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Now for the other part of his mission: a trip to a junkyard in Queens.
He was thinking about the best way to get there when he became aware of a vehicle slowing beside him.
A glance to his right, at the beat-up white van.
His eyes took in the driver’s window and he stopped fast, seeing two things simultaneously. One was the ski-masked driver.
The second was the muzzle of the weapon pointing his way just before it fired.
•••
“There’s an issue, Mr. President.”
Secret Service agent Glenn Wilbur, a tall broad-shouldered man in an impeccable suit, was looking into the second bedroom of the suite.
William Boyd glanced up from his daughter’s luggage, which he’d been helping her pack. There were only so many stuffed animals and Disney sweatshirts and pairs of Uggs that would fit in a single gym bag.
He nodded to the living room and joined the agent, out of earshot of his family. His wife was on the phone, lost in a conversation, probably about campaign plans for the forthcoming election. She was his de facto campaign manager and a damn good one. If he won in November, it would mostly be because of her.
“Go ahead.”
“Those cranes?”
“The attacks, right.”
“Another one just came down.”
“Jesus. I’ll draft a statement. Anyone hurt?”
“Four people in cars in serious condition. No one killed.”
“You think this is a security issue. For us?”
“We’ve discussed it, the team. The chatter is your infrastructure bill’s making you a lot of enemies. And the crane that just came down? It did block the Holland Tunnel.”
“Our route to Newark?”
“Yessir. The George Washington Bridge’s parking lot. Everybody’s diverting to it now. We’ll have to use Exit Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Scramble Marine One. There’s a helipad near the U.N. We’ll be there in a half hour.”
“We’re close to the Verrazzano. Why not move Air Force One to JFK?”
“It’s jammed up too. And even if the crane’s just a coincidence, we have to treat the highways to all the airports as compromised.”
The president smiled. “Out of an abundance of caution.”
One of Wilbur’s favorite expressions.
The agent nodded. It was his version of a grin.
“We’ll take surface streets to the helipad. And a decoy convoy’ll go via the Queensboro to LaGuardia.”
He placed a call and put the phone on speaker.
“Agent Murphy,” the voice said.
