Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

laughed. “Chris Matthews actually said it was as refreshing as making love to his wife after sipping on a mint julep. But they all agreed Butcher killed any hope for reelection.”
    Danny had listened to a rebroadcast of Butcher’s State of the Union address in the wee hours after the bar had closed. “Americans don’t like hearing the truth.”
    “Americans don’t like making sacrifices,” Chip rebutted. “At least not in the twenty-first century.”
    Danny held up his glass. “Truer words have never been uttered.” Chip clinked Danny’s glass with his own and the two swigged their beers. “Anything about the bombs under the Capitol?”
    “Not a word. Nothing in cyberspace either.”
    “The Capitol police are a tight-lipped bunch.”
    “No doubt.”
    “You think they’ll be able to bury the story forever?”
    Chip grinned. “That depends on you, doesn’t it?”
    Danny huffed as the impossibility of his next task flooded his brain again. “Yeah.”
    “Just think of the ass you’ll get if you pull it off,” Chip said. “Chicks dig heroes.” He put his pint glass back in the air. “Here’s to the women, the wonderful wine. They bloom once a month and beer twice a nine. They’re the only creatures this side of hell, to get juice from your nuts without cracking the shell.”
    They clinked glasses again and gulped their beers. “That’s beautiful, Chip. You just make that shit up?”
    “I’m not that clever.” Chip put his finger and thumb to his mouth like he was smoking a joint and assumed his best Jamaican accent. “I learned it from a Rasta man during my visit to the mother country, mon.”
    “And here I thought you were going to toast our mission.”
    Chip grabbed the salt shaker and pepper grinder off the rack above the grill. After dusting both omelets with the salt and then cranking the pepper grinder several times over each one, he threw some salt over his shoulder. “Absolutely not. That’s bad luck.”
    “It is?” Danny asked, swigging another sip of beer.
    Chip folded both omelets and then sprinkled shredded cheese on them as he assumed a thick Texas accent. “Shoot, I don’t know about in the land of steers and queers, but us Yankees think it is.” He slid the omelets out of the skillet onto two plates. Then he grabbed a handful of chopped scallions off the butcher block and sprinkled them across each plate. A look of utter satisfaction crested Chip’s face as he handed his friend his finished product.
    “Thanks, Chip,” Danny said. He grabbed a fork off the chopping block and dove into the omelet. “Delicious as usual.”
    The two of them talked about everything except their mission for the next several minutes. They updated each other about their personal lives, their triumphs, and tragedies. They recalled their adventures in this very bar this last time they were together, reminiscing about the women who hit on Danny and the ones Chip tried to talk into his bed. It was a moment that Danny would remember for the rest of his life, no matter how long that was.
    An hour later, Danny was shaking his friend’s hand inside the door that led out into the back alley. They both knew that this could be the last time they saw each other. They didn’t speak. The look in Chip’s eye said everything as he handed Danny a new disposable cell phone to replace the one that Danny had trashed before getting anywhere near the bar last night, along with a thick wad of cash. Good luck, my friend. Danny hoped his eyes were conveying the same message.
    Danny eased out the door. He imagined FBI agents appearing out of nowhere and swarming him. But that didn’t happen. He hurried down the alley and stopped at the edge of 19th Street. He looked in both directions. A jogger ran up the sidewalk across the street. A cab was about to pass him when he flagged it down.
    Eight minutes later, the cab stopped in front of the Connecticut Avenue entrance to the National Zoo. Danny told the cabbie to wait for him and he got out. He took a few steps toward the entrance, making sure to stop short of the reach of the cameras attached to the entrance gates. He dialed a number on the disposable cell; the same very private number he memorized just before he had left the White House to investigate L’Enfant Plaza. It rang five times. Danny was about to hang up when he heard someone on the other end.
    “Hello?”
    Danny recognized the voice. “Hello, Jack.”
    There was a long pause. Finally, the