Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

was Jack Butcher, smiling at the cameras and waving to whomever it was presidents waved to as they performed the familiar photo op of crossing the lush South Lawn toward the waiting Marine One helicopter. As the president walked, Grace Styles provided the mundane details of his trip and even a few background facts about Camp David and Marine One. Danny heard Sydney’s fork clang against her salad bowl. She stared at Butcher on the screen. He could read it in her face. The mere sight of him made her lose her appetite.
    Danny put his burger back down on his plate, his own stomach twisting as he watched Jack Butcher climb the helicopter’s stairs. Butcher paused, turned, and waved from the top. He looked like a man without a care in the world. A split second later, his body slammed backward into the helicopter.
    The camera zoomed in on the helicopter’s darkened doorway. Grace Styles was yelling to someone off camera, her voice now exploding through the TV speakers. “What happened? What? My God! The president’s been shot!”
    Danny saw Peter Devon fly into the shot. He bent down over the president and began frantically shouting into his wrist microphone. The TV screen split in half, and another camera angle showed a full shot of Marine One. Several agents scrambled around it, their weapons drawn. The presidential limo raced into the shot, sliding to a stop next to the stairway. Devon and three other agents carried Jack Butcher down the stairs and shoved him into the limo’s backseat. Both of Butcher’s arms hung lifelessly at his side. Peter Devon had draped his suit jacket over the president’s head so that the cameras couldn’t get a shot of his face.
    Several people from the bar had gathered around their table by now, watching the events unfold as CNN repeated the scene over and over and over. The three of them sat in stunned silence as they watched the TV for several minutes before Fielding wandered over to the bartender to pay the check.
    Danny waited until they were back in the privacy of the Taurus before slinging his accusation. “You knew what was going to happen. That’s why you ate so fast.”
    “I always eat fast, Sergeant,” Fielding replied. “All soldiers do.”
    “You killed the president,” Sydney blurted.
    Fielding’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. “How could I have killed the president, Ms. Dumas? I was in a sports bar in the middle of Maryland when it happened.”
    “You had him killed,” she replied. “Why?”
    “Because he didn’t want Butcher talking,” Danny answered for Fielding.
    Fielding stared at Danny. “The country doesn’t need another scandal. Not now. Especially not involving its president. Could you imagine what would happen if it came out that Jack Butcher wanted to start a revolution by killing every member of Congress? What if he was arrested in a couple years after trying a stunt similar to this one? This one event might be over, but our country still stands at the precipice of collapse—financially, socially, morally. What do you think would happen to the country if we saw our leader being led from the White House in handcuffs? We needed to see him shot down in a blaze of glory. History shows that when America mourns, we come together. We need that more than anything right now.”
    “United we stand, divided we fall,” Danny added sarcastically.
    “Damn right,” Fielding reply.
    “But he’s the president of the United States for Christ’s sake,” Sydney offered.
    “Like Butcher said himself, presidents are temporary. We can always get another one.”
    Danny’s eyes flashed. “The meeting at Arlington Cemetery. That’s where Butcher said presidents are temporary.” Danny read it in Fielding’s face. “You were listening.”
    Fielding smiled. “You don’t miss much do you, Sergeant?”
    “How did you—”
    Fielding cut Danny off. “All presidents need a break from time to time, even if it’s just to walk the streets of D.C. for a while. That was the main reason the White House tunnels were built. JFK had them put in. Of course, his purpose was for something besides strolling the streets. That’s why one led to the Willard. He would meet his … friends there. That’s how Butcher got out to the cemetery for your little meeting. But what he doesn’t know is that we tracked him. When we get the chance, we insert GPS chips into all of their shoes without their knowledge. We’ve been doing it since Clinton. Where the president