Inherit The Throne (Melissa Stone)

by Steve DeWinter

3.8 stars – 25 Reviews

Kindle Price: $2.99

Here’s the set-up:

Living under a new identity in the tiny Northwestern tourist town at the base of Mount Hood, Melissa thought she had finally escaped her past. That is until an assassin tries to kill her and forces her back into a treacherous shadow world she vowed never to return. That same night an unmanned robotic SUV slams into the limousine of the Vice President of the United States and detonates with several hundred pounds of explosives. Melissa soon discovers that the attack on the Vice President and the attempt on her own life are related. And time is running out to find out who wants her dead and why she alone holds the key to saving the President of the United States. This is the Standard Edition. If you would like extra content such as deleted chapters and a sneek preview of the second Melissa Stone book, then you will want the Enhanced Edition. Either click the + sign next to Kindle Edition in the format section above, or search for “Inherit The Throne Enhanced”.

Inherit The Throne (A Melissa Stone Adventure) by Steve DeWinter, $2.99 in the Kindle Store

The author hopes you will enjoy this lengthy free excerpt, which contains the first 8 chapters!

Chapter 1

Carlos Jimenez pushed on the door leading to the employee restroom. The hinges squealed in protest, their cries of pain echoing off the alternating black and white tiles that covered the walls and the floor of the restroom. Jimenez marveled that no how matter how posh or swank the hotel was, the employee restroom always looked like a restroom you’d expect to find in the middle of a deserted highway. He considered himself a professional on the subject of the greater metropolitan DC area employee restrooms, a connoisseur, if you will, as he had seen more than his fair share during his fifteen years on Secret Service detail.

Those fifteen years had brought him through many dark and dingy lower worlds, the Hades of Washington, DC whose every entrance was guarded by the modern-day version of Cerberus, the three-headed dog.

A simple plastic plaque that stated its warning in no uncertain terms.

“Employees Only – No Admittance.”

Special Agent in Charge, Carlos Jimenez had little doubt he entered the very bowels of hell every time he crossed that plaque. And tonight was no different. Jimenez let the door swing fully open before absentmindedly wiping his fingertips on the side of his slacks. His time in the Secret Service brought him to more of these places than he cared to admit, and being promoted to Special Agent in Charge only ensured that he was the first through every door.

His highly trained senses took in the room all at once, and he wished that just once he would open that door and find an employee restroom that was as pristine and polished as the restrooms in the lobby. But then again, he thought, that is the true mark of insanity. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

Jimenez walked into the dimly lit, and fortunately unoccupied, bathroom. He hated having to kick people out, but then again, that was his job. There was no higher calling than keeping the world safe for democracy, but tonight, his job was to keep the bathroom safe for the Vice President of the United States.

He paced out to the center of the room, careful not to slip on the thin film of oily residue that was the unfortunate result of sharing a ventilation shaft with the kitchen. Tonight his job would be easier than usual. The management had posted a sign on the door stating that the restroom was going to be for the personal use of the Vice President of the United States and requested employees to take care of their needs elsewhere. Despite the sign, Jimenez still did his duty and entered the room ahead of anyone else.

The two urinals stood empty. In stark contrast to the coloring of the walls and the floor, they gleamed in brilliant porcelain white, the pungent odor of chlorine the only telltale sign to the cause of their cleanliness. Two of the stall doors stood open with the middle stall closed and a crude handwritten sign stating “out of order” in blocky red letters taped to the door.

As the special agent walked past the broken stall, he nearly did a double take as he thought he saw a shadow move underneath. He paused for only a moment and stared hard under the locked door. Just then a voice broke his concentration. He looked up to see the eager face of the youngest recruit ever to get Vice Presidential detail. An honor that, until this kid had come along, had been his.

“He said to let you know that he’s had quite a bit to drink, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it.”

Jimenez held up, his hand silencing the recruit. He drew his automatic pistol and pointed silently at the locked bathroom stall. The recruit understood and drew his own service weapon and pointed it at the stall door.

Jimenez kicked hard at the door, and the lock gave way with a shriek. The door slammed against the back wall of the empty stall.

Jimenez holstered his weapon and looked at the kid who had stolen his record.

“Let him know it’s all clear.”

Just as Jimenez finished his sentence, a large well-groomed man of six foot two pushed his way into the restroom. “God dammit, Carlos. I swear, you seem to take longer every single time.”

“Just doing my job to keep you safe, sir.”

The Vice President rushed past, unzipping his pants before he even made it to the urinal against the wall. “Now that I’m safe, how about a little privacy?”

Jimenez reached the door and pulled it closed behind him, “Of course, sir. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

***

As soon as he heard the door close, Andrew quietly lowered himself down from the sling that had held him hidden under the wide imitation marble sinks along the wall opposite the urinals. The Fentanyl had finally kicked in, and the pain had subsided enough that Andrew was able to concentrate on sneaking up behind the Vice President without alerting him that he was even there.

Five years ago if someone had told the highly decorated United States Army Special Forces Captain that, on an otherwise ordinary Thursday night, he would be hiding from the Secret Service in a filthy bathroom waiting to make a move against the second most powerful man in the United States, he would’ve told them to go do something unnatural with themselves. But cancer has a way of changing a man, making him willing to do things he wouldn’t normally consider.

The Vice President finished, zipped up his pants and turned around. Andrew understood the reason for the sudden look of confusion on the Vice President’s face. He was staring into the face of someone who looked exactly like him.

“What the…” was all the Vice President could utter before Andrew swiftly stabbed the needle into the arm of the career politician and plunged the entire contents of the syringe deep into the muscle tissue. The Vice President stared down at the needle sticking out of his arm and then back up to look Andrew squarely in the eyes. The chemical worked quickly, and as the Vice President realized he was losing all muscle control, his eyes sought out the doorway that led to an entire squadron of heavily armed and highly trained men whose job it was to protect him.

He opened his mouth to scream for help, but the only noise he made was a low moan accompanied by a gurgling sound right before he collapsed into Andrew’s arms.

Chapter 2

William Hartford sat motionless in his red leather wing chair. The single green banker’s light perched on the corner of his antique leather-topped desk provided the only illumination in his twelve thousand square foot Washington, DC apartment.

The glass of Blair Athol Whisky sat untouched on the end table by the side of the leather wing chair. Hartford had poured and ignored it. The ice was gone leaving only a thin layer of clear water to reflect the banker’s lamp as it floated on top of the amber liquid. A twelve-year-old single malt whiskey should never be treated with such disdain.

Hartford let the cool September wind rustle the papers on the desk behind him. As the wind picked up and papers began to shift across the desk, Hartford leaned forward and pushed the window to just within an inch of closed. This would permit the night sounds to drift in without interfering with the arrangement of the files on his desk.

In stark contrast to the antique Georgian mahogany wood and the dark green tooled leather top of the hundred-year-old partner’s desk, a small LED clock burned bright blue on the far right corner. The time showed as 11:32 p.m., and Hartford used these last few moments of each day to reflect as he glanced at the clear liquid floating on top of the whiskey. He’d been sober now for twelve years, three months and five days, and during that time had managed to become a respected politician. He was so well-trusted that he had been voted almost unanimously to preside over Congress for the last two years. But with the change in leadership expected in the upcoming election, his time in a position of power was coming to a close.

The phone on the leather-topped desk rang.

He was used to late-night calls from all around the world, even on a politically uneventful Thursday night, and answered after only the second ring. The caller ID showed up as blocked, but the soft melodic voice he recognized instantly.

“In one week you will be President of the United States.”

“Hannah!?”Hartford sat up in shock and absently reached for the glass of whiskey before stopping himself short. Twelve years, three months and five days was not that long, after all.

“Are you ready for what I have spent over a decade preparing you for?” The soft voice betrayed the sinister nature of her statement.

“Without you, I would never have gotten this far, but how you can be so sure that you can actually make me the President?”

“The Presidential Succession Act will make you President. I’m only clearing the way.”

A small-town city councilman, who spent every weekend in a drunken stupor, was the last person that should have been selected to become the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. But Hannah had told him that if he sobered up and promised to stay away from the devil’s nectar, she would make that happen for him.

For the last twelve years, three months and five days, he had kept his side of the bargain, and, as he was maneuvered up the ranks of the political ladder, it was obvious that she was keeping hers.

Not bad for someone he had never met face-to-face. They always spoke over the phone, or, in recent months, he met with her second in command.

He glanced at the glass of whiskey.

This dependency.

This crutch.

Hannah had proven to him that he was better off without it, that success was more achievable when it was left out of his life.

He had been silent for too long, and Hannah said exactly what Hartford needed to hear. “Play it my way, and we both get what we want.”

“Why now?”

“Because the window of opportunity is fast closing. I have to strike while the iron is hot.”

The call ended with a click that sounded more final than anything Hartford had ever heard in his life. Dealing with Hannah was like talking to a bad doctor. You never understood what they meant until it was too late.

Like an avalanche on a snow-packed mountain, now that it had started, not even William Hartford, The Speaker of the House of Representatives himself, could stop it.

As soon as he became Speaker of the House, Hartford was just two heartbeats away from the throne of the most powerful country in the world.

And to make matters worse, Hartford was not in control. Even if he wanted to change his mind, it was already too late. It was too late twelve years ago when he put aside his own personal issues and went along with the most ludicrous scheme he had ever heard in his life.

Hartford grabbed the glass of amber liquid, spilling a little of the watered-down whiskey onto the leather-topped desk. He gulped down the entire contents of the glass in a single swallow and let the warm liquid burn his throat and sear the inside of his nostrils. He would not be the first United States President who had overcome a drinking problem in his past.

Chapter 3

Jonathan Wilkes snapped shut the sleek black Motorola RAZR V3 and dropped it into the nearest trash can on the street. He had received confirmation from Hannah to proceed and wouldn’t need to use that phone ever again. When it was time to contact her again, he would purchase a disposable phone using cash.

Wilkes checked the pace of traffic and crossed the street to join the growing crowd of protesters.

The former United States Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance warrior gripped the nylon backpack that was slung over the shoulder of his Port Authority black leather bomber jacket. Wilkes generally preferred to wear the durable and ready-for-action Battle Dress Uniform, but despite coming in a variety of camouflage patterns and solid colors, he decided he would blend in better if he wore civilian clothes.

Good call. As soon as he stepped into the crowd of protesters he noted that there were at least fifteen other men in black leather jackets and blue jeans and not a single person in BDUs. Wilkes quickly scanned the crowd looking for potential accomplices and found them huddled together in front of the window of a shoe store closed for the night. They cast furtive glances around as they passed something small between them, each taking a turn.

They were perfect.

Wilkes strode over and stopped a couple feet outside the circle. He quickly evaluated the small group of boys and noted that the oldest couldn’t have been more than seventeen. They obviously thought that forming a circle would magically keep anyone from smelling what it was they were really up to. A sudden exchange of whispers caused the entire group to simultaneously turn their heads and look at Wilkes.

“We ain’t got nothin’ for sale.” The 17-year-old was obviously the leader. Probably because he was their supplier.

“I just wanted to know if you boys can help me and my friends out,” Wilkes nodded his head towards the crowd of protesters. “You see, the Vice President’s motorcade is gonna come by in about fifteen minutes, and I’ve got a few cartons of eggs in my bag. You interested?”

“What are you protesting?”

Wilkes smiled. “Does it really matter?You wanna throw eggs at the VPs limo or not?”

Heads pivoted back-and-forth among the circle of boys as they looked at each other trying to determine if this was a trap or not. All eyes finally settled on the leader who looked back at Wilkes and flashed a big grin exposing several gaps were teeth should have been. “You only live once, right?”

Wilkes slid the backpack off his shoulder and bent down to unzip the bag. He lifted the first carton of eggs out of the backpack and held it out to the leader.

“Take the eggs out of the cartons here and spend the next few minutes working your way into the crowd. Try not to stick together. Remember, the key word here is to blend in. The Vice President’s car will be the second limousine six cars back from the front of the motorcade. Now, don’t any of you get too excited and start throwing eggs early. Wait for the Vice President.”

One of the boys, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, took a carton of eggs and held it up to show the others.

“Hey – organic free range, nice.”

Wilkes handed out the rest of the egg cartons. “Only the very best for the leaders of our country.”

Eggs were quickly dispersed among the small group when the leader paused and looked at Wilkes. “What about you, man, you gonna take an egg?”

“Already got one,” Wilkes replied, as he slipped an egg out of the pocket of his black leather bomber jacket. “Remember – wait for the Vice President’s car.”

“We got it, man.”

Chapter 4

Andrew carefully laid the Vice President down on the gritty bathroom floor. It took him only a few moments to change shoes with the Vice President. Andrew was already dressed in exactly the same suit and tie so that the switch could be made in as little time as possible. The only thing that he couldn’t replicate was the transponder built into the heel of the Vice President’s left shoe, and so a quick swap ensured that both visually and electronically Andrew was now the Vice President of the United States.

Andrew stood up and looked at himself in the grimy mirror. Multiple several-hour surgeries had made him look exactly like the man lying unconscious on the floor, and for the past six weeks, a vocal coach taught him how to speak and sound just like him.

He practiced flashing the world renowned smile in the mirror, and then suddenly doubled over the sink. The breakthrough pain was getting more severe each time. With one hand gripping the side of the rust-stained sink, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of Fentanyl tablets. Andrew stared at the large red warning letters on the bottle in his trembling hand. He actually laughed out loud as he read that among the dangers of overdose was a high probability of death. This warning label did not apply to him. He would be dead in less than half an hour anyway.

He popped the top of the bottle with his thumb and let go of the sink long enough to pour the remaining four tablets into his waiting palm. One by one he nestled the tablets into his cheeks just behind each molar. They dissolved quickly, and he glanced at the sleeping body on the floor. A wave of emotion flooded over him, and he instantly snapped to attention. With a fluid practiced motion, his hand jerked to his brow in salute.

“United States Army – 5th Special Forces Group. Captain Andrew Stovall at your complete disposal. It is my distinct pleasure to die in your place, Mr. Vice President.”

The sleeping man never stirred, never even reacted to what Andrew had just said. He released his salute and let his hand drop to his side. The shaking was subsiding, and that meant it was time to fulfill his duty. The public would never know of the sacrifice he’d made for his country. But then again, the cancer would have taken him in less than six months anyway, and he didn’t do this for a medal.

He did this because it had to be done.

He did this because he believed in the oath he had taken to protect the leaders of this great nation.

Andrew pulled open the bathroom door just enough to slip out into the hallway. It wouldn’t be a good idea to have anyone outside this door look in and see his doppelganger lying prone on the alternating black and white discolored tiles.

The concerned face of Carlos Jimenez, Special Agent in Charge, was the first thing Andrew encountered in the hallway.

“Are you alright, sir?You were in there quite a while.”

Andrew immediately employed his six weeks of vocal training. “Like I said before, Carlos, I just had a little too much to drink. I’ll be all right. I think I’m ready to leave now.”

“Of course, sir. The motorcade’s right this way.”

Jimenez pointed down the hallway with an outstretched open palm. Just like Moses raising his staff over the Red Sea, as soon as the Special Agent in Charge raised his arm to point the way, a sea of Secret Service agents parted to either side of the hallway.

Andrew scanned the hallway in front of them and then turned to look back the opposite direction, searching the faces of every hotel employee.

Jimenez touched him briefly on the elbow. “This way, sir.”

A sudden wave of terror enveloped Andrew as he searched the faces of the hotel employees in both directions of the hallway. His frantic actions must have alarmed the Secret Service agents closest to him as their gun hands instinctively started moving for their holsters.

“Is there anything wrong, sir.”

Andrew glanced at Carlos Jimenez, hoping that his fear was not reflected in his eyes. “I, uhh…”

Someone coughed down the hallway and made several of the agents jump reflexively. Andrew looked at the banquet server who had just coughed, and instantly all anxiety flowed out of every muscle as, when their eyes met, the banquet server gave an almost imperceptible nod. The Vice President would be safe.

Andrew quickly turned to the lead Secret Service agent and flashed the Vice President’s award-winning smile. “I am so sorry, Carlos. I think I had more to drink than I planned. I was disoriented for a moment there. You know how it is, too many employee bathrooms in too many hotels.”

Carlos Jimenez searched his eyes looking for the answer to a question he didn’t even know he was asking.

“Take me home.”

The Special Agent in Charge visibly relaxed, and he finally let go of Andrew’s arm.

“Right this way, sir.”

Chapter 5

Jonathan Wilkes cradled the egg in the palm of his hand while he made his way through the protesters. He glanced around to see that all the pothead kids had done exactly as he asked. They all stood waiting amongst the crowd.

The man with the megaphone hadn’t stopped shouting his political diatribe since Wilkes first arrived, and he wondered how the man could sustain saying the same thing over and over again without tiring or getting bored of himself.

I guess he likes hearing himself talk, Wilkes thought. But that still didn’t explain how the rest of the people in the crowd put up with it.It’s true what they say, some are born leaders while the rest are born followers.

Jonathan Wilkes had been a leader of men, strong men, not like the sheep that surrounded him now. He commanded one of the most active Force Recon units within the Marine Corps Special Operations Command, designated as Detachment One. Detachment One was the pilot program that brought Marine Force Recon units and the United States Special Operations Command together to work side-by-side.

Wilkes led his unit through numerous successes in multiple theaters. That is until the United States Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command was officially activated on February 24th of 2006. With the formation of this new layer of political significance, the United States Marine Corps had become directly involved with SOCOM and no longer required the pilot program.

The first action of MARSOC was the disbanding of Detachment One leaving Master Gunnery Sergeant Jonathan Wilkes without a unit to command and a promotion to the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center that took him out of harm’s way.

Wilkes had always envisioned that he would die during a combat operation, and running simulated exercises up and down a snowy mountain along the California-Nevada border was not his idea of combat operations.

So he left and became a mercenary for hire. Wilkes quickly made a name for himself as the one who could get the job done. He wondered why he had not left the service sooner. The pay was much better, and the danger was far more consistent. He could work back-to-back contracts if he wanted without waiting for someone higher up in the chain of command to decide to deploy him or not. This was the life he was meant for; this was the life that gave him meaning.

The sound of distant sirens pierced through the thick night. They were still far enough away that Wilkes could only hear them when mister megaphone paused to take a breath. A cell phone rang, and mister megaphone instantly stopped shouting as he reached into his jacket pocket to answer the phone. He listened for a moment and then shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just received word that the Vice President is headed this way.”

The crowd immediately reacted as a single organism, and everyone in the front of the crowd seemed to grow three feet taller as they lifted signs and banners into the air, each one hand-lettered and all detailing their discourse with the decisions of the current administration.

“Aw, shit!”, muttered Wilkes, as he looked at the wall of signs and banners along the edge of the street. There was no way they would hit the limo with those in the way. Wilkes made his way to the closest pothead.

“Hey, buddy, tell your friends to get in front of those signs. And hurry. He’ll be here any second.”

“You got it, man.”The kid dashed into the crowd being a little more obvious than he should have. “Hey, guys, get to the curb. He’s coming.”

Wilkes breathed a sigh of relief as the kids all recognized their friend’s voice and made their way to the street, eggs in hand. Wilkes also moved forward. He hadn’t wanted to expose himself this much, but it was more important that his special egg made contact with the Vice President’s limousine.

He moved to the front of the line to stand right next to mister megaphone and hoped that if questions were asked, he would be remembered as just another one of the protesters in a black leather jacket and blue jeans.

Wilkes looked down the street and noted all the signal lights turning green marking the path that the Vice President was about to take. The volume of the sirens exploded into a monstrous wale as two police motorcycles rounded the nearby corner followed closely by the long procession of vehicles in the motorcade. Wilkes counted out the vehicles and prayed that the potheads had enough brain cells left to remember his instructions.

The Vice President’s limousine rounded the corner, and Wilkes knew it was now or never. He glanced down the street and caught the eye of one of the kids and nodded. He then turned his full attention to the speeding limousine, pulled his arm back and hurled the egg to where he knew the limousine was going to be in half a second.

His egg made direct contact with the roof, the small magnetized object hidden inside sticking instantly to the reinforced bulletproof limousine. As if on cue, a hail of eggs sailed from within the crowd. Most of them splattered all over the Vice President’s limousine while others missed and smeared the pavement with their slimy residue.

The Metropolitan police dispatched to monitor the protesters sprung into action and barked orders at the young kids who were now dashing in all directions.

Wilkes spotted the lead officer making his way over to mister megaphone.

And him.

He stepped backwards and let the crowd envelope him as he stripped off his black leather jacket and quickly handed it to someone as he stepped past. “Here, hold this.”

Just like a sheep, the man took the jacket that was thrust into his stomach.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilkes watched the man who look confused, but he had already disappeared into the crowd, and the man never even saw him.

Chapter 6

Jacob Jordan hunched over the ruggedized clamshell of his Panasonic Toughbook. At only seventeen, he didn’t feel the effects of such poor posture over an extended period of time, but the cold September wind whistled through every crack and crevice in the un-insulated downtown warehouse and bit into his fingertips as he typed furiously on the keyboard. He paused for a brief moment to flex his fingers and rubbed his hands together.

His peripheral vision was suddenly blotted out by a massive shape. “What’s fuckin’ taking so long?”

Jacob glanced up at Henderson, whose six foot five, 260 pounds of pure muscle took up his entire view.

“I thought you said you were ready.”

Through a series of well-placed bruises, Henderson had taught Jacob that having an IQ of over 140 didn’t mean you were smart. Jacob quickly looked back at the monitor of his Toughbook and didn’t make eye contact for his response. “The city upgraded the firmware on some of their traffic cameras last weekend. ARGUS can handle the reduced input, but I thought, while I had time, I could update the adaptive module and see if we can’t talk to all the visual devices.”

“What the fuck did you just say!?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t use that kind of language around me.”

“What!?What language?English?You want me speak in Russian? Vay nemnogaya derymo!”

“You’re the little shit,” Jacob muttered under his breath.

Henderson responded with such fluid speed that during a single blink of his eyes, Jacob went from sitting with the Panasonic Toughbook on his lap to listening as the hardened magnesium alloy case clattered on the gray concrete floor of the warehouse. Jacob’s feet dangled just below Henderson’s knees.

“You wanna run that by me again, Sunshine?”

“Were supposed to be working together, Henderson.”

“We are working together. My job is to keep you in line.”

Jacob could smell the tinge of alcohol on Henderson’s breath and readied himself for another lesson plan. Just then, Jacob’s micro receiver ear bud hissed to life.

“White Wolf to Red Wolf and Blue Wolf, come in.”

Jacob wondered if Wilkes understood the significance of naming him and Henderson Red Wolf and Blue Wolf since, in military exercises, the red and blue teams were always adversaries.

“This is Red Wolf. Go ahead, White Wolf.”

“Is Blue Wolf ready?”

Jacob didn’t answer right away, so Henderson, who still had him suspended by the lapels of his jacket, shook him a little giving him the look of, you’d better respond.

“Uhh, yeah, I’m ready.”

“Good. Everything is in place, and you should start getting a strong signal in about ten minutes.”

“As soon as the signal is confirmed, I’ll boot up the Blitzkrieg simulator and send out the mobile unit.”

“Roger that. White Wolf out.”With a final crack of static, the communication was severed.

“Hear that, you little turd, you need to be ready.”

“I was good and ready when you picked me up with your Sasquatch hands.”

And with that remark, Henderson let go. Jacob landed clumsily and almost collapsed to his knees but didn’t want to give Henderson the satisfaction. Instead he used the momentum to lean forward and collect the Panasonic Toughbook.

“You better not have broken this, or we’re all screwed.”

“I didn’t break nothin’.”

Jacob flipped the Panasonic Toughbook over and was relieved to see the screen was still displaying the running program. As he ran the final diagnostic, he looked around the freezing cold warehouse, and his eyes settled on the back of his partner, the psychopathic killer, who was fiddling with something in a wooden crate.

Good.

Let him fiddle with whatever he wants to.

As long as he doesn’t bother me.

This certainly wasn’t the life he expected when he graduated in the top of his class from Tel Aviv University at age twelve. When the Interdisciplinary Center for Technological Analysis and Forecasting, the Israeli government’s multidisciplinary think-tank, offered him a fully-funded scholarship to work for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, known as DARPA, in the United States, Jacob knew that Ha-Shem had finally shown favor on him, and all those hours spent in prayer at the shul had not been wasted.

A sharp sound brought Jacob back to the present just as Henderson swung around from the wooden crate and pulled back on the charging handle of his Heckler & Koch XM8 compact carbine. The loud snap of the charging handle returning to its original position echoed in the hollow metal corrugated warehouse. Jacob only had a moment to notice that the 100-round drum magazine was already loaded when Henderson pointed the XM8 right at him and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 7

“Jesus!” Jacob was on his feet in an instant, and the Panasonic Toughbook once again clattered onto the concrete floor of the warehouse.

“Never heard a Jew pray to Jesus before.” Henderson lowered the empty XM8 compact carbine and laughed. He stopped laughing and cocked his head a little as he looked at Jacob. “Oh, my God, did you just piss your pants?”

Jacob didn’t need to look down as he could feel the warmth running down his legs. “Fuck you, Henderson!”

Henderson laughed even harder.

“Fuck you!”

The Panasonic Toughbook laying face down on the floor emitted a sharp beep. Henderson immediately stopped laughing. The Toughbook beeped again.

“Pick it up, tough guy, or I’ll use bullets next time.”

For the second time in two minutes Jacob scooped up the Toughbook from the floor and was again relieved to see that it still functioned. Panasonic wasn’t kidding when they said that these laptops were built to handle just about anything you could throw at them — or throw them at.

Henderson was instantly at his side as if nothing had just happened. “Is that the signal?”

Jacob didn’t look up but instead focused his full attention on the display. He thought about not answering, but knew that would only provoke the already overly violent Henderson. “Signals coming in strong. Open the rollup door.”

“Are you ready to release the R/C car?”

“It’s not a remote-controlled car. It’s a fully autonomous ground mobile combat system with real-time adaptive decision-making.”

“You control it with your computer, right?”

“I program in the parameters of its mission orders, yes.”

“Then it’s an R/C car.”

“It’s a six million dollar modern marvel in autonomous robotics.”

“Then it’s a fuckin’ expensive R/C car.”

“Just open the door.”

“Are you giving me orders now, squirt?”

“I just want to get this over with and get away from you as quickly as possible.”

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

Henderson strolled over to the chain dangling in a loop next to the corrugated steel door. He grasped the chain in both hands and started working hand over hand slowly raising the rollup door like an ancient medieval castle gate, like he was preparing to release a dragon from the depths of the dungeon. That wasn’t too far from the truth. Jacob looked over at the quiet Audi Q7 painted by the manufacturer in a jet black color aptly named Phantom Black Pearl.

A couple of swift keystrokes initiated the Linux command window enabling Jacob to type the command strings that would be encrypted and transmitted to their dragon. He paused for a moment reviewing the dynamic dispatch cascading messages before softly depressing the enter key. Moments later, the twelve-cylinder diesel engine in the Audi Q7 roared to life.

Jacob watched as the Deep Green computer system that filled the entire two front seats of the passenger compartment communicated in response with the protocols and commands being sent by his Panasonic Toughbook. He watched silently as one by one, Deep Green booted up the software agents it would employ during tonight’s mission.

He watched as the Urban Reasoning and Geospatial Exploitation Technology (URGENT) program confirmed it was communicating with the Autonomous Real-Time Ground Ubiquitous Surveillance – Imaging System (ARGUS-IS). Jacob was most proud of the add-on he had worked into the ARGUS that enabled it to connect directly to the District Department of Transportation traffic camera system. Independently, URGENT and ARGUS were scary smart computer programs, if smart was the word for it, but together, under the command of Deep Green, they gave the Audi Q7 something not available in any dealership. The factory-provided GPS told the Audi where it was, ARGUS told it where everything else was, and URGENT made it smart enough to get where it wanted to go without hitting anything that it didn’t want to hit.

The final program booted up. This was the belle of the ball. The Real-Time Adversarial Intelligence and Decision-Making (RAID) software made the Audi intelligent. Without this program, none of the other programs, even in combination, could turn an SUV into a lethal targetable weapon. RAID made sure that they would be able to hit a moving target with precision accuracy.

Jacob listened to the soft rumble coming from the SUV. It was a much quieter sound than he expected from a six-liter V12 turbocharged direct injection diesel engine. He had already disabled the electronically-capped top speed of 155 mph, and with an engine producing 500 horsepower in such a large vehicle, this was something that no manufacturer of limousine armor had intended to come up against. To make matters worse, the remaining interior space of the Audi was filled with C-4 plastic explosives formed into shaped charges that would direct all their explosive force straight at whatever the Audi collided with.

The Audi Q7 V12 model was not available for sale in the United States, and it was sobering for Jacob to think that the only one to actually travel the streets of Washington, DC would have such a limited run. He stared at the screen as Deep Green ran its final diagnostic checks.

A rattling thunk made Jacob look up. Henderson was walking back from the open loading door, and the quiet night sounds drifted into the freezing cold warehouse. “Hurry up and release the beast.”Henderson was enjoying this far too much. “We’ve got more to do tonight.”

Jacob hated being put in these situations; being forced to work with people like Henderson. But then again, somebody with his past had relatively few options.

The launch command waited in a separate window. Using the built-in Panasonic Toughbook’s touchpad, Jacob switched window controls. “Stand back.”With his eyes closed, he pressed the enter key. The all-wheel drive of the Audi Q7 propelled its dragon out into the world to unleash its fiery destruction on an unsuspecting town.

Chapter 8

Andrew perched on the edge of the back seat and watched as the dimly lit buildings of Washington, DC at night blurred past the limousine window. He felt like he was standing still while the rest of the world was streaming by. When that first egg hit the top of the car, he almost jumped out of his skin. It had sounded so loud, like a gunshot. Then more followed, hitting the sides and the top. Andrew was immediately pressed backward into the soft leather seat by the sudden acceleration as the motorcade sped away from the scene.

Well, they got that part right. This meant that the rest, no matter how incredible it sounded, was most likely true. It was probably the most overused plot in low-budget sci-fi movies, but Andrew knew that somewhere, out there in the night, there was an intelligent robotic killing machine looking for him. There was nothing left for him to do but sit back and wait.

Knowing the end was drawing near, Andrew naturally reflected on his life. But all he could focus on was the whirlwind year he was about to complete. Ten months ago, after the surgery, Andrew learned the informal medical term “new lease on life.” He set out to make his bucket list, the list of things he always wanted to do but never took the time. And now he finally had the time.

But when a sharp stabbing pain forced an emergency evacuation by helicopter from the peak of Half Dome in Yosemite, Andrew learned a new medical term only six months into his “new life.” Metastatic cancer. What this meant for him was that not only had the cancer come back, it came back in more places than it had started.

And now, four months later, here he was.

Sitting in a limousine posing as the Vice President of the United States.

Waiting to die.

He reflexively winced through every intersection as the convoy of vehicles screamed through at high speed. At this hour there was almost no traffic, and every cross street provided ample opportunity for a high-speed side-impact collision.

This was taking way too damn long.

Andrew suddenly glanced up at the roof of the limousine. An overpowering desire to live washed over him. He knew why that first egg sounded so loud. Maybe he could reach it?Pull it off and throw it out into the street?There were other treatments he could try. He didn’t have to die right now, did he?

Andrew shook his head as his vision blurred slightly. He knew that this euphoric thinking was a direct result of the opiates in his system caused by the breakthrough pain medication.

Still, he had a lot to live for, didn’t he?

Of course he did.

That settled it.

Andrew leaned to his left and fingered the controls to roll down the back window. A strong wind immediately blew around inside the cabin of the limousine. They must’ve been traveling at least seventy miles an hour.

With the window rolled down all the way, Andrew sat with his back to the window and reached up behind him to grip the door frame where it met the roof. With a single motion, he lifted himself up and out and sat down on the edge of the closed door. The wind threatened to pull him the rest of the way out of the limousine, and he splayed his legs on opposite sides of the door’s interior to create an anchor for himself.

The wind buffeted him fiercely.

He squinted against the harsh conditions and scanned the roof of the limousine for what he knew must be there. And then he saw it. The tiny magnetic transponder sat just this side of dead center on the roof.

If he could just reach it.

Clamping his legs to the frame of the car, he pushed a little higher to give himself a longer reach. Flashing lights from his right drew his attention away from the tiny device. He glanced over at the Chevy Suburban filled with Secret Service agents. They were frantically flashing their headlights at him.

What did they think that would achieve?

Did they think that he didn’t know what he was doing?

He returned his full attention back to the device that sat, mockingly, just out of his reach. Losing leverage but gaining more reach, Andrew pushed up ever so slightly with his legs.

Just a little further.

He almost toppled out of the limousine when a motorcycle officer appeared on the opposite side right into his field of view. The loud roar of the wind rushing past at over seventy miles an hour made it almost impossible to hear the officer, but not quite. “Get back in the car!”

With his left arm splayed forward on the roof to provide additional stability, Andrew made one final push and gripped the tiny object with his fingertips. A second motorcycle officer joined the first, and they took turns hollering questions and commands at him. Andrew tugged at the device. It resisted slightly before releasing its magnetic grip and came free into his fingers.

He had done it!

He waved the device in front of him showing it to the two motorcycle officers with a big smile on his face. “I got it!”

And then his face fell as he looked past the two motorcycle officers to see the blurred grill of an SUV heading straight for them at impossible speed.

As soon as the Audi Q7’s bumper made contact with the second motorcycle, the collision detectors triggered the shaped C-4 charges, which focused all of their explosive power directly at the limousine right in front of it.

It happened so quickly that Andrew never even felt the end of his life.

Inherit The Throne (A Melissa Stone Adventure) by Steve DeWinter, $2.99 in the Kindle Store