Page 95 of Nixon’s Promise

Nixon disconnected and pulled the Bluetooth earpiece out of his left ear, leaving his two-way comms in his right, and shoved the device in his pocket.

With a jerk of his chin, the group jogged across the street to the courtyard entrance of the Declaration House. Stopping in front of the locked gate, Jameson made quick work picking it. He opened the gate, motioned for Nixon to precede him and waited, closing the wrought iron behind him. Jameson took up the rear.

They clung to the brick exterior wall of the Declaration House, passed the sign boasting Thomas Jefferson had written the Declaration of Independence while staying in the house, and held fast at the entrance. Nixon counted down and waited. Sixty seconds had expired and nothing.

“What’s he waiting for?” Weston whispered.

“He’s in,” Holden radioed.

“Stay put and cover,” Nixon instructed and stepped out of the way for Jameson to work the deadbolt.

“Copy that,” Holden returned.

Nixon heard the lock click and Jameson took a step back. With his back to the brick house, he drew his sidearm, ready to provide cover as they entered. With one last look at his team, Nixon used his left hand to turn the knob and gently toed the door open, his weapon at the ready.

The team breached and silently started to clear the first floor. With nothing more than hand gestures, the men worked in perfect unison just like they had hundreds of times.

It was a well-practiced dance—they’d performed it on so many occasions they didn’t need words or even hand gestures to follow the rhythm and tempo. After the bottom floor was swept, they met in the central parlor, Weston and Chasin broke off and headed for the staircase leading upstairs while Nixon, Jameson, and Alec moved to an open doorway leading to the basement.

Nixon’s foot had barely landed on the second tread when the unmistakable sound of suppressed gunfire rang out. Being caught in the cramped stairwell was the last place he wanted to be trapped. Nixon made the decision to descend. Abandoning the chore of moving in silence, he jogged down the stairs, taking two at a time.

He made it to the bottom. Leaving the cover of the stairwell, his arm came up holding his sidearm level. He scanned the room. The stale, musky smell of the centuries-old cellar wafted over Nixon as he took in the cracked cream walls and wooden crates.

James Shea rounded a stack of boxes. With shock pasted on his face, he swung his gun in Nixon’s direction and without hesitation, Nix pulled his trigger.

Shea dropped to the old, fractured concrete floor and blood immediately started to pool around the dead man’s head. Nixon continued forward to investigate when a door flew open and two men stepped through.

Before Nixon could react, Alec shouted, “Motherfucker!”

“Goddammit,” Don Miller returned.

It seemed like they’d found Shea’s backup—two federal agents. This was not good. Worse than not good. The very definition of a fucking shitstorm.

There would be no easy way to resolve their current standoff. The Assistant Secretary of Homeland was not just going to roll over and go down. And by the look of the dickhead standing next to him, neither was he.

“The bridge is secure.” Holden’s voice crackled in Nixon’s ear.

Nixon didn’t bother to answer. There would be a time when Nix would feel relief the Ben Franklin Bridge was still intact and hundreds of lives were not lost—however, now was not that time. Not when he was on the business end of two guns.

Time to end this.

“You gonna drop your gun and go in easy, Miller?” Nixon asked.

“Nixon Swagger,” Miller returned. “Knew Hall would call on you. Did some digging, found you back home on that farm your dad let turn to shit. Also heard you found yourself a nice young woman.” Cold fury infused his spine at the mention of McKenna. “Heard she’s got some trouble with her…”

On a deep exhale, Nixon calmed his famous temper and pushed all thoughts of McKenna aside. He needed calm precision to get out of his current situation. He tuned out Miller and his gaze zeroed in on the man’s trigger finger as he waited for the smallest flinch. All he needed was the slightest indication he was going to fire.

There it was.

The slowest of movements, Miller’s finger started to slide down the trigger guard, and in one smooth motion, Nixon pressed his first.

The 115 grain, 9mm bullet exploded from his barrel at one-thousand-fifty feet per second and slammed into his target.

Much like Shea, Miller didn’t have time to react. One perfectly placed shot to his forehead and it was lights-out. The second shot rang out and the other federal agent dropped.

“Fuck,” Alec clipped.

A colorful string of expletives followed as Alec made his way into the small, nondescript room Miller had come from. White walls, a twin-sized bed, a desk. A man in a suit lay on the floor, and Ronan McCabe sat handcuffed to a chair.