—a safe assumption given the penalty for impersonating federal officers—rebuffing them would amount to inviting more aggressive action.

  Achilles pushed the charade as far as he could, then flashed her a covert warning when the physical attack became imminent. ‘Thirty-two fifty-three” wasn’t a U.S.C. regulation. Or if it was, that was coincidental. It was a code coming from a game they played. A mental exercise that was kind of a modern mathematician’s version of Scrabble. One that was good for a few laughs. She and Achilles would convert words to numbers using a telephone keypad. Fifty eighty-three was 5-0-8-3 which was LOVE, not to be confused with 5-0-5-3, which translated to JOKE. Fifty-one seventy-seven was KISS, not to be confused with seventy-one, seventy-seven, which translated to PISS.

  This was not the first time she’d heard Achilles say thirty-two fifty-three. He’d recently evoked an eye roll after using it while a woman jogged past them in a bikini on the beach at Half Moon Bay. Code 3-2-5-3 stood for FAKE.

  Today, the cipher represented the same word, but it conveyed an entirely different meaning.

  Katya had gotten the message, but she had not managed to prepare herself to defend against the fake agents in time. She hadn’t completed the choreography in her head. The preemptive ballet of action and reaction that would result in Reed doubled over clutching his crotch or clamping both hands over a wounded eye. She’d been a split-second too slow, and that shortcoming was all the gap the closest imposter had needed.

  But not Achilles.

  He’d done the proverbial homework. He’d prepared his muscles and rehearsed his moves. By the time Richardson began cocking his arm, Achilles was already in a defensive stance. When Richardson launched his assault, Achilles was primed to turn it against him.

  The men were similarly sized, both a bit north of six feet and 200 pounds. Both appeared to be rugged and fit. But Katya knew that her husband was much more than he seemed. He had the conditioning and cardiovascular system of an Olympic athlete, a biathlete to be precise. Atop that hardy pump and sturdy frame, he’d packed thousands of cliff-climbing hours, toning himself to the point where he could hang using individual fingers and toes. He was a rock. Unshakable in body and spirit.

  The clash happened so quickly that Katya probably couldn’t have followed the moves even if she hadn’t been in the midst of her own assault. But she was, so she completely missed their brief battle. By the time Reed finished executing the quick sequence that ended with his left arm wrapped around her neck, Achilles had Richardson doubled over in an armlock that teed his nose up for a knockout knee strike.

  “If you don’t release my wife within the next three seconds, you and your partner are going to experience a world of hurt.”

  Katya prepared to do her part, knowing that her husband’s growled warning was no bluff. After he counted two, she’d stomp her clog down hard on top of Reed’s right foot
, then bring her right arm back, aiming her elbow at his solar plexus and then her fist at his crotch. She doubted that the combination would completely disable her much-larger opponent, but she’d do her darnedest.

  “That’s enough! Stand down!” The commanding voice wasn’t that of Richardson or Reed. It didn’t come from anyone in the room. By the time Katya identified the source as a phone in Richardson’s suit coat pocket, Reed had released her.

  “Put the phone on the table and go wait in the backyard,” the third party barked.

  “Sit by the fountain where we can see you,” Achilles added, as Reed relinquished the phone.

  Once Katya’s assailant was outside, Achilles released Richardson, allowing him to follow.

  As the second fake agent departed, Katya pulled a Ruger slim subcompact from beneath the kitchen pencil drawer. Then she flipped the phone over so they could read the screen. It said BLOCKED and indicated that the call had been in process for twenty-one minutes.

  Achilles closed and locked the sliding door before asking, “Who is this?”

  “If you’ll log onto Wi-Fi, you can enable FaceTime and see for yourself. The phone’s passcode is THEFBI.”

  “Eighty-four, thirty-three, twenty-four,” Katya said reflexively.

  Achilles unlocked the phone, connected it to their guest network, then activated the app that turned voice calls into video calls.

  It took Katya a few seconds to place the face of the man with the blocked phone number. His hair looked Photoshopped from a fashion magazine and he was dressed in a tailored navy suit with a precisely positioned purple tie. When recognition struck, she almost gasped. The man who had sent two thugs to their home was the White House Chief of Staff.