Free Brute Force by Marc Cameron Page A

tapped the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m trying to link up with Harper on Stovepipe’s detail.” He used the Secret Service code name for the VP—a nod to the fact that McKeon was tall and gaunt and often compared to Abraham Lincoln. “I lost a pair of Nationals tickets on a bet.” He leaned in, confiding a secret. “Presidents Club seats.”
    “No shit? Behind home plate?” Miller’s eyes lit up. He grinned and held out his hand, fingers fluttering. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go ahead and leave those with me.”
    “Yeah, right,” McKnight said. “I’d better give them to him myself so they don’t . . . get lost.”
    A group of staffers came through the door in a herd behind him and Miller waved Knight through with a shake of his head. “Suit yourself. He’s been over at Crown since 0700.” The officer used the Secret Service code name for the executive offices in the White House.
    Knight cut through the wide, polished halls of the OEOB, catching a muggy blast of morning air as he popped out on the other side. He stopped for a moment at the top of the broad steps leading down to the second set of security gates that would take him onto the White House campus. The thought occurred to him that once inside, he’d likely never see the sun again. Shoving such notions aside, he walked on. If he quit now, nothing would matter anymore. He wouldn’t matter.
    Knight kept up the smile, tapping his chest and repeating the story about the Nationals tickets at the outer gate and again at the West Wing entrance. He’d often accompanied Director Ross to meetings in the White House. He was on a first-name basis with most of the staff and they were accustomed to seeing him around.
    He could hear Vice President McKeon’s voice coming from around the corner, hypnotic and creepy even while he was yelling at someone. The uniformed Secret Service officer at the security screening station rolled his eyes and handed back Knight’s credentials. “Welcome to my world,” he said.
    The National Security Advisor’s office was to his immediate right—and the VP’s office was just beyond it on the same side.
    “Harper?” Knight asked, nodded to the doorway at his right.
    “He was getting his ass chewed by the Chief of Staff the last time I saw him.”
    That made sense. In most administrations, the Chief of Staff was a powerful figure, running interference and dictating most of the President’s schedule. But since Drake had assumed the presidency, McKeon had made certain he was the only one dictating anything to do with the President. The Chief of Staff, frustrated at being emasculated in his job, would strike out at anyone who couldn’t do anything about it—like security.
    Knight repeated the story about the tickets. “I just need to put these in his hand.”
    “Suit yourself,” the officer said, and waved him through.
    Visitors were required to be on a list, even with a pass, but security personnel were like postmen in their invisibility. It was accepted that they would lurk in halls and linger outside doors where important meetings took place. They were armed window dressing that was barely noticed and tolerated as a necessary evil until the shit hit the fan.
    The best dignitary protection consisted of a series of concentric rings, like the layers of an onion—but there was little that could be done when the inside layer of the onion wanted to do the killing. Knight’s plan was simple. He would walk straight up to the Vice President and empty his pistol into the man’s chest.
    Knight strode through the West Wing lobby with a purpose, locked on like a guided missile now that he was so close to his target. He followed McKeon’s slightly nasal voice down the carpeted hall toward the Chief of Staff ’s office. Harper stepped out just as he passed the VP’s secretary’s office and nearly ran into him.
    “Guys up front radioed to say you had some tickets for me?”
    Knight put out his hand in what