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The 13th Target

By Mark de Castrique

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2012 Mark de Castrique
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59058-615-0

Chapter One

Four years later—

"Rusty. Have you got any money on you?" Paul Luguire caught his driver's eye in the rearview mirror.

"I'm not sure. Maybe forty dollars." Russell Mullins looked ahead at the traffic clogging the 14th Street Bridge headed out of Washington, D.C. "I can check."

Luguire laid the papers he'd been reading in the open briefcase on the seat beside him. "Don't bother. I'd rather you keep your hands on the wheel. Swing through the BB&T off Washington Boulevard and I'll use the ATM. I'm meeting the grandkids for ice cream and I believe it's irresponsible to use a credit card for something that melts."

Mullins laughed. "I wondered where the term economic meltdown came from."

"Not funny, Rusty."

Mullins laughed again, only this time silently. He knew Luguire liked his pun but the economy was a sore subject. It was also funny that the man most responsible for printing U.S. currency didn't have any of his own. "Old Greenbacks" was the name Mullins called Luguire for the duty roster.

Having a code name for your charge was a habit he'd kept from his Secret Service days. He'd done a stint with "Rawhide" former President Reagan and "Timberwolf" former President George H. W. Bush. His active presidents had been "Eagle" Bill Clinton and "Trailblazer" George W. Bush. Then when his wife Laurie got sick, Mullins put in for a desk job in counterfeiting and settled for a schedule that gave him more time to care for her. That had been the toughest assignment of all. And he'd lost her. The worst thing that can happen to a Secret Service agent, lose the life you're trying to protect.

Mullins shook his head, flinging off thoughts from the past. He glanced back in the mirror at his present charge. They'd been together almost a year. Mullins noticed how much the gray hairline had receded, the circles grown darker under the blue eyes. Luguire was about ten years older than him. Fifty-eight. But Mullins had watched the man age five years during the past eleven months. He felt sorry for Luguire. A decent man trying to navigate a floundering economy while under attack both literally and figuratively by forces opposing his efforts.

Mullins turned on his signal for the exit off I-395. He knew the bank branch Luguire meant and it would only be a slight delay to the high-rise in Clarendon where Luguire had a luxury apartment.

"You want me to hang with you during your ice cream outing?" Mullins asked.

"No. Margie's bringing the twins by after T-ball practice. She can pick me up in the underground garage. And I doubt if anyone is staking out Ben and Jerry's."

"I don't know. That Cherry Garcia's a pretty radical flavor."

"I was thinking of something stronger. Like Rusty Nails."

Mullins shot a quick glance in the mirror. Luguire smiled, knowing he'd surprised his bodyguard.

"Who have you been talking to?"

For the first time since Luguire got in the black Mercedes, he relaxed. "Today a little bird who knows her history told me Rusty's not your only nickname. Rusty Nails. How'd you get named after a damn drink?"

"The Secret Service. They thrive on nicknames. I already had Rusty for Russell. But that wasn't good enough. So, I made the mistake of having a couple Rusty Nails one night when some of us were off-duty, and the name Nails stuck. At least within the presidential protection detail."

"Well, you're tough as nails in my book. Or maybe Tough-Ass Nails is even better."

"Don't go saying that. Somebody will latch onto it and I'll be cursed with Tough-Ass the rest of my life."

"Like Old Greenbacks?"

Again, Mullins' eyes shot to the mirror. He felt his face redden.

Luguire laughed. "Don't worry. I like it. Did you ever make up any nicknames for a president?"

"Actually code names come from the White House Communications Agency. Back in the day, they were supposed to be secret. Now everything's so encrypted it doesn't matter."

"Do you know President Brighton's?"

"Orca."

"Killer whale," Luguire mused. "Good choice. How about the first lady?"

"Opal. The first family's code names usually start with the same letter."

"And code names were the only names you used?"

"Well, we did tend to generate our own off-the-record names as we got to know them."

"Such as?"

"Such as I'd sooner give up our nuclear launch codes." Mullins swung the Mercedes into the drive-through lane for the ATM.

Luguire laughed. "Then I'll definitely settle for Old Greenbacks." He reached in his suit coat for his wallet and looked at the briefcase next to him. "I'm spread out back here. Would you do the transaction?"

Mullins rolled down his window and pulled the car close to the ATM. Luguire handed his debit card over the seat.

"How much do you want?" Mullins asked.

"Better get a hundred. You need the PIN?"

"Yeah. I make a point of forgetting it."

"Liar. You don't forget anything. Give it a shot."

"The machine might eat your card."

"If I'm trusting my life to your brain, I can certainly trust my card."

Mullins punched in the four digits. The ATM screen presented withdrawal and deposit options. Mullins selected FastCash for a hundred dollars. He passed the five new twenties and the card back to Luguire. "You must have ordered these this morning."

Luguire separated the bills, crinkling them so they wouldn't stick together. "You're right. The ink's still wet."

Mullins laughed and eased the car back onto Washington Boulevard. It was nearly six and traffic thinned slightly. "How do the twins like T-ball?"

"Okay. They like the uniforms. Margie says Lenny spends most of his time drawing in the dirt in the outfield. Lanny wants to be pitcher because on TV the pitcher's always shown in a close-up. He doesn't understand why T-ball doesn't need a pitcher."

"Have you been to a game?"

"Not yet. They've only had a few practices. The first one's this Saturday."

"Let me know where and when," Mullins said.

"Are you working?"

"No, I'm off-duty. But I'm babysitting Josh. Never too young to teach a boy the great American pastime."

"I'd like that. I'd like to meet your grandson. The game's at the field by William Ramsay Elementary. I'll let you know the details tomorrow."

When he reached the high-rise, Mullins drove into the underground garage, entered the security code, and dropped Luguire at the elevator. "Eight?" Mullins asked, as Luguire closed his briefcase and slid out of the backseat.

"Right. Have a good night, Nails."

"You too, Old Greenbacks."

Chapter Two

Fares Khoury steered the silver Ford 150 pickup along the leaf-covered lane. The truck's shocks rode so low that every root and rut sent a jolt up his spine. He took comfort knowing his part of the mission was nearly complete. The last haul of fertilizer bags lay in the bed behind him, the final purchase of the quantities he'd assembled from feed-and-seed stores across five Virginia counties. Because of federal regulations and purchasing paperwork, many gardening and farm suppliers no longer carried ammonia-nitrate fertilizer, but his contact had given him accurate source information, and his photo ID and background story passed scrutiny.

Khoury swung the truck around the small clapboard house and parked in front of the shed. The rough plank walls were weather-beaten and the tin roof rusty, but the wood was still solid and the shiny padlock on the door would require a...