Capitol Danger Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015

  Prologue by Jeanne Adams

  UNMASKED by Suzanne Ferrell

  DEATH UNDER GLASS by Jeanne Adams

  DANGER'S EDGE by Nancy Northcott

  LETHAL TARGET by J.D. Tyler

  Cover Art by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Formatting by Libris In CAPS

  Release date: July 2015

  (2015) Capitol Danger

  All rights reserved to the Authors

  This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise - without prior written permission of the author and publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law. The only execption is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART II

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PART III

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  PART IV

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX J.D. Tyler

  Nancy Northcott

  Jeanne Adams

  Suzanne Ferrell

  PROLOGUE

  The blueprints for DC’s new and highly exclusive Fierenze Hotel lay spread out on a rickety table in the dank warehouse. Also on the table were working blueprints of DC’s Farragut North Metro Station.

  “We access the tunnel here, off the Glenmont side of the Metro Station.” Methan, the leader of the infiltration team pointed to the access tunnel, marked with a triangular icon.

  “The camera crew is ready, as is the fake couple for the proposal.” That would get them into Metro. They had a permit for the film crew to film an elaborate marriage proposal. From there, in stolen Metro station-maintenance uniforms, they would slip into the tunnels and be gone while everyone watched the show.

  The Fierenze was a renovated nineteenth-century building on K Street. In the hotel steam tunnels, and old prohibition and smuggler routes below the new hotel’s basements, there was a series of cobbled-together tunnels linking the hotel to the Metro access and maintenance tunnels.

  It wouldn’t matter that the Secret Service teams had swept the rooftops and building forty-eight hours before the event, nor that, if this had been a planned stop, snipers would have lain in wait on the adjoining rooftops for that long, or more.

  Their group wasn’t coming in to the hotel in any way that could be tracked.

  Since the president wasn’t actually supposed to come to this inaugural gala, any sweeps would have already been done. And all of those were for show. Any other measures would be minimal, as this wasn’t a big or important gala.

  Just one among many.

  The “just in case” scenarios the Secret Service insisted on would have been done, and the Fierenze had already passed inspection.

  Now, nothing impeded their work.

  Since they were coming from below, none of the security measures would have caught them, anyway. Once they’d created their path through the broken-down tunnels, and shored them up all the way to the ones hidden next to and under the hotel, they’d masked them from easy access. Now, those well-masked and covered tunnels would free the country.

  Their inside man was the key. That variable would let them pull the whole thing off. He was the one who would convince the newly elected president and her wimpy, emasculated husband to make an unscheduled stop. Virtually every president made at least one unplanned stop on inaugural night. Some stopped at local restaurants, like Damien’s on 16th, or at a famous landmark like the Vietnam Memorial. Others popped in on galas throughout town that didn’t expect –-but always hoped-– for a presidential visit.

  Due to that, there had been sweeps for explosives or weapons at all the galas, even on a site that wasn’t on the carefully choreographed schedule. But once it had been swept and cleared two days ago, this one hadn’t rated a second look.

  Once they had the president, it wouldn’t matter who was where. They would be in charge. Their only job was to kill the newly inaugurated Commander in Chief.

  And get out.

  Then, the duly-elected vice president would become POTUS –-President of the United States. And no one would suspect. No one would know.

  The newly elected, highly regarded vice president was fully sympathetic to the Red Mantle cause.

  “How many do we get to shoot?” Curtis asked, looming over the maps. “How many of the godless government officials who are taking us into darkness?”

  “Many as you want, once we have POTUS,” Methan said, absently. He was studying the plans. “Until then, no one.”

  The only real place things could slip was in the Metro. Metro police weren’t cops, but they weren’t slacker mall security either. Not in DC.

  “I’m looking forward to this,” Jamison said, grinning. “Got all my affairs in order, so blaze o’ glory, and all that.”

  It would be a pleasure to take out as many of the officials as they found if time permitted, but once the president was dead, their job was done. They would get out if they could, but go down fighting if they couldn’t. Each man on the team had a fail-safe. None of them would be taken alive.

  Their weapons were already in place. Automatics, semi-automatics, urban assault rifles and hundreds of rounds of ammunition were in a defunct freezer in the old kitchen.

  The behemoth of a freezer had been a fixture in the old building, and since the plans hadn’t changed the footprint of the hotel –-nor the subbasements-– the massive, nineteenth century piece was to be demo-ed in place and removed. It was also key to their plan. It was located near the hidden tunnel entrance. Once they broke through the wall, the freezer was their first destination.

  Once there, they would change into their waiter uniforms, and, as quickly as possible, place weapons caches all over the hotel in laundry, service, and room service carts. As they moved around in their waiter guise, each man would place his weapon under the banquet serving tables at his station. The other caches in and around the ballrooms would be for re-arming as necessary.

  The first four floors had ballrooms or event space to be contained. The staff passages behind the walls of the ballrooms had been checked and double-checked by hotel security on a set schedule, but again, that was for form. They’d figured out how to block the front entrance once the president was inside –-gas company trucks investigating a leak-– so that was handled.

  No extra security efforts would be made in this hotel, no dog or guard sweeps, since POTUS and the First Gentleman of the United States –-FGOTUS, how horrible!-- weren’t expected.

  But they, loyal to the Red Mantle, knew the real schedule.

  Once at their stations, it was only a matter of waiting. Then, when the ungodly new president made her appearance, it would be on.

  “C
ontingencies?” Methan snapped.

  “All in order,” Decker answered, ticking them off. “Continue acting as waiters if POTUS is delayed, otherwise take our breaks at nine-thirty to shift to action mode, and be ready to rock and roll at nine forty-five for the anticipated intro on the second floor, main ballroom stage, at ten p.m.”

  “Second line?”

  “If we’re discovered, or anyone is discovered prior to nine-thirty, and POTUS is waved off, then full-out assault on the main ballroom. Curtis locks everything down, and we take the bitches from the joint chiefs and Treasury hostage, or kill ‘em,” Simon declared, taking up the plan. “Convene there in the main ballroom and blockade it. The doors on all the ballrooms are prepped for chains and locks, just pop out the plastic spacers. Then take out as many of the security, hostile guests, and military brass as we can.” Simon detailed.

  “Anyone outside the blockaded main ballroom will corral the other guests and staff into the smaller ballrooms, seal them in. If the cops get in, or set off tear gas we put on our masks and, in the confusion, slip back into the tunnels and get out of DC.”

  Simon pointed to the rooms marked on the map as he spoke. The service hall behind the main ballroom was the only one with access to a utility shaft which went directly to the basement. One of the few archaic remnants of the old building, like the freezer.

  The architect who’d done the renovation plans was a member.

  “If it all goes well, though, Decker takes the main ballroom with ten men. Once POTUS is inside, take out the Secret Service and all joint chiefs, brass, etcetera. Kerlin takes the Renaissance room on the upper level with five men, locks it down with hostages inside and joins us. Pohl has the Michelangelo room with three men, it’s a smaller space, but it leads to two others. Pohl locks those down and barricades all staff and hostages inside,” Simon continued. “I take the Caravaggio room with six men, it has more entrances and exits. We lock those down and join you in the main ballroom.”

  “Third line?” Methan continued, giving Simon a nod for his efficient run-down.

  “If POTUS is alerted, or we’re made?” Kerlin asked, as if he didn’t know his part. Then he grinned and it was feral and mean. “We still kill any security, secret service, and brass too stupid to know that women shouldn’t lead. We still corral the guests and they become hostages that we barricade into the various ballrooms. We line up any senators and if they’re agin’ us, we kill ‘em. Then same, we use the charges, put on gas masks in case of the police infiltration, and escape down the tunnels in the confusion.”

  “Last line?” Methan demanded and Pohl stepped smartly up to the table.

  “We do all that, Curtis activates all fire and security protocols in the master security office, most of which conflict. If we have active resistance, we spray the hostages in each room with bullets. While they scream and hide, we get out. If the cops infiltrate and use tear gas, then we put on our masks and execute the same exodus. With the hostages and any cops distracted, we can hightail it out through the tunnels.”

  “And when we come out?”

  “Two solutions. One, we keep our waiter uniforms on, let out the hostages and start hustling them out of the building as if we’re truly waiters and/or staff, get out, and head for the rendezvous. Second, if too many might recognize us, we pull off our waiter uniforms, and we’re guests escaping from the hotel through little-known tunnels, and head into the crowd, right to the police. We go to hospital if we have to, but don’t stay. If we can get through the Metro access that we used to come in, we get to the rendezvous point in Bryce. We wait forty-eight hours and head to Master Isham with whoever gets to the rendezvous.”

  Methan nodded.

  “And if the worst happens?” he asked quietly.

  “We regroup,” Decker said, just as quietly. “As a team, we take the stupid women from the senate, the joint chiefs, and whatever, up to the seventh floor. We kill them, hang them from the flagpoles to show the world that the Red Mantle is better than any godless society who is foolish enough to believe women have a place in government, much less as the leader of the free world.”

  Methan nodded, smiling slightly as he saw all the men nod, all their faces stern with the knowledge that even if it came to death they would make a difference.

  It wasn’t their preferred option, but they had to plan for everything, even total failure.

  A good plan meant a good outcome. Even if they died, if they followed the plan, they would make their statement to the world.

  “Just so,” Methan approved. “If it all goes to hell, and luck goes against us, we still make a stand. We make a statement to the media. Then we detonate the charges we’re all carrying, in a united show of force. No matter how we make an end, if that is what we must do,” he said with a converted man’s zealous conviction, “we will die, my brothers, together, in the joy of the righteous cause. They will talk of us for centuries.”

  He met the eyes of each man. They were Red Mantle men, true believers, those who followed the path of faith. They were here to rule. Didn’t matter what color your skin was, but by heaven, if you followed the way of the Robe, the Red Mantle that Master Isham said protected the righteous Roman soldiers who helped the Godly escape the unholy, corrupt Roman republic, then you ruled.

  You were men. Men who knew and appreciated that women had their place, and that they stayed in it. You glorified women who served their men well, in the house, in the kitchen, and in raising strong sons.

  Men were bred to rule, not serve.

  Those original soldiers had founded a silent, underground brotherhood in the wilderness, building a new, pure way to govern. Just the same, Master Isham had been initiated in Europe, in a monastery in France, now the seat of Heaven’s soldiers. He’d brought the Mantle to America and built his army.

  “You are good men,” Methan said. “You heard the word of the Master, just as I did. You trained and planned by my side. Master Isham selected me to lead this team, but any one of you has the guts, the skill and the faith to lead if I fall. Men of the Red Mantle are bred for rule.”

  The men nodded, a few eyes gleamed at the thought they might lead the glorious charge, but their discipline would hold. Master Isham never failed in judging his men.

  “Form up!” Methan snapped, and the men hastily formed a circle with him at the center. “I know that you are my shield and my strong arm,” he intoned the warrior words. “As I am yours. Your robe is my robe.”

  “Amen,” the men chorused. “We are your shield. We are your strong arm. We wear the Red Mantle.”

  “Our Master gave us a charge. We will follow. We will clear the deadwood of this society. We will clear the disease of lax government, the softness, the corruption. We, the righteous, will fell the unrighteous.”

  “Amen!” the chorus was stronger.

  Master Isham foretold that this president would lead America down the excessive, corrupt Roman path, and thus would come America’s downfall. The end of the most powerful nation on earth. They couldn’t let that happen. Not while they drew breath.

  No more would good women be corrupted by too much freedom. No precious children would be allowed such profligate excess that they had cars and computers and iPads, but no discipline, no true training.

  There would be real farms again, and real food that didn’t depend on chemicals. No obesity. No big-business overlords. No dishonor.

  And it would start with their making their mark at the Stand Together Gala, where women’s rights –-such a joke!-– were championed, and where tonight, they would celebrate the huge amount of money which had been raised to elect the godless woman who was now the president.

  A woman president.

  What had happened to America that any man would let his wife run for office? Let his wife do his thinking, let his woman run his country? The new godless woman president had already announced that half her cabinet would be women.

  She had to die.

  “We will triumph,” Methan contin
ued, shaking off the disturbing thoughts. “We will usher in a new age. The Red Mantle will unfurl, open to the sky. America will be a nation of mighty men once more.”

  He held out a fist and walked the circle. Each man connected with Methan’s fist as he turned, the gears of a well-oiled machine.

  “We are mighty.”

  “Mighty is the Red Mantle.”

  The corruption ended here. Their man would be in the seat of power, with a sober, supportive, and humble wife by his side. The wife of this man knew her place. She’d borne three strong sons for her husband, and raised them well.

  In setting this man on the seat of power, the names of Methan and his team would be exalted and, if they lived, neither they nor their families would ever know want.

  If they died, in that glory, their families would be protected, forever. Master Isham had promised this, and he kept his promises.

  “We are Soldiers of the Red Mantle,” Methan brought the circle to its full end with a gesture, his arms crossed over his heart. “We follow the soldier’s messiah, Master Isham. We follow the word of the Champion of the Red Mantle.”

  “All glory to heaven, all loyalty to Master Isham and the Red Mantle!” The men shouted and followed suit, clamping their arms to their chests.

  “Kneel!” he ordered, and they dropped. “We will pray.”

  PART ONE

  UNMASKED

  By

  Suzanne Ferrell

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lights glittered all around the Fierenze Hotel’s main ballroom for its first inaugural ball.

  Snow-white linens covered the tables. Waiters, some of them security personnel working undercover for the night, dressed in black, carried trays of champagne in more crystal flutes among the national and foreign dignitaries, as well as both campaign supporters and workers who flocked the ball. In keeping with the winter theme, huge evergreens covered in twinkling white lights and blown-glass snowflakes lined the walls between the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and the crystal columns. Suspended overhead were more glass snowflakes, as well as the crystal chandeliers. The whole thing was—sparkly.