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He gives me a two-finger salute and a smirk as he walks back up his motorcade to speak with President Kirilov. I watch them talk. Watch Kirilov smile, as warm as a viper.
There’s another man listening at Kirilov’s side. Recognition hits me like a sledgehammer. Just what we need, another FSB heavyweight within spitting distance of Brennan.
The Russian drivers start to crawl forward. “Prepare to move.” I’m speaking into my wrist mic, radioing the detail. “Give me a double wedge around Ranger as soon as he’s out of the limo. There are a lot of ’em out here, and I’ve got eyes on at least three BOLOs. Do not let yourselves get surrounded.”
The Russian motorcade inches clear, but all the other Russians stay, surrounding their president and cluttering up the drive. Nuñez, Sheridan, and the CAT team start bellowing for the Russians to “Back the fuck up.”
They shuffle in place and don’t move.
To make it even worse, the media is here. There’s at least twenty cameras and three live video feeds. They’ve got a directional mic to capture what happens between Brennan and President Kirilov, too. Fucking vultures.
I order Sheridan and Nuñez to set up by the doors to the UN. If we need to, we’ll drag Brennan out of there and get him in the building, then bar the Russians out. Two of my advance teams are already inside. The lobby team is keyed up and ready to go, and I can see their silhouettes through the glass. Hands on their weapons, ready to draw.
We park the motorcade back twenty feet and fill the gap between us and the Russians with the CAT team. CAT is armed to the teeth, each man carrying six weapons and enough bullets to shoot out every window of the UN. I don’t want today to be the day the Secret Service gets into a firefight with the FSB, but if it happens, our guys will come out on top.
But this isn’t academic. It isn’t a thought exercise. It isn’t training. I’m not at fucking Rowley, and there isn’t an instructor in that SUV. This is Brennan’s life the Russians are fucking with. Fury blazes inside me. My vision narrows to a pinpoint.
Henry is on Brennan’s right as soon as he’s out of the limo. I’m on his left, taking the lead slot, my body placed squarely in front of Brennan’s heart.
The rest of the detail fall into a double wedge formation, building a wall between Brennan and the armed FSB agents, who seem equally protective of their president.
Kirilov moves first, striding through his agents like he’s parting the Red Sea. “President Walker,” Kirilov says. Anatoly is on his right, and I’m eyeball-fucking the man on Anatoly’s right.
Konstantin Petrov is at the very top of multiple Secret Service watch lists, and now he’s less than ten feet away from Brennan. Not good, not fucking good.
“President Kirilov.” Brennan sounds pissed. He doesn’t smile. “This is rather dramatic, don’t you think?”
Kirilov reaches the outer edge of his agents. There are only two layers of my people between him and Brennan.
Brennan beckons silently for more room. Henry is stone-faced as he shifts his body between Konstantin and Brennan and lays his hand on the grip of his weapon.
The Russians are starting to spread to the wings, like they’re trying to pin us down.
“I wanted to make sure the whole world could hear what we have to say to each other.” Kirilov holds out his hand. Brennan doesn’t reciprocate.
“Everything has already been said. My position is firm. Your country’s actions cannot be allowed to continue. Innocent men, women, and children are being slaughtered, and we will step in.”
“I find it amusing that the United States is suddenly so committed to preventing atrocities and saving lives when for years you were in the business of committing atrocities and taking lives. How many are dead today who would be alive were it not for the United States?”
The vein in Brennan’s temple throbs.
“Russia has brought stability to the places you abandoned and left for the dogs. Now you want to come back to the world with that famous American doctrine of ‘Kill others to save lives.’ But this time, you’re coming to kill Russians. This will not be allowed. If you murder one Russian life, Mr. President, we will respond. Are you ready to be America’s last president?”
This is worse than I ever imagined. The media is gobbling it up. Cameras flash nonstop. I’m seeing stars as I keep my eyes locked on Brennan. He’s furious. I can see it in every tense line of his face, every clenched muscle.
And my people are starting to lose their cool. The tension isn’t ratcheting, it’s jackhammering, and they’re eyeballing the Russians as they try to outflank us. CAT has held back the right, but the left is pushing closer. The FSB is trying to encircle Brennan and cut off his route into the building.
Is this purely political posturing, or is there a darker design to their bullshit?
I’m not going to wait around to find out.
“Neither I nor the United States will be lectured by you, and I will not entertain your political charades. You, President Kirilov,” Brennan says, “are responsible for the destruction and slaughter of countless lives. You are drowning in blood, and I will not rest until I personally drag you into the International Criminal Court and hold you accountable for each of your crimes.”
This ends now.
“Crash, crash!” I holler into the radio. It’s the signal to evac, to scramble, to get the president out of there. I’m not letting the Russians move another micron on us. I spin to Brennan and grab his elbow, roll him into my arms, bend him double and shelter him beneath me—
I don’t know who throws the first punch.
