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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2023 by James Patterson
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ISBN 9780316404693
LCCN 2022945643
20230330-NF-DA-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue One
Two
Part One Chapter: 1
Chapter: 2
Chapter: 3
Chapter: 4
Chapter: 5
Chapter: 6
Chapter: 7
Chapter: 8
Chapter: 9
Chapter: 10
Chapter: 11
Chapter: 12
Chapter: 13
Chapter: 14
Chapter: 15
Chapter: 16
Chapter: 17
Chapter: 18
Chapter: 19
Chapter: 20
Chapter: 21
Chapter: 22
Chapter: 23
Chapter: 24
Chapter: 25
Chapter: 26
Chapter: 27
Part Two Chapter: 28
Chapter: 29
Chapter: 30
Chapter: 31
Chapter: 32
Chapter: 33
Chapter: 34
Chapter: 35
Chapter: 36
Chapter: 37
Chapter: 38
Chapter: 39
Chapter: 40
Chapter: 41
Chapter: 42
Chapter: 43
Chapter: 44
Chapter: 45
Chapter: 46
Chapter: 47
Chapter: 48
Chapter: 49
Chapter: 50
Chapter: 51
Chapter: 52
Chapter: 53
Chapter: 54
Chapter: 55
Chapter: 56
Chapter: 57
Chapter: 58
Chapter: 59
Chapter: 60
Chapter: 61
Chapter: 62
Chapter: 63
Part Three Chapter: 64
Chapter: 65
Chapter: 66
Chapter: 67
Chapter: 68
Chapter: 69
Chapter: 70
Chapter: 71
Chapter: 72
Chapter: 73
Chapter: 74
Chapter: 75
Chapter: 76
Chapter: 77
Chapter: 78
Chapter: 79
Part Four Chapter: 80
Chapter: 81
Chapter: 82
Chapter: 83
Chapter: 84
Chapter: 85
Chapter: 86
Chapter: 87
Chapter: 88
Chapter: 89
Chapter: 90
Chapter: 91
Chapter: 92
Chapter: 93
Chapter: 94
Chapter: 95
Chapter: 96
Chapter: 97
Chapter: 98
Part Five Chapter: 99
Chapter: 100
Chapter: 101
Chapter: 102
Chapter: 103
Chapter: 104
Chapter: 105
Chapter: 106
Chapter: 107
Chapter: 108
Chapter: 109
Chapter: 110
Chapter: 111
Chapter: 112
Chapter: 113
Chapter: 114
Chapter: 115
Chapter: 116
Chapter: 117
Chapter: 118
Chapter: 119
Chapter: 120
Chapter: 121
Chapter: 122
Chapter: 123
Chapter: 124
Chapter: 125
Chapter: 126
Chapter: 127
Chapter: 128
Chapter: 129
Chapter: 130
Chapter: 131
Chapter: 132
Chapter: 133
Chapter: 134
Chapter: 135
Chapter: 136
Chapter: 137
Chapter: 138
Chapter: 139
Chapter: 140
Chapter: 141
Chapter: 142
Chapter: 143
Chapter: 144
Chapter: 145
Chapter: 146
Chapter: 147
Chapter: 148
Chapter: 149
Chapter: 150
Chapter: 151
Chapter: 152
Chapter: 153
Chapter: 154
Chapter: 155
Chapter: 156
Chapter: 157
Chapter: 158
Chapter: 159
Chapter: 160
Chapter: 161
Chapter: 162
Chapter: 163
Discover More
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Sneak Peek of Cross Out
What’s coming next from James Patterson?
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Prologue
One
In front of President Kent and the historic Resolute Desk, General Wayne Grissom, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sits with his uniform hat in his lap and says, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. President.”
President Lucas Kent nods. The former Maine governor and senator is sixty, in good shape, with thick brown hair and half-frame reading glasses that he never allows the public to see him in. He’s dressed casually in gray slacks, a blue oxford button-down shirt, a red necktie.
He’s an old Yankee spirit, and he brought to the White House an insistence on saving money, which is why the Oval Office is only dimly lit, as if for a funeral, this mid-September afternoon. The heavy glass windows—bulletproof, of course—don’t allow much outside light in.
President Kent is the third president Grissom has served under since he rose to the rank of general. Grissom finds this one as smart and dedicated as the previous two. Kent pays attention to detail and has a strong bullshit detector; his personality, a mix of flattery and hardness, is typical for a political animal. This president also has the same weakness as his two predecessors: he wants to be liked by all the people he serves.
Which, Grissom thinks wryly, is a good attribute for a car salesman but not for the leader of the free world.
Earlier, when Grissom arrived at the White House—by himself, with no aides or staff—he’d noticed the change in the Secret Service detail. Outside, they were in full tactical gear, with Kevlar vests, jumpsuits, helmets, and automatic weapons, and even inside, agents in tactical gear roamed the corridors. Grissom has never seen this before.
At Grissom’s request, neither the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, nor any other presidential aides are at this Oval Office meeting. Grissom is sure Helen will raise hell about this with the president later, but that’s not his concern.
Preventing leaks is his concern.
It is just the two of them. A highly unusual step, but these are dangerous and unusual times.
“Go ahead, General, please tell me what you’ve got,” the president says.
Grissom says, “Ever since the attack on Fort Leavenworth, Army Intelligence has been aggressively working with other domestic intelligence and law enforcement agencies. We’ve operated within the bounds of the Posse Comitatus Act—the law barring the military from participating in civilian law—but I’ll admit we’ve pushed those bounds. I’m sure you’ve received complaints about how hard we’ve pushed, but we didn’t have much choice.”
The president makes a dismissive gesture. “I’ve heard the complaints and I don’t care. You’ve been doing a good job under difficult circumstances. Go on.”
“Sir, since April, more than three hundred Americans have been killed and thousands more injured in these attacks.”
The president sighs. “With not one demand, not one reliable or verifiable claim of responsibility. Nothing! One week it’s a shooting in a Seattle office building, the next week, a pipe bomb at a supermarket in Omaha, and the week after that, poisoned bottled water given away on the streets of Manhattan.”
Grissom nods. “Yes, sir, and those are just the attacks that we have concluded are originating from a terrorist organization.”
The president pauses, then says, “You mean we may be undercounting the casualties?”
Grissom says, “I think we are. That school-bus shooting in Compton earlier this month, the one where the bus was caught in the cross fire between two rival gangs? The LAPD’s counterterrorism division now believes that wasn’t what happened. They think it was a coordinated attack, that there were no local gangs involved.”
The president closes his eyes. “Children in a school bus stopped at a red light. Automatic gunfire swept back and forth…at least ten dead, am I right?”
Grissom says, “Two more later died. Official death toll from that attack now stands at twelve, sir.”
There is silence in the Oval Office. President Kent opens his eyes, clenches his right hand into a fist. “General, what the hell is going on? Who are these people?”
Grissom speaks without notes or a PowerPoint presentation, nothing that can be subpoenaed or leaked. “Sir, the random terrorist attacks aren’t random. It’s taken a lot of interagency work, but Army Intelligence and other agencies believe there’s one common thread connecting these terrorists. They’re all working to disrupt our economy and our sense of security. That’s why we’ve received no demands. They’re looking for disruption. That’s all.”
“Who’s behind the attacks?” the president asks. “Foreign terrorists or domestic?”
Grissom shakes his head. “Looks like both, sir. You’ve heard the saying ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”
“Of course.”
“That’s the situation we’re facing. Disparate nations around the world who are our sworn enemies—like China and Russia—are finding it convenient to support and fund these terror groups. We don’t have solid evidence because each attack comes from a separate cell that communicates with its paymasters via encrypted e-mail using the farthest corners of the dark web.”
“What can we do about it?”
Grissom stands up and points to the French doors leading out of the Oval Office. “Sir, we need to talk outside.”
Two
General Grissom lets the president lead the way.
A female Secret Service agent wearing a black pantsuit with a white blouse opens the French doors; she’s backed up by another agent wearing tactical gear and holding an automatic weapon. On the Oval Office patio, a closed-off area terraced with small trees and bushes, the president takes one wrought-iron chair and Grissom takes the other.
“This is what we’ve learned,” Grissom says, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him. A weathered pink scar runs across the top of his right hand, courtesy of militants in Somalia. “It’s like a swarm of wasps flying in random directions, seeking out targets, attacking, disappearing, then attacking again. Car bombs, one attempt at a dirty bomb, poisonings, shootings, attacks at malls and shopping centers. At first it was the randomness that confused law enforcement and intelligence agencies. What was the point? And the terrorists who were captured, they were a mix: Teenage boys. Honorably discharged veterans. Even a few goddamn grandmothers. Angry wasps out there, each attacking for a separate reason. They’re anti-government or anti-liberal or anti-conservative. No real thread connecting them.”
The president says, “So where’s the wasps’ nest? The source?”
“Good question, sir, and we’ve narrowed it down. We have located a few lines of financing and other support from Iran, China, Russia, and some Mexican cartels. Nothing that would stand up in a court of law. But this support is deep and widespread. The previous attacks, they were practice. Domestic terrorist cells are planning assaults, and, sir, they’re coming here. To the District.”
The president sags in his chair. “When?”
“Possibly within a week. The chatter—some open communications and some partially deciphered e-mails—is pointing to the attack coming soon.”
“Any chance it’s just random chatter? False flags?”
Grissom shakes his head. “With two or three threats, that’s possible. But no, these threats are too deep, too specific. There is a lot of anger and bitterness out there among Americans, sir, and someone is expertly tapping into that resentment, firing people up and pointing them at us. During the January sixth riots, most of the protesters were initially peaceful, crazed though they might have been. It took only a small number of hard men goading the demonstrators to turn that crowd into a violent mob that threatened our institutions.”
Grissom looks the president in the eye. “The American people are normally a peaceful lot. But in these troubled times…they can be molded, shaped, encouraged to commit violence. That’s what we’re up against, sir.”
The president says, “What do we do, then?”
“Sir, I’d like to have a principals’ meeting as soon as possible. Perhaps this evening, with you in attendance, and representatives from the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the DC Metro Police. A task force to take the lead and try to prevent future attacks.”
“And you?”
“I’d be there, of course.”
The president smiles. “This task force will need a leader.”
“The head of the FBI or Homeland Security should take that role, sir. I’d be on hand with the military to supply any resources they need.”
The president shakes his head. “I’m thinking of someone else, General. Someone I can rely on and who won’t bullshit me.”
“The secretary of defense?”
The president says, “You.”
Grissom is startled into silence. He hasn’t been this surprised since that hot morning in Mogadishu when a brother-and-sister team who sold sweet tea outside the main gate delivered Russian-made F-1 hand grenades in the battered cups.
“Mr. President, the civilian leadership won’t like it,” he says. “Pushback and resistance won’t work in our favor.”
“The civilian leadership will do as I say or they’ll be replaced. But if I put you in charge, what has to be done?”
Grissom thinks for a moment. “We’ll need a presidential finding. And a confidential executive order temporarily suspending Posse Comitatus.”
“Remind me, how many military bases do we have domestically?”
“Nearly five hundred,” Grissom says.
With more confidence in his voice, the president says, “That’s an incredible resource that would allow the military—working with civilian law enforcement—to respond quickly to emerging threats if we find out that these attacks are coming from within our borders. Which you believe they are, based on the traffic analysis of the encrypted messages.”
Grissom hears sirens racing by beyond the grounds of the White House. “That’s a good point, sir,” he says.
“Then you’ll take the lead?”
He rubs his hands together for a moment. “I will, but reluctantly, sir. Mr. President, you have tough decisions ahead. Restriction of civilian movement, control and oversight of the internet to prevent the spread of misinformation and fake news. Your administration may have to consider a temporary declaration of martial law. I don’t envy you, Mr. President.”
The president says with a wry look on his face, “You ever see the side-by-side photos of presidents on the day they’re inaugurated and the day they leave office? It’s all there, all the burdens, all the decisions, in the lines on their faces and their white hair.” A faint smile. “That’s why we get the big bucks, right?”
Grissom says, “With your permission, sir.”
The president nods.
Grissom stands up and retrieves his uniform hat; the president remains seated. “But why did you ask to come out to this terrace?” he asks. “The Secret Service sweeps the Oval Office for listening devices at least three times a day.”
Grissom puts his hat on his head. “Sir, these are difficult times.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know if you can trust your Secret Service detail anymore.”
