Free Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command by Gary Grossman Page A

with a request that his best regards be conveyed to the president’s wife. The hollow pleasantry was returned and the Mexican president hung up.
    “Well, J3?” Morgan Taylor asked.
    “We shall see what we shall see,” General Johnson replied.
    “In two weeks you may very well be implementing this.” Taylor held a folder in his lap. It detailed an executive command that would far exceed what Morgan Taylor hinted on the phone.
    The National Security Advisor was well acquainted with the plan. He’d written it.

Eight
    Washington, D.C.
    The J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building
    At ten that night, Curtis Lawson stopped in to say goodnight to Director Mulligan. He had his trench coat over his right arm and leather gloves in his left hand. It had been another long, exhausting day. He knocked on the door, well aware that the head of the FBI would be at his desk.
    “Yes,” came the reply.
    “Lawson.”
    “Come on in, Curtis,” the director said to his number three.
    Mulligan was at his feet to greet Lawson, one of the senior African American men in the bureau. The chief kept a file on the forty-two-year-old up and comer. It was filled with praise that might eventually work into a recommendation to the president for the head job. Praise that noted his management ability, his award-winning marksman awards, and his achievement as a Rhodes Scholar.
    Curtis also had great looks and the body of an NFL quarterback. Quite a contrast to the older, balding director he had been working under for six years.
    Bob Mulligan poured a glass of aged Bacardi 8 rum. “Join me in a nightcap, Curt? We’ve been through the ringer today.”
    “No thanks, sir. Too wasted and I still have a stop to make on the way home. Gotta pick up some things for my kid.”
    Lawson definitely appeared tired. The events of the day in Houston sent the entire bureau into a frenzy, and Mulligan had put Lawson in charge from the first alarm. This pleased Lawson for a few reasons. He’d been on the outside of other recent key investigations, solely working off gossip, which he valued. Now, finally, he was on the inside.
    “What the hell is open at this hour?” Mulligan was always full of questions; part of his DNA.
    “Target.”
    “Jesus, how old is your boy now?” Mulligan asked pouring himself a brandy. “Eight?”
    “James is eleven,” Lawson said with pride.
    “Christ, where do the years go?”
    “When we only see them a half hour a day, seems like they grow up in about a week.”
    “That’s the truth,” Mulligan agreed. He was the father of three adult children he rarely saw. “Sure you won’t have a quick one?”
    “Another time.” Lawson offered his hand. “Night, sir. You should go home, too.”
    “Maybe in an hour or so,” the FBI chief said.
    “Shame we didn’t get to talk to the guy. Would’ve been a real prize,” Lawson noted.
    “Missed opportunity.” Bob Mulligan patted Lawson on the back. “But you know Touch Parsons is doing his magic. We’ll see what turns up. Now get!”
    Lawson put on his trench coat preparing himself for the January air. As he did so, he offered a word of encouragement. “You know, Mr. Director, we’ll get more on him.”
    “You better hope so, Curtis. This one’s yours. And he fucking better talk to you from the grave.”
    Curtis Lawson was permitted a driver for late-night duty, but he preferred to be on his own. He relished the thinking time to and from the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarters just blocks from the White House. He always had a great deal to think about.
    Lawson lived in College Park, Maryland, with his wife of sixteen years and his son. He usually made the commute in under forty-five minutes. Tonight he’d take longer with his stop at Target
    He arrived with nine minutes to spare before the 11 p.m. closing time. His shopping would only take a few minutes. Lawson walked swiftly past the bank of cash registers, the cards and crafts, the clothes and toys, CDs and DVDs, and finally into the