Page 51 of Edge of Honor

Now it was Harvath’s turn to smile. “Ambassador Rogers needed the best, that’s why I called you.”

“You called me because you’re running out of friends in this town. That’s what happens when you hang around too long.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I could have squeezed a couple more years out of it had I wanted to.”

“Life is all about timing,” McGee remarked, his voice tinged with quiet wisdom. “Especially in this line of work. Knowing when to step away… that’s what separates the wise from the reckless.”

“The quick and the dead,” Harvath mused.

“And yet here we are. No paycheck. No backup to speak of. Just us and the Ambo.”

“So what does that make us?”

The ex–CIA director didn’t even bat an eye. “Men willing to fight for what’s right, even when the system won’t. That makes us men of honor. Last of the American breed.”

McGee had always been a fascinating character and Harvath could have spent all night talking with him, but he needed to finish getting everything ready.

“Comms check in five,” he said, standing up.

“Copy that,” the man replied.

Picking up his mug and heading back toward the kitchen, it struck Harvath that McGee would be a great choice to run the Carlton Group. But for that to happen, to convince him to give up his painting, his fishing, and his quiet runs on the beach, something would have to befall the country, the seriousness of which America had never seen.

CHAPTER 24

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The luxury four-bedroom penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton Residences belonged to one of Senator Bill Blackwood’s biggest donors. The wealthy couple, who rarely made it to D.C. anymore, was happy to have him use it whenever he wanted.

Spanning almost ten thousand square feet, with floor-to-ceiling windows, the apartment boasted some of the best views in the city.

In addition to in-room dining, housekeeping, and private chef services, Blackwood was able to avail himself of private access to an on-site, members-only health club, as well as key-card access to pass directly through to the Ritz-Carlton hotel and the use of an underground parking facility completely removed from the view of the passing public.

The security and exclusivity of the property were superb. It was the perfect location for Blackwood to entertain his six clandestine guests.

They had gathered in the opulent dining room and had been seated around a long Christofle designer table under a $2 million Chihuly chandelier.

Despite the expensive wines and cognacs that had been poured for them, not a single one of them had been happy. The recriminations had come fast and furious.

They had all been struck by the visceral nature of last night’s attack. War, he’d been forced to remind them, was a bloody business, and they were most definitely at war.

Drilling down, he finally got to what they were most upset about. Allthat time, all that planning, and most importantly, all that risk—only to have President Mitchell come out looking like the hero, aleader.

His visit to the victims in the hospital, his remarks to the press, everyone had lapped it up. They had actually made him stronger politically. It was the exact opposite of what they had intended and they were pissed. Blackwood, however, had his talking points ready and, thanks to his visit with Chuck Coughlin, knew exactly what to say.

It had taken a few minutes to sink in, but his guests had eventually come around to his way of thinking. To be successful—to “out media” Mitchell—the Vice President needed to get to the microphones first and come out with such force, that anything the President tried to follow up with would look like weak tea in comparison.

He reminded them to trust the plan. The wheels were in motion and what was coming could not be stopped. They needed to hang together or, as Ben Franklin was alleged to have said after signing the Declaration of Independence, they would assuredly all hang separately. After a final round to stiffen their spines, he had sent them on their way.

It had been risky bringing them all together in one place like that so soon after the attack.

Secrecy was the sine qua non of their operation. None of them wanted to be arrested for treason, but they were fighting for the future of the nation.

President Mitchell had been given a once-in-a-generation opportunity and he was squandering it. He had assembled an army of Americans, citizens wholly devoted to him, who would do anything he asked. All they had asked of him was that he put the nation first. He had promised that he would and in exchange for that promise, they had voted for him.

But as they watched his first one hundred days in office, as those days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months, he had disappointed them at practically every turn.

He had not only abandoned his principles and the voters who had swept him into office, but he had also allowed himself to be co-opted by the establishment. He had become the thing he had campaigned against—a creature of D.C.

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