He’d tried to go after her, but one of the SS agents had placed a firm hand in the middle of his chest, shaking his head. “That’s a negative on leaving the aircraft,” the guy had said. “The press has gotten wind of Miss Thompson’s abduction, and they’re waiting on the tarmac. As such, the president insists you remain onboard during refueling. The pilot already has the go ahead to drop both you and you’re…uh…compatriot,” this was the part where Dan had glanced back at him, raising a brow and mouthing compatriot, “back in Chicago.”
And even though every single one of Steady’s instincts had been screaming at him to go after the woman he loved and demand she explain herself, the fact of the matter was, he couldn’t risk the presence of the press. Black Knights Inc. may have been forced from the closet, its operators’ identities revealed to the DOD and some of its subordinate agencies, but they could never, repeat never, divulge themselves to the civilian press. Doing so would be the equivalent of a death knell, ringing in the end of the BKI’s clandestine operational capabilities.
And so, good little soldier that he was, he’d stayed aboard the jet, allowing himself to be ferried back to Chicago where he’d immediately begun leaving messages for Abby.
But given she was being hounded by reporters seeking the inside scoop on her recent ordeal, it was no big surprise she’d had her cell phone disconnected. Which had left him no other recourse but to leave a half dozen messages for el Jefe himself, insisting on an explanation for Abby’s outburst.
So far? Radio silence. On all fronts. And for the last two days he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was pushing a wheelbarrow full of shit up a very steep hill.
He crossed his arms, shaking his head when Boss stopped near the foot of the staircase, turning to shoo him away. “Fuck no,” he said. “I’m not moving until he agrees to answer my questions.” He’d already decided when he awoke this morning that he was giving everyone twenty-four more hours to start talking, or he was mounting up on Ranger, roaring his way to Washington, and demanding an audience.
Boss rolled his eyes, then said into the phone, “I don’t know if you’re aware, sir. But the Alpha platoon boys are here with us.” He listened for a little while longer before, “Yes, sir. Just wanted to make sure you were okay with their presence here.” Then he reached out to slam his hand over the big red button above the ten-drawer rolling toolbox behind him.
A loud beep, beep, beep similar to the reversing sound made by the small forklift truck they kept onsite for moving the larger of their machinery around echoed through the expanse of the shop, bouncing off the soaring leaded glass windows. A red light beside the staircase blinked out a warning, and Steady lifted a brow, a question without words. Boss nodded, answering him in the same vein before clicking off his phone and sliding it back into his hip pocket.
“What the fuck?” Leo Anderson breathed as one entire twelve-foot by twelve-foot section of bricks on the far wall punched out and slid to the left, rolling noisily against the metal tracks. Within seconds, the big motor operating the door—the thing was known to be unreliable, but today it seemed to be working just fine—finished its task and the secret tunnel that ran from Black Knights Inc. under the north branch of the nearby Chicago River to a similar hidden access point in a parking garage two blocks west was revealed.
The SEALs shuffled closer to the yawning black hole as a unit. Then, “Holy shit!” Leo laughed, whipping off his sunglasses and glancing over at Boss as the shop filled with the smells of damp concrete and stale, fishy air. “Who the hell do ya think you are? Batman or somethin’?”
“Or something.” Boss winked, turning to watch as a yellow wash of headlights appeared in the tunnel. “You know as well as I do, guys in our line of work often have need for an extra bolt-hole. Plus it’s a fucking handy-dandy little thing to have onsite when, say, the president of the United States wants to make a covert visit.”
Now it was Leo’s turn to whisper, “The hell you say.”
Boss nodded, then turned to watch a lumbering black SUV pull out of the mouth of the tunnel. After the vehicle rocked to a stop, all four doors opened simultaneously. From the front seats poured two guys in off-the-rack suits and slicked down Don Draper haircuts—Secret Service. From the back emerged President Thompson and Navy General Pete Fuller, the head of the Joint Chiefs. Both men were dressed in the civilian garb of jeans and polo shirts. But there was absolutely no mistaking who they were.
President Thompson had a full head of silver hair that the press liked to say made him look trustworthy, and a confident smile that had won over the hearts of Americans not once, but twice. And Pete Fuller? Well, he had a buzz cut that would do any drill sergeant proud. And when you added that to the perpetual scowl he wore, a person was almost forced to both fear and respect the guy in equal measure.