“With less than forty-eight hours to prepare.”
“Good thing I’m here,” Omar cracked.
After a few halfhearted laughs, they fell silent. The SUV was so quiet they could hear the hum of the tires against the road.
Omar stared out the window at the darkness. If Hampton had allies in the military …
“Ryan,” Omar asked, “who’s handling security for the visit?”
“The Secret Service, obviously. And Naval Support Activity Annapolis will coordinate with them. The base will be locked down tight.”
“Sure, but if Hampton has help from inside?—”
“Then we’re walking into a trap,” Trent finished. “But if Hampton’s turned any part of the military, we’re cooked regardless.”
Ryan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s the only play we have.”
“You’re sure Peterson can make it happen?” Jake asked.
“I’m sure he’ll try. He said he’ll do everything he can to arrange a private moment during the post-speech reception.”
Trent nodded. “We were in Abuja together. He’s good people. He worked with Jake to save my hide when I had my meltdown.” He rolled his neck from side to side. “After Carla.”
They lapsed back into silence until Ryan exited the highway. The streets of Annapolis were quiet, most of the city tucked in for the night. Ryan wound through residential neighborhoods until he pulled up in front of a modest two-story colonial with dark windows.
“This is us,” he said, killing the engine.
Inside, the house was furnished but impersonal. Generic furniture, prints straight out of a mid-price chain hotel on the walls, neutral everything. It was interchangeable with every other safe house in their network.
Ryan set up his laptop on the dining room table and pulled up a satellite image of the Naval Academy. “The President arrives at oh-nine-hundred on Friday. Speech at ten-hundred in Dahlgren Hall. Reception immediately following at Farragut House, the superintendent’s residence.”
“That’s where we make our approach,” Jake said.
“That’s where Peterson will try to create an opportunity. But we have to be ready to improvise if the moment doesn’t present itself.”
Omar studied the map, committing it to memory. Entry points, exit routes, places where security would be tightest. He’d spent enough time planning operations to know that even the best laid plans could fall apart in seconds.
“What’s our cover?” Trent asked.
“You’re guests of Commander Peterson. Former service members and current private military contractors interested in the President’s remarks on naval readiness.”
“Will that hold up to scrutiny?” Omar asked.
“It should. Peterson’s invited guests before. Your service records are real. And we are a PMC.”
“My records are … colorful,” Trent pointed out.
“As are mine,” Jake agreed.
Omar raised both hands. “Don’t look at me. I was in the National Guard during college and then straight to the DEA after I graduated. My military service is the opposite of colorful. The DEA part is another story.”
“It’s not going to matter,” Ryan promised. “Jake’s the CEO of a military contractor. If anyone asks, Potomac’s exploring partnership opportunities with the Academy’s research programs.”
It was thin, but it might work. Might.
“We need to talk about contingencies,” Omar said. “If this goes sideways, if Hampton has people watching for us?—”
“Then we abort,” Jake said firmly. “We’re not risking lives to deliver a message. If we can’t get to the President safely, we find another way.”
