Liberator Part I

Liberator 1

Morning broke with a lemon line of light along the horizon, and Angel Hardesty knew she had to go. Time had run out on her. Fortunately, the child -- ostensibly her student -- she guarded still slept.
Fifty feet away she could hear the group gathering. She knew Colonel Robertson would not let the prospect of traumatizing her charge interfere with his operations; this particular day's action could seal his ascension to command. Ambitious to the edge of ruthlessness, Robertson had no patience for collateral damage as insignificant as a second-grader's nightmares.
Bonehead, she thought, and swirled a microfleece throw around her charge. The child stirred as she lifted, but Hardesty couldn't wait any longer. Out the French doors, down the rock walk, slow but sure with every step careful to avoid either the crunch of sound or the flicker of movement-shadow, she slipped away from the back of the house. The dogs knew her, knew the boy, walked with them in happy silence except for a little panting; at the edge of the back lawn she slipped a handful of treats out of her pants' pocket and tossed them, causing the dogs to ignore her momentarily. While they busied themselves she punched in the combination to open the gate wide enough for taking out the trash; the gate opened in well-oiled silence. Stepping through, she waited until the gate closed – a matter of a minute or less – before sucking in a deep breath.
Security had its downside. The size of her employer's property let him feel safe. For her, it complicated the mission. She had no vehicle keys, no firearm, no radio; her pockets, despite wearing the nearest thing to field gear she owned, simply didn't stretch that far, especially since she'd had to pack extra for the child in her arms. Not taking the sling-bag purse or the jacket from her room would, she hoped, make it look as if she hadn't departed permanently. That little edge might be all she got.
Fifty yards from the gate, she slipped into the first band of woods and brush. Here her steps slowed, for silence's sake. She had a red-LED keychain light, small enough she hoped it wouldn't draw any attention from the house so soon; she flashed it at the path before her, keeping the beam on the ground. At least one of the game trails she'd scouted in the last few days remained well-traveled. Shifting her grip on the sleeping boy, she quickened her pace as much as she dared.

Ten minutes' walk from the edge of the woods she found the stream she wanted. Heavy trash bags over her shoes and pants, held by rubber bands around her knees, kept her feet dry as she waded, still carrying the boy. The trick might not stop the dogs from following her, if Robertson thought of using them; but it might be worth a little time. She needed all she could get.
The water felt cold through the plastic, and she had to be careful not to slip – or tear the bags, if she could manage that. But she'd brought Taylor here several times. Homeschooling children needn't leave them short on science or natural history, she'd argued; and to her surprise, her employer had agreed. He'd wanted the boy to know something about hiking and camping as well, he'd said. So she'd packed a pair of fanny-packs with very basic, simple gear, right under the bodyguards' gaze. Boneheads.
A hundred yards upstream, and then another; and the banks changed to shoulder-high, almost-solid rock. Another quarter-mile elapsed, and Hardesty tucked her charge into a corner, backing in after him. She slipped the sacks off her feet and shook the water from them.
“Miss Angel?” Taylor's big blue eyes regarded her steadily. He had tow-colored hair and a skinny angel's face and build.
“Good morning, Taylor. Are you hungry?”
“No, but I'm thirsty. Are we going on a hike today?”
“We are,” Hardesty said. “Later. I wanted you to see how the light changes, and which kinds of animals and birds you can see and hear in the very early morning.”
“Okay,” the boy said.
“I have juice and an oatmeal bar for you for breakfast,” she offered.
“Okay.” He drank from the juice box and unwrapped the snack bar. “Is this why I didn't have to put my pajamas on last night?”
“Partly,” Hardesty allowed.
The boy grinned. “So it's an adventure hike.”
She offered him the fanny-pack they'd stocked together: small binoculars, a compass, a water bottle with a filtering straw, a penknife, and a matchbox with some waterproofed matches, a small magnifying glass, some wet wipes, a notebook and pencil and a very small but very good digital camera, a plastic child's poncho, a plastic trowel, and a tube tent – the whole thing weighed about three pounds. Her own sported a first-aid kit, another microfleece, her poncho, more wet wipes, a lighter and a regular flashlight, a second water-bottle, a multi-tool and some food, along with a tiny stove and fuel; it weighed in at nearly seven pounds.
“That's exactly right. Are you ready?”
“I think so,” he said. “Where are we going?”
She finished rolling up the fleece. “Where would you like to go?”
“To see my mom,” he said.
Hardesty felt her heart break. Twenty years in this business, and the protectees never ceased to surprise her. The kid's mother was buried at Arlington. “Well, that's a long hike, Taylor.”
“I know,” he said. She rolled up his blanket, smoothed out the air, and looped the ends of the microfleece through two of the belt-loops of his shorts. From one of her cargo pockets, she produced a pair of baseball caps. “Keep this on. I don't want you to get sunburned.”
He looked at the canopy of leaves and limbs overhead. “Okay.”
“Remember, Taylor,” she began, folding up the wrappers.
“Pack it in, pack it out, leave no trace,” the boy said, automatically. She smiled at him and slipped the trash into her hip pocket, blessing the designer of her cargo-pants. He finished his juice, and put the straw in his pack. She quirked an eyebrow at him and he grinned impishly at her. “I might want that later. Waste not, want not.”
Hardesty smiled. “Okay. I won't ask why.”
“Good,” he said. He took the compass out. “Which way do we want to go?”
“Upstream,” she said.
“Do we walk or wade?”
“Which would you rather?”
“Wade,” he said.
“Maybe later – right now, I'd rather you didn't get too cold.”
“So, after lunch?”
“Sure.”
“On the way home, then,” he said, sounding reluctant.
“Or on the way to camp,” she challenged, and his eyes went round.
“Out overnight?”
“Maybe longer,” she said.
“Then we definitely want to go upstream, so that means west,” Taylor said.
“Sure does,” Hardesty murmured. She didn't add that she hoped going farther into her employer's property, instead of heading for its near edge, would help confuse any pursuit that might arise. After all, Robertson's plans might – maybe – go the way of all plans when confronted with reality; if that happened it could be very late in the day before anyone thought to look for them.

Taylor stopped to ask about new things occasionally, just as he would during any lesson. A shell at the edge of the water surprised him – he had not expected freshwater shellfish. But like any boy, he also ran ahead occasionally, so the pace stayed relatively steady across the day. When he began to really tire, Hardesty called a lunch break.
“What do you want to eat?”
He gestured at the creek. “Fish,” he said firmly. “We caught some here one summer.”
“What kind?”
He struggled with the memory, and finally wriggled his fingers. “Whiskeredy fish.”
She grinned. “Catfish,” she said. “They are good eating, fixed right. But I don't have what I need to fix them with us, I'm afraid.”
“Catfish,” he responded, “Salt and pepper. And pushuppies.”
“Hushpuppies,” she said softly. “Cornmeal, onions, flour, salt, pepper, leavening, eggs and shortening.”
“We don't have that,” he said glumly. “I remember when Mom came out with us. She brought a picnic basket, and we caught the fish. She had pushuppies and a bag of stuff to shake the fish in, and she wrapped them in foil and cooked them on the coals.”
“I bet that tasted good.”
He looked up at her and nodded. “Really good. It was hard to eat, though, without burning my mouth.”
“We'll have to figure out a better way. But right now, we don't have what we need to cook fish.”
“Maybe later,” he said. “What do we have?”
“Crackers and cheese,” she said. “Or crackers and tuna fish.”
“Oh, cheese,” he said. “Tuna fish at suppertime.”
“Okay,” she said, and produced the package. “Look, some of these are peanut-butter.”
He made a face. “Yuck. I don't like those orange crackers.”
“Oh,” she said. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” he answered. “Look, some are just crackers and cheese. Could I have more juice?”
“Umm,” she said. She took a package out of her fanny pack and the bottle of water out of his. “How about milk? It won't be cold.”
“That's okay. Where are we going to get milk?”
“Watch,” she answered, and poured some powder into the water. She put the lid back on and shook the bottle, hard, for nearly a minute. Then she offered him the result. “Milk.”
“It is,” he said, sounding surprised after he tasted it. “Pretty neat.”
“We'll have to rinse the bottle – can you drink it all?”
“Sure,” he said. “We'll keep the bottle to use again.”
“Yep,” she said.
They walked on until almost dark. She slipped the canteen cup off her water bottle and filled it from the creek, then boiled it over the stove; she washed out Taylor's water bottle, then heated more water and made cocoa. Taylor, pleased, drank enthusiastically. He ate tuna salad from a can with crackers; Hardesty thought about it a minute, then washed the can with hot water as well. She made herself tea and ate peanut-butter-and-crackers for the second time that day.
No one had come to find them yet. Maybe Robertson's plan hadn't succeeded after all.

Morning dawned gray and smelled wet, and Hardesty sighed. Today would be hard. Small boys and rainy weather seldom led anywhere happy. She boiled more water, in the can as well as her cup, and made instant oatmeal for breakfast. Another cup of tea seemed insubstantial; she broke out a paper tube of instant coffee, and added an envelope of sugar and a shake of powdered milk to her hot water. A gourmet drink it wasn't, but she enjoyed it anyway.
“Umm,” Taylor said. “I have to go.”
“What?”
“You know – to the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she said. “Didn't you need to yesterday?”
“Not like this. I need to ... sit.”
“Ah,” she said. “Still got that trowel in your fanny pack?”
“Ye-es,” he said.
She nodded. “Okay. What we want is ...” and she led him away from the water, looking for a place where the ground would yield to the trowel.
“You make a hole in the ground,” and she scooped out, with practiced ease, a hole about six inches deep, “and you sit over it, on top. When you're done you fill the hole back in and pack the dirt with your foot. Be sure you bury everything.”
“Oh,” he said. “Then what?”
“Come back to camp,” she said. “You can find it, right?”
“Sure,” he answered, pointing. “Downhill to the water, downstream to the camp.”
“See you there,” she said, “in a few minutes.” She didn't tell him that she had her own pit stop to make. Instead, she headed for the creek, but doubled back – not to watch; she had her own business to attend. She did check on his burial technique afterward; it wasn't bad, but she kicked some leaves and dirt over the spot anyway, as she had her own.
He had finished rolling up his blanket when she got back to camp. “Where were you?”
“Bathroom,” she answered.
“Oh,” he said. Then he said, “what about taking a bath?”
“Maybe we'll go swimming, this afternoon. Will that do?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
That afternoon she watched him from the bank while he swam, and when he tired she made a pallet for him. They had a rock overhang and a cutbank for shelter; while he slept, she took a chance and spent her own ten minutes in the water, coming out to wrap herself in the microfleece. She washed both their shirts and hung them over branches in the sun to dry, next to her cargo pants. He hadn't said anything about being tired or hungry, and she wondered if he would. Taylor didn't seem the complaining type, really. Must be something he got from his mother ... once the clothes were dry, she pulled hers back on and spread Taylor's shirt over him. He must really be worn out ...

The scraping sound woke her in time to see the rifle stick down over the rock; without thinking, she grabbed the barrel and twisted, yanking sideways. As the body attached to the rifle fell, she gathered the weapon in, then swung it like a club to knock out the man who'd been about to capture her. He didn't yell, or scream; but the repeated noises woke Taylor, who sat up wide-eyed.
“Miss Angel?”
“Taylor,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. Who is that man?”
She didn't know. “I haven't seen him before.”
“Why did he have a gun?”
“I think he was out here poaching,” she said truthfully. He hadn't been carrying the sort of gun one of Robertson's people would have. She examined it more carefully: wooden stock, iron sights, lever action, not a carbine but a rifle, and not new. She couldn't tell the caliber by looking; it might have been a .30-06 or a .30-30.
He wore a belt and a sling for the rifle, as well as a vest with many pockets. She bit her lip, then checked all his pockets. Wallet, hunting knife, duct tape and nylon rope, a string-net hammock, a full box of shells for the rifle, another of shotgun shells and several glow-in-the-dark trail markers. He had a water filter and bottle in another, a mess kit in a different one, a flashlight and flares in yet another; in the biggest vest-pocket he had equipment to field-dress a deer. In another she found a two-way radio, and in the last pocket two MREs. She strung his hammock out between a pair of rocks, and with Taylor's help rolled him into it; then with the nylon strings from his tall boots, she laced the hammock shut around him. She put a piece of duct tape over his mouth, left the radio in his hand, and took the rifle, its shells, the MREs and the mess-kit.
“We have to go, Taylor. He might have friends nearby.”
Taylor nodded. They slipped away along the creek, as quick and quiet as a pair of ghosts. Unlike the previous day, she didn't stop at twilight; instead they pushed on, using her little red LED light to check their footing. When Taylor finally complained of being tired, she estimated how far they had come.
“It's too soon to stop,” she said quietly.
Taylor, uncharacteristically, whined. “I'm hungry, and my foot hurts.”
She stopped immediately and said, “Let me look.”
He had a blister; more importantly, he'd walked on a blister until it broke and blistered again, and broke the second time. Now the quarter-sized open sore must make walking very painful.
“Okay,” she said. “We'll stop – let's find a place where we can hide.”
“Weren't we hidden when the man came?”
“We need a better place.”
He pointed. “What about that?” She followed the direction of his stretched finger and saw a dead tree, broken off shoulder-high; the top had come down at an angle to the remainder of the trunk and formed a lean-to of sorts.
“Don't you think about anybody who saw that would look inside for us?”
“I dunno,” Taylor said. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” she answered. “Let's try this.” She led him a few more feet, pushing through the outside branches of an evergreen. Next to the trunk, an open space carpeted with needles offered shelter and, even better, a soft place for sleeping. Taylor barely made it through a cup of water and an oatmeal bar before his eyes closed and he slid sideways. She'd never heard him snore before. She laid out one microfleece and settled him on it, then covered him with the other. He sighed and stopped snoring. She doubted she could have waked him. She growled at herself, but she couldn't stay awake either.
She woke up before daylight; what had wakened her she didn't know, so she stayed very still, listening. Taylor, a couple of feet away, didn't move or open his eyes.
“Long gone by now. That chick's somethin' else, I tell ya,” said a voice that made her feel, suddenly, cold as ice.
“And if you're wrong about where they went?”
“I'm not. She's a backpacker. She knows the woods, she's not afraid of the woods, and she could con the kid into thinking this is an adventure,” her ex-supervisor said. “She worked the Detail for Chelsea Clinton for two years. Her bugout plan was a fanny pack and a five-minute head start, anywhere between the White House and the Mississippi. She used to do dry runs around Camp David on her days off.”
“The dogs didn't find any scent,” the other voice, a female, argued.
“Not with that creek for her to cut through,” Bill Waddell said. “I told you. She's not afraid of the woods.”
“But she's not carrying,” the female said.
“That we know of,” Waddell corrected flatly. “She's two days out. Maybe she had something cached.”
“Or maybe you misjudged her and they're on a bus right now,” the female answered.
“If The Colonel didn't think I knew my job he wouldn't have sent me,” Waddell answered. “So we're out here looking for her trail. She's good, but she's got a green kid with her and no support in the field. She left her wallet behind; how would she pay for a bus ticket, let alone two?”
Hardesty closed her eyes and breathed, slowly and carefully, out. Robertson had won, then; must have won, or Bill Waddell, whose five years with the Presidential Protection Detail had come to an end when Angela caught him selling clandestine photographs of the President's daughter to a tabloid, wouldn't have a paying job. Unless he'd volunteered, for old times' sake; she could almost see him doing that.
“Maybe she had something cached,” the female spat back.

Taylor's eyes came wide open, but he jammed his fist in his mouth almost instantly. Following his gaze, Hardesty saw two pairs of camis through a gap in the branches; one belonged to Bill Waddell, but she had no idea who the woman with him might be.
She caught Taylor's eye, put a finger to her lips and motioned with one hand, 'be still.' He gave her the faintest of nods – in the best old-Western TV gunfighter manner – and she relaxed fractionally as the camis started to walk away.
“In her place, what would you have cached?” Waddell asked.
“A Ferrarri,” the female voice answered. “Weren't there half a dozen to pick from at the house?”
“In this terrain you'd get more use out of a screen door on a submarine,” Waddell drawled. “I'd've cached a trail bike, if it were me.”
Why didn't I think of that? Hardesty listened to the diminishing sounds of the searchers' steps, then looked at Taylor. She made an OK sign with one hand and raised her eyebrows. He took his fist out of his mouth and nodded.
She raised up on an elbow and a knee, careful not to brush the branches sheltering her against the tree trunk. Taylor's eyes remained as big as saucers. Hardesty crawled close enough to let his lips nearly touch her ear.
“That man is the one my Dad told me to be afraid of,” he whispered.
“Your Dad is very smart,” she whispered back.
“Do you think Dad's okay?”
Robertson would have killed the Vice President if he could. She didn't want to tell the boy that about his dad, though. Not now.
“How about we find out?”
What was I thinking? Hardesty felt the first shuddering acknowledgment of her own fallibility. Cut off from the outside world, surrounded by hostile searchers, what should she do next?

Liberator Part II

Taylor stared up at her. “Should we go home now?”
“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “If that man hurt your dad, home isn't very safe.”
“Will they hurt us?”
“They might,” she said, “if they catch us.”
Taylor looked determined. “Then we can't let them catch us, Miss Angel.”
“Right,” she whispered back.
Crunching noises diminished as Waddell and his – partner? Keeper? -- moved off through the woods. Hardesty knew better than to take for granted that their departure meant safety.
“I think we need to stay here,” she told Taylor in a whisper. “We will be harder to catch after dark.” She considered their options. The branches overhead and around them offered concealment as well as shelter against the weather, but she still didn't want to risk even a small fire here.
“Okay,” the boy said. “Do we have anything to eat?”
She considered. “I have peanut butter crackers, and we have two MREs.”
“What's an MRE?”
She wrinkled up her nose. “A packaged meal, that soldiers get when they're traveling and can't stop to cook.”
“What's in it?”
“This one,” she squinted at the package, then gave up and used the red-LED light to read the label, “is chicken and noodles. It has coffee, fruit cocktail, gum, toilet paper, a spoon ... and its own heater. The other one is beans-and-weenies, with peaches and fruit drink.” She studied the package carefully. “I think there's enough here that we could split one now and one later.”
“Chicken and noodles first then,” Taylor said. “But you can have the coffee.”
She grinned. “Thanks. Oh, this is the good heater – you just pour in a little water and squeeze.”
He handed her his water bottle and sat up, leaning against the tree trunk, Indian-style.
She slipped the big pouch of noodles into the heater sack, and opened the fruit cocktail. A bar of freeze-dried pear/peach/apple pieces, with a few cherries, crunched in the packet. She frowned, then studied the directions and dripped a bit of water into that plastic bag as well, setting it next to the warming noodles.
“You should warm the water for your coffee, too,” Taylor whispered.
A branch cracked on the far side of the tree and both of them froze in place. Snuffling sounds followed, and Hardesty flattened out on the ground to peer around the trunk. What met her eye was a black nose above mobile lips – a deer, nibbling among the needles on the ground on the far side of the tree's canopy, no more than a dozen yards away in the lavender-tinted morning light. She shook her head at herself and crept back to touch Taylor's shoulder. “Peek around.”
He did, and came back grinning. “I need to take a picture of that.”
She shook her head. “I'm afraid the flash will scare the deer.” She didn't add that so bright a light might give away their hideout.
“If the deer got scared, would that help us get caught?”
“It might.”
“Oh.” He pushed the camera back into his fanny pack, looking saddened. Hardesty bit her lip.
“Can you turn the flash off?”
“Will the picture turn out?”
“Let's find out,” she answered in a whisper, and a moment later he bellied back down. She heard a quiet 'click' and the deer's head came up, but when no further threat appeared it merely resumed its progress, snuffling along the ground in search of edibles. Taylor, meanwhile, slowly and quietly sat up next to the tree and held out the camera, proudly pointing to the back screen, where a portrait of the doe could be plainly seen.
Hardesty gave him a broad grin and a thumbs-up, and he saved the photo before turning off the camera. She picked up the MRE pack and tore open the top. Taylor, meanwhile, unwrapped the spoon and poked her knee: he had found a fork in the packet as well.
She opened the fruit packet for him, and balanced her canteen cup on the rim of the tuna can from the first night. Under the cup, she set her tiny stove, lit with a match; in almost no time the water began to bubble, and she stirred in the coffee, sugar and creamer from the MRE. The stove burned itself out. She waited for the coffee to cool a bit, and watched Taylor munching on alternate bites of noodles and fruit cocktail.
“Do you have any more milk?” he asked.
She checked the packet in her fanny pack. “Some,” she said. “Here ...” she poured some cool water into the empty fruit packet and stirred in powdered milk with Taylor's spoon. While he drank, she finished the noodles with the plastic fork from the MRE.
“That wasn't bad,” he said. “What should we do now?”
“If we're going to travel after dark,” she answered in a whisper, “you should sleep, if you can.”
He thought about that. “What if we took turns? I could wake you up if that man comes back, or anybody else comes around.”
“You first,” she answered.
He shook his head. “Not sleepy.”
Second-grader, she reminded herself forcibly. He's done really well the last couple of days, too. But he's just a kid. Worried about his dad, probably, too. Not that he isn't right to be ...
“Do you want to try to go back now?”
“What else could we do?”
She didn't even have to think this through. “Go on, where I was headed.”
“Where's that?”
“Away from Colonel Robertson, and that man, and all the men with them,” she answered.
“What about my Dad?”
She looked at him for a long time before she shook her head. “I don't know.”
“If we go back, will we be able to help him?”
“It's just you and me, Taylor. If we go on, maybe ... maybe we can get more help for your Dad, and for us.”
He thought it over. “I think we should go on, and send help to Dad as soon as we find any.”
Second-grader? Smart kid, Hardesty thought. “Then that's what we'll do.”
Taylor nodded, and began packing up. Hardesty couldn't help a little smile as she watched him for a few seconds; then she finished her coffee and fell in with the work of striking their makeshift camp as quickly as possible. In a few minutes they were ready to go. Taylor stepped to the gap in the branches where they'd come in, the night before, and then dropped to his hands and knees before he peered out.
Hardesty wondered what he'd seen that made him want to stay so low, but said nothing and eased up next to him, duck-walking. Outside, birds and bugs and a squirrel or two went on about their noisy morning affairs. Somewhat reassured, Hardesty touched the boy's shoulder. He looked at her; she put a finger to her lips and cupped her other hand behind her ear, and he nodded. Some little time went by, and then she caught him by the waist of his shorts and pulled him back as the sounds of birds and squirrels suddenly ceased. The footsteps she'd heard approached, passed, faded; a glance out, taken with great care, showed her the retreating back of the man whose rifle now hung down her back by its sling. One more thing I didn't need going wrong.
Taylor leaned very close. “I think one of us needs to look around from up in the tree.”
Hardesty nodded. “Can you go up quietly?”
“I think so,” he said. “You can't, can you?”
“No,” she admitted. “Never learned how.”
He raised both eyebrows at her then nodded. “It's not really easy, especially at the bottom.” He turned away, circling the tree completely before wrapping his arms and legs around the trunk and shinnying upward, not fast but quietly. The first branches left the trunk a little more than three feet above Hardesty's outreached finger-tips; the boy barely stood as high as her triceps. She cringed when she heard the zipper of his fanny-pack opening a minute or so later, surprised at how loud and carrying the sound seemed.
“Uh, oh,” she heard him say softly; then he began climbing down, making not much more noise than a hastily-descending squirrel. “Miss Angel, there are an awful lot of people out in the woods. If we go out there, we'll run right into some of them.”
“That's not good,” she whispered.
A moment later the bellow of a shotgun sent them both to the ground, hugging the trunk of the tree as tightly as they could. What seemed like dozens of running feet converged – not on their hiding place, but in the direction the man from whom she'd taken the rifle had gone.
“Get down! Down on your knees! Hands in the air!”
Hardesty sucked in a breath and looked at Taylor. “Do you think they're all there?”
“They won't stay long,” he said. “He might remember seeing us.”
“We should go now,” she said. Taylor nodded, and a moment later they were hurrying, as quietly as possible, down to the creek.
“Upstream,” she whispered urgently, “the banks are deeper and we'll be harder to see.”
“Okay,” Taylor said.
She never knew how long they kept going, as fast as they could without making extra noise; eventually they confronted a triple-tubed culvert through which they could not pass. The road above it, a narrow blacktop, sported half a dozen vehicles – everything from cami ATVs to black Suburbans. Hardesty bit her lip and pulled Taylor back against the bank, hoping they had not been seen; nearly a minute passed before she realized, from the ambient noise of crickets, frogs, and birds, that if anyone had remained with the vehicles they had remained in a vehicle.
She looked at the culverts again. No way either she or Taylor could fit through the corrugated pipes; these had an outside diameter of ten inches or so, maximum.
“The keys are in that three-wheeler,” Taylor whispered.
“What if there's somebody watching?”
“What if there's not? Besides,” he added, “you've got that rifle.”
Second-grader, my sweet aunt Fanny, Hardesty thought. “You watch too much TV.”
He grinned, waggling his fingers. A minute later she had crawled up the bank, fifty yards downstream from the parked vehicles, the rifle ready to hand. Taylor crawled with her, crouching low, studying the vehicles through his binoculars. They had little real cover, except distance and scattered brush; but the angle of the creek bed had brought them up where they wouldn't be expected.
“I don't see anybody,” Taylor murmured.
Hardesty reached for the glasses and the boy relinquished them. She scanned the vehicles with professional quickness, practiced attention. “You're right.”
Boneheads. Two dozen quick strides and she had Taylor in front of her on the atv; then she thought of something else. “Wait.”
He looked a question at her, but Hardesty had already started moving; she drove the Phillips-screwdriver from her multi-tool through the sidewalls of two tires on each vehicle, one after another, ending up at the Suburban in case it had an alarm.
“Oooh, nice,” he said. “MacGyver would be proud of you.”
“MacGyver is an amateur,” she answered in a low voice, but the shine in his eyes made her feel better. “Let's get out of here.” She cranked open the throttle and turned on the key, and within seconds they were flying down the blacktop, headed north.
The ATV ran out of fuel almost an hour later, but they could see the water tower of a town. Hardesty pushed the vehicle into the trees off to the side of the road and then continued walking, with Taylor holding her hand, a few feet inside the treeline.
Town swarmed with uniforms, some police, some military; watching from twenty feet up in a craggy evergreen, Taylor counted seven different colors, and couldn't count all the windbreakers with variations of “SWAT,” “POLICE,” or some federal agency lettered across the back.
“There's a lot of cops,” he said as he climbed back out of the tree. “Soldiers, too, and I think the Marines. What do we do?”
Hardesty sighed. She didn't know who, if anybody, among all that mob she could trust; but none of them would want to hurt a second-grader – before she could finish the thought, Taylor let out a yell.
“DAD!” He took off running toward a knot of people; Hardesty perforce took off running after him.
“Taylor?”
“Dad!” Boy struck parent like a missile striking a target; Hardesty oofed in sympathy with the back-driven father as the Vice President, a sturdy, graying man with a football player's build and a face filled with ecstasy, scooped up the child and swung him around in a hug that, by rights, should have turned him into about twenty kilos of crunchy peanut butter. “How did you get here?”
“Miss Angel brought me, Dad,” Taylor said.
“Miss Hardesty?” Vice President Jason Bidwell said, looking up from his son's face. By then she'd reached the knot of people – grim-faced guardians, mostly, she recognized now – gathering around the pair.
“She was really somethin', Dad,” Taylor said.
“Where did you get that?” A woman in an FBI-emblazoned jacket reached for the rifle slung down Hardesty's back, but by then she'd gotten her breathing under control again.
“A poacher,” Taylor said.
Hardesty eased away from the grasping hands; the rifle flowed from its sling into her steady port-arms stance almost as an organic movement of its own. “Off a man in the woods. He was dressed as a hunter, but it isn't deer season here.”
“When?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know for sure,” Hardesty said. “I suspect he's either with Colonel Robertson or on his way there. I think Robertson's security found the man I took this rifle from in the woods this morning.”
The woman went pale. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket, pushed a speed-dial number, and began to speak rapidly as she hurried away from Hardesty. “This is Regent Six. Regent Four has been captured. Repeat, Regent Four has been captured ...”
“Miss Hardesty,” the Vice President said quietly. “Are you all right?”
“I think we are now, sir,” Hardesty answered. “And yourself?”
“Taylor's here,” Bidwell answered, forcefully. “I'm much better now.”
“Mr. President ...” a man in a black suit, white shirt, crew cut, dark glasses and deadly-serious expression approached them, moving purposefully. “I need you to come with me right now. There's been an incident in the White House ...”
Hardesty felt her employer's grip change from congratulatory to commanding.
“Come on, Miss Hardesty,” he said. “We need you.”
“In that case, sir, I think you'd better call me Angela ...”

Liberator Part III

“Mr. President,” the man in the black suit repeated, “we need to move right now.”
Taylor stared at the man, then at his father. “Dad? I thought Uncle Benny was President.”
“That's right, son,” Bidwell said. “There's a lot of confusion right now. Colonel Robertson and some other people are trying to ...” his voice broke as he cuddled the boy's head against his shoulder, looking past Taylor to the man in the black suit. “They're trying to upset us.”
“Boneheads,” Taylor said, muffled, and Hardesty flinched.
“Indeed,” Bidwell murmured. His eyes crinkled, though, and he shot Hardesty a glance revealing gratitude for the break in tension afforded by the sound of his son, imitating her favorite epithet, on what must have been the most harrowing day of his life.
The black-suited man reached for Hardesty's hand; she offered to return the shake only to have something pressed from his palm into hers. “Ms. Hardesty, I presume,” he said. “Your recent actions do you a great deal of credit. I regret we were not able to save more of your belongings. We were informed only that you are a homeschool teacher.”
“So I am,” she answered forthrightly, slipping her wallet into her pocket after a single glance revealed, from the scorch marks, what had gone with the rest of her possessions. “I thought our unit on natural history ought to include some first-hand experience as well as the recommended reading in the curriculum, agent ....”
“Wilson,” he said, and shook her hand for real.
“Agent Wilson,” she repeated. “So far as my stuff goes ... it's just stuff. I can always replace things.” She drew in a breath. “I hope there haven't been any ... irreplaceable losses.”
“Can't confirm or deny that,” he answered briskly. Then his voice softened to prevent distressing Taylor. “Some reports we've had suggest things not going well, though. Robertson's people overran my colleagues at the White House a half-hour or so ago. No word since.”
She gave him a quick look and a confirming nod. “I hope no news is good news.”
“From your lips,” he murmured. His earbug chirped and he stopped, listening, his posture going tense as a cello-string.
Bidwell regained his clasp of her hand. “Angela,” he said firmly, so softly nobody else but Taylor could hear. “How do I thank you for saving my son for me?”
“Keep him safe, and yourself?” she made it a question in the same low voice, then went on in a conversational tone. “We were studying a little geology, a little wildlife biology, a little environmental science, a bit of orienteering and a little nutrition. We had a good lesson in sanitation, too.”
“Don't forget the first aid,” Taylor said. “Dad, she fixed my foot. I had a really awful blister, but it doesn't hurt a bit now.”
Bidwell's eyebrows went up as he gazed at her.
“We ... Taylor ... covered a lot of ground,” she said. “I just put a little antibiotic ointment and a bandage on the blister. It might be a good idea to have it professionally cleaned up, just in case.”
Wilson stepped up beside them. “Sir, I don't want to sound like a broken record, but I really think we need to find you a safer place than out here in the open.”
“You're saying your people don't have a handle on Robertson?”
“I'm saying what my people have handles on makes me very unhappy,” Wilson answered.
“What about that county hospital we passed on the road in?”
Nonplussed, the agent looked from the man and boy in his charge to Hardesty.
“A quick checkup for the boy,” she said. “Shower and change of clothes for both of us, out of sight, out of mind?”
“Let's roll,” Wilson said firmly. “Not county – it's currently inundated with some of the unfortunate enthusiasts who've been scouring the area for you, trying to earn Colonel Robertson's reward. I can get us to a secure ER in ... twelve minutes, from here.”
“Hence Regent Four,” Bidwell murmured. “Why anybody thought a Marine master gunnery sergeant belonged 'undercover' as a poacher I cannot fathom.”
Hardesty whistled softly. “That was a Marine?”
“You took his rifle,” Wilson said. “What was your impression?”
She thought back. “Quick, mostly. But I surprised him, so maybe my evaluation wasn't fair.”
“Surprised him?”
“He was expecting a frightened small boy, and probably an equally frightened teacher. He caught us asleep, or as nearly so as doesn't matter, a long way from help. Come to think of it, his stealth techniques and his gear preparation weren't half-bad. Maybe if I'd been thinking about it the MREs would have been a giveaway, but I had other things on my mind, and they're commonly available these days.” Grudgingly, she looked the rifle over, quickly, again. “Oh. Well, yeah, this is the way a Marine would keep a rifle. But ... this thing's an antique.”
Wilson shook his head. “It's an iron-sights single-action. If I didn't want to be seen sporting a sniper's weapon ... I might carry one of these myself.” He extended a hand. Hardesty slipped the sling off her shoulder. Turning his body a bit away, Wilson took up the weapon, one hand sliding forward under the forearm, snuggling it into his shoulder and bringing it down smoothly. “Wait ...” he paused, shifting his body weight, sliding a thumb along the top of the receiver. “It's a reproduction.”
The softest possible mechanical click followed, and the brass buttplate folded down on a thin wire. Out of the cavity behind it fell a vernier sight. Hardesty hadn't seen the latch. “Niiiice.”
“Special equipment,” Wilson said. “Probably costs half as much in so small a caliber as the commoner Sharps reproductions. Lighter to carry in the field, too. Round barrel to keep from giving away the true nature of the weapon. Somebody put some thought into ordering this.”
Bidwell considered. “I'm glad they're on our side.”
“You sure about that? What happened to Regent Six?”
Wilson snapped the rifle down, took a quick look around the area. “Dammit.”
Hardesty retrieved the weapon. “I've seen this thing from the business end before. Who was running your Marine pretending to be a poacher?”
“We thought it was the Detail,” Wilson growled. “I've known Four and Six for ... years.”
“Really?” Bidwell looked at him. “D'you suppose they knew Robertson too, before this week?”
“I don't suppose a damned thing, starting now,” Wilson answered. “Could we please leave?”
Hardesty looked at him. “And we should trust you because?”
“Oh, for pity's sake,” Bidwell interrupted. “We have to trust somebody. Let's start with one another. Does anybody think Taylor is a security risk?”
“No,” Hardesty and Wilson chorused. Each turned and eyed the other.
“That's settled, anyway,” Bidwell murmured, aggravated.
“So we start here,” Hardesty said. “Look, Agent Wilson ... I've walked in your moccasins. Long time ago. You're Regent ... Five?”
“Three,” he said, exhaling tiredly. “You were a ... Shepherd?”
“Guardian angel,” she answered. “Three, as a matter of fact. Back when the earbugs had visible coil connectors. But so far as I know we never ordered anything like this.” She patted the rifle. “Issue would have been a nine – mostly Sig Sauers, a few Glocks for people who had to move through commercial airports. It was all before 9-11-01, so things were under way less stress, in some ways.”
“Robertson's people think we're not stressing things enough, now,” Wilson said.
“The President bringing sixteen Al Qaeda leaders to the World Court wasn't enough for him?” Bidwell growled, and Taylor flinched. “It's okay, son. I'm just ... talking about work.”
“Must not have been impressive, to a guy like Robertson. All that folderol with trials and legal proceedings and convictions and so forth ... time-consuming and peaceful. Boring, when a nice endless war could've been used to waste our national resources and young people instead,” Hardesty said sarcastically. “Yeah, I know the type.”
Wilson's careful scrutiny became a different sort of examination. “Subtlety?”
“Whenever there's enough time, which we are running out of,” Hardesty said mildly. “You?”
He grinned. “We should be moving out. There's a secured medical facility about twenty minutes from here. You'll excuse me if I want to be sure you're both sound before we undertake more strenuous activities, I'm sure?”
Hardesty nodded. “Make me feel better to get coffee, a shower and clean clothes, too.”
“There's a county hospital two blocks over,” Bidwell said. “Why not there?”
“Oh, other than the overwhelming number of unfortunate bounty-seekers flooding it with sprains, strains, heat exhaustion, poison ivy, and probably gastrointestinal misery from drinking out of the creeks while they were trying to collect Robertson's million-dollar price on Taylor's head,” Wilson said flatly, “it's not secure.”
“Not to mention,” Hardesty murmured, “as close as it is to here we'd be sitting ducks.” She held Taylor on her shoulder while Wilson handed Bidwell up into the SUV nearby, then passed the boy to his father.
“Shotgun?” Wilson asked.
“Sit with me, Miss Angel,” Taylor said. “You can tell Dad all about what we did in the woods.”
Hardesty flinched faintly and Bidwell chuckled. “I'd like to hear that, myself.”
“I taught him how to make a cat-hole latrine,” she said simply. “He can tell you the rest better than I can, probably.”
Bidwell gave her a considering look. “I will ask him.”
“Marty Robbins is my favorite singer ever,” Hardesty said, and swung into the front passenger seat, the rifle settled against the dash.
“Uncle Tim,” Taylor said presently, having run into a difficulty in his narration of his adventures to his attentive dad, “what are those clothes people wear to blend into the woods called?”
“Camouflage,” Wilson answered almost absently. “Why?”
“That man Dad told me not to trust wore them, and so did the redheaded lady with him.”
“What redhead?” Wilson glanced at Hardesty.
“I never saw her face,” Hardesty replied. “From her voice, though ... and the way she behaved ... somebody familiar with the Detail, firsthand. As much or more as Waddell himself, except she's got a thieving heart.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She told that man she'd've stolen one of Uncle Benny's fast cars,” Taylor said. “Isn't that what caching means, Miss Angel?”
“Not exactly,” Hardesty said. “It means taking something and putting it out of sight so you can find it when you need it, and not everybody will know you have it.”
Wilson growled wordlessly.
“She said Uncle Benny had half a dozen Ferra ... Furra ... fast cars,” Taylor said.
Bidwell caught his breath. “Half a dozen Ferraris? Where did she say they were?”
“At the house,” Taylor answered. “Is that important?”
“That tells us who she was,” Bidwell said quietly. “Doesn't it, Regent Three?”
“That tells me,” Wilson said, “We need to ditch this vehicle. Probably everything in it, and the clothes we're wearing, too – I've never met anybody more paranoid, or fixated on gadgets, than that woman. Regent One, indeed. I think it probably also means the reports we had a little while ago from DC are at least partly correct. You probably are the President now, sir.”
“I don't want you to be right about that, Tim,” Jason Bidwell said, sounding suddenly weary. “I really don't, because Ben and Mikaela are friends of mine.”
“Five years working hand-in-glove, two election campaigns, yeah,” Wilson said. “You'd have to be either really close, or good at hiding a cutthroat rivalry. I've seen you all together.” He sucked in a breath, let it out in a long sigh. “Rivals you're not. ... Thank God the girls are away at school.”
“Taylor should have been, too,” Bidwell said. “On the other hand, if Taylor had been in school, he'd be no safer now than the girls are. Tim, can you find out anything?”
“Boss,” Hardesty interrupted. “Taylor's right here with us. I think we need to concentrate.” So rudely reminded of their immediate responsibilities, the two men spared the seven-year-old boy a glance, Bidwell at the top of his blond head, Wilson at his small form in the rear-view mirror. Neither of them looked comfortable. “Look, I know you're worried. I know you're thinking about a big picture. But we really, really don't have enough solid information to go there.”
“What we do have,” Bidwell said, “Is all the money I could get my hands on, without a public scandal. I thought we might get hit for ransom. So ...” he hefted an aluminum briefcase from behind his seat, “I brought along some cash. There's really not much here – but it's better than nothing.”
Hardesty grinned. “Gentlemen, hush!”

Liberator Part IV

Taylor blinked sleepily. “What're you so happy about, Miss Angel?”
“Your dad is a very smart man, Taylor. Thanks to his thinking ahead, we're a lot less likely to get caught now.”
“But I thought once we got back to Dad everything would be okay,” Taylor said, clearly puzzled. “Aren't we going home, Dad?”
“Eventually,” Bidwell said. “But remember I told you there were people trying to make us upset?”
“And remember I told you that man might've hurt your dad?” Hardesty made her voice soft. “That man's still out there, Taylor. We're not sure who's helping him. We're not sure where he is. Getting you and your dad home safe means we still have to not get caught.”
“And it means we have to go back to DC,” Bidwell said. “Taylor, we might have to go help Uncle Ben and Aunt Mikaela.”
“Is that why you don't trust Uncle Tim, Miss Angel?”
Hardesty rolled her shoulders, bit her lip, let the boy see her thinking about that. “Actually, I think I trust you, and your dad, and your Uncle Tim more than anybody else I know, Taylor.”
“Even Buster and Lodi?” Taylor asked.
A ripple of pain went over Bidwell's face, but Wilson said, “I'm sure you can still trust the dogs, Taylor. In fact, after all this is over, we'll bring them up to the house – whichever house it ends up being. Taylor, the house where you've lived since ...” he broke off, swallowed, and then resumed quietly, “since your mom's funeral may not be where you get to go back home to, for awhile. There was a fire in the house yesterday. I took the dogs to Doctor Atchison, because there wasn't any place for them to stay. The house can be fixed, I think, but it will take a long time.”
“Were they hurt?” The boy's round blue eyes glimmered wetly and his voice trembled.
“Buster has a blister on his nose, and Lodi has blisters on his hindpaws,” Wilson said. “Doctor Atchison thought they should stay with her until they're well. She said they'd be fine in a week or so.”
Hardesty let out a breath she hadn't known she'd held. “Thank you, Tim.”
“Least I could do,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don't know where the cat went – I know she got out, because I saw her while I was picking up Lodi.”
“Simba is used to being outside, and I happen to know,” Bidwell said, “she's an excellent mouser. If the barn's still standing, the pigeons and rabbits and the horses should all be fine.”
“No reason to think otherwise,” Wilson agreed calmly. Hardesty nodded, and Bidwell wrapped his arms around his son, squeezing reassuringly.
“Okay,” Wilson said a few minutes later, as the two-lane blacktop he'd been following opened out into a different town, “here we are, folks. Where do you want to start?”
“Food,” Taylor said.
“Coffee,” Hardesty and Bidwell chorused.
“Looks like that's settled,” Wilson murmured. “Do we go in, or drive through?”
“Go in,” Taylor said. “It will make us harder to see if we're not in the car they're looking for. And there'll be a bathroom inside.”
Bidwell said mildly, “That sounds like a good idea to me, too.”
“It might be best if we don't stop on the main drag,” Hardesty said quietly. “Take that left at the light, and let's see if we can find someplace along the road.”
“We're not going to look local,” Wilson warned.
“No, we're not,” Bidwell agreed. “But we can look less like the pictures on the news. Lose the tie and jacket, Tim, and I'll do the same.”
Hardesty steadied the wheel while Wilson peeled out of his suit coat and yanked off his tie. In the back seat, Bidwell divested himself of the same items. “Okay, Tim. Now what do we do about your sidearm?”
“Hang my badge on my belt,” he said, “and if you'll call me Elliott, maybe they'll think we're rehearsing for a TV show.”
“Cute,” Hardesty said.
“See, you're getting into character already,” Wilson chuckled.
She favored him with an eye-roll, but Taylor had begun to giggle. “You're all wrong for Livia.”
“You watch too much TV,” Hardesty said.
“No,” Taylor answered. “You don't watch enough. Uncle Tim doesn't really look like Detective Stabler, either. He looks like ... Agent McGee.” Wilson flinched visibly, and Hardesty covered her laughter with an almost-convincing coughing fit. The boy solemnly considered. “I really don't know who you look like, Miss Angel. You're not dark enough for Livia. Your eyes are blue, and you have freckles. It's worse than Dad. He doesn't look like anybody on TV either.” He thought about it some more. “You're not ... really really skinny. And you don't show off your ...” he patted his chest. “Assets, I think they're called. Do those ever fall out of your shirt?”
Bidwell choked and Wilson nearly lost control of the SUV, and Hardesty turned scarlet.
“The joys of parenthood,” Bidwell said, when he could breathe again. “I apologize, Angela.”
“No,” she answered, and shook her head. “It does look like they might, on TV, doesn't it, Taylor? ” She smiled. “All I can tell you is I never thought of that before.”
“Oh,” Taylor said.
“There's a place that might work,” Bidwell said, changing the subject. “Think we can get in and out of there reasonably quickly?”
Wilson eyed the neon sign with its outline of a chicken, the parking lot with half a dozen pickups, and shrugged. “Maybe. Let's pay cash. Shall we go in as two separate couples?”
“Yes, and I think you should take Taylor,” Hardesty said. “That's the one combination that hasn't been on TV yet, I'd bet.”
He raised an appreciative eyebrow at her. “And walk up?”
“Do you have a spare key?”
“Why might I need that?”
“If we're seen to leave separately too it will reinforce the thought we're not a group. So whoever walks up, also walks out – or you're seen with keys in hand.”
He nodded. “No, I don't.”
“In that case don't stop yet – go up the road, make a block, come back from the other side. We'll walk in and walk out,” Hardesty said.
Up the road a block, Bidwell said, “Stop here. Tim, come in with me.”
“A farm supply store?”
“This one,” Bidwell said, “will carry clothes. I know Taylor's sizes. We'll have to let Angela do her own shopping – would you rather go first or last?”
“Last,” she said decisively. “Don't forget, guys, you need everything – from the skin out, and new shoes. While you're in there, I think I'll stroll down to the corner drug store. I know that chain; I should be able to get everything in one stop. Lend me a little extra cash, and I'll take care of toothbrushes, razors and carry-ons.”
Wilson nodded. “Take $150. Don't spend it all, if you can avoid it.”
“Right,” she said. “You guys got any preferences about toothpaste?”
“Not as long as you don't get perfumed deodorant,” Bidwell muttered.
Three-quarters of an hour later they met up in the same parking lot. Hardesty distributed shaving kits and sundries including socks and baseball caps.
“Not too shabby,” Wilson said. “We decided to go with the stuff on clearance. Most of it looks like it's for a hunting trip.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” she said. “Taylor, put these on, will you?”
“Hey!” he said. “I don't need glasses.”
“No, but you'll be harder to spot if you're wearing them.”
“Oh,” he said, thinking it over. “Okay.”
Hardesty shouldered a backpack she'd picked up. “There is one problem. They didn't have any shoes my size. I don't think flip-flops are quite the thing.”
Bidwell said, “What do you have in mind?”
“They got work boots in there?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“That'll do,” she answered. “Do the three of you want to go on back and eat?”
“No,” Wilson answered. “I think we'd do well to hit the road again, for a little while, at least.”
“You ever travel with a hungry second grader?” Bidwell asked conversationally.
“Think he can go five miles? I need to fill up the SUV. The closest place with the right fuel is five miles from here – and it's a major truck stop.” Wilson waggled his eyebrows at them. “The sort with showers, and a convenience store, and a restaurant.”
“The sort the FBI might be checking?” Bidwell asked.
“They'll be checking everywhere, sooner or later,” Hardesty said.

Liberator Part V

“I'd just as soon not make it easy for them,” Bidwell said. “What if we ditch the SUV instead of filling it up?”
“And leave on foot?”
“We might be able to do even better than that,” Hardesty said. “Look here.” She had brought a local giveaway advertiser out of the farm-supply store a few moments earlier, and folded it open to “For Sale: Autos by Owner.”
“Oooh, that color would be great!” Taylor said, tapping an ad.
Bidwell, looking over his shoulder, whistled softly. “That,” he said mildly, “would outrun anything but a radio, if it's in good shape.” He studied the photo and the description of the car carefully. “Tim, why don't you call and see if it's still there? I had one of those when I was in high school. I think it's why Taylor's mom went out with me, at least at first. I was smarter than the average kid my age – I had a three-on-the-tree and a front bench seat. She used to make me double-date a lot ....”
Wilson demurred. “Not exactly a family-type vehicle ...”
“Exactly,” Bidwell said mildly. “That's why Becky loved ours – it was so not-soccer-mom, she said, and she got such a kick out of driving it.”
“She?” Wilson said, surprised.
“We,” Hardesty answered. “I had one in college. I thought it was the coolest thing ever, even if I did have a six and an automatic.”
“A woman who knows enough to complain about a six cylinder engine and an automatic transmission,” Bidwell said quietly, “in a car built to be a hot rod, knows way too much about cars, Tim.” Wilson eyed Hardesty. Hardesty looked at Bidwell and winked over Taylor's head. Bidwell looked away to keep from cracking up, and then said, “Let's get a bite to eat. If there's a pay phone inside, we can call from here, see if it's still for sale, find out where it's located.”
There were, in fact, few vehicles at the truck stop. Hardesty walked in from an edge of the parking lot; Wilson entered from a different door, holding Taylor's hand while Bidwell pumped gas and washed the windshield. Hardesty quietly asked the attendant about the price and wait for showers while Wilson picked out snacks and drinks for himself and Taylor.
“Five bucks, ten minutes' wait for the men's shower,” Hardesty said very softly as she passed him en route to the cashier's line. Wilson's nod would've done credit to a movie spy. He stepped up in line, gestured at the SUV and began counting out payment. Ostensibly he left, then, holding Taylor's hand and carrying their purchases in a plastic bag.
She didn't see him talk to Bidwell; she paid for a large coffee, an oversized T-Shirt, and a shower and headed to the waiting area. She found a phone, called the number in the ad, made an appointment to look at the car that afternoon, and wrote down directions. When the attendant called for the shower number she'd reserved she finished her coffee and headed back to the facility, swinging the backpack off her shoulder as she went.
Three quarters of an hour later she walked up to the table where Bidwell sat. “Hi,” she said perkily. “Is this seat taken?”
He recognized her voice – but the damp blonde-streaked ponytail, the thermal undershirt and black leggings, the hiking socks, laced-up boots, truck-stop T-shirt and the sunglass frames with the lenses popped out so altered her appearance he couldn't help but do a double-take.
“Umm,” he said. “I guess it is now, if you want it.”
She flashed him a smile and slipped into the chair. “Thanks. It's ... well, it's rough on a girl by herself in a place like this.”
He, too, had benefited from the chance to change clothes: dun-colored carpenter's pants, a brown canvas snap-front shirt, a baseball cap and wedge-soled work boots would send any eye searching for a vice president of the local bank running past him, let alone someone looking for the vice president of the United States. Her smile developed dimples.
The waitress reappeared. “Can I get you something, miss?”
Hardesty ignored the older woman's vocal tone and disapproving expression. “Sure,” she said, suddenly acquiring a Southern drawl thick enough to cut with a knife. “I'd love a burger, and fries, and a glass of milk.”
“This,” Bidwell said to the waitress, “can go on my ticket, please.”
The woman smiled very tightly. “Anything you say, sir.”
“So, where are Taylor and Tim?” Hardesty asked softly, amused at how hard the woman's shoes tapped as she bustled away.
“Tim's in the showers,” Bidwell said. “Taylor is sitting over there waiting for him, at that video-game console. I can't believe he's being that quiet.”
“I can,” Hardesty said. “He's had enough to tire out a teenager lately. Besides, that's a smart young man you're bringing up, sir.”
“If I'm going to call you Angela,” Bidwell said gravely, “hadn't you better call me Jason?”
“If we get through this and you still want me to,” she answered, “I'd be honored.”
“Meanwhile,” and then he stopped as the waitress arrived with a plate – his – of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and cornbread. “Thank you.”
Hardesty watched the waitress refill Bidwell's tea. The woman left them again, and Hardesty noted her run-over shoes had taps on the heels. She sighed and slurped the straw against her empty water glass. “Good thing,” Bidwell said between bites, “you're not chewing gum.”
“I thought that might be a little over the top,” she answered. “I've got an appointment to go look at our new transportation in an hour. I have the directions written down.”
He nodded. “So how do we get there?”
She shrugged. “We'll think of something.”
Wilson appeared and Taylor jumped up.
“Dad!” He ran over and hugged the man. “I won! Come look!”
Bidwell nearly managed not to flinch and Hardesty leaned in to peck him on the cheek. “I told you he was a smart young man.”
Tapping heels approached, and the plate with Hardesty's meal rang against the table; the waitress set her glass down so hard the milk sloshed, but it didn't – quite – spill. Hardesty looked up at her and batted her eyes. “Why thank you, ma'am.”
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“Just the check,” Bidwell said, letting a little snap of annoyance into his voice. Hardesty bit her lip, made a moue. “Do y'all have any lemon meringue pie?”
“No,” the waitress said. “We're out of all the desserts until tomorrow.” She marched away, stopping to check on Wilson and Taylor at their separate table, barely able to smooth her manner to friendliness in time to ask the boy, “Would you like some cake or ice cream, or cobbler?”
Bidwell snorted and Hardesty chuckled. “Good thing I don't like lemon icebox pie.”
She quickly dispatched her burger and fries and milk; the waitress came back with the check as a bus pulled into the parking lot; it disgorged a high-school volleyball team, and Bidwell headed for the cash register. Under cover of the milling teenagers trying to find seats, Hardesty brushed Wilson's chair on her way out the door. “Pick us up around back– we're going to look at the car.”
“Okay, Bobby,” she heard Wilson say to Taylor. “Go wash up while I pay the bill.”
The door closed behind her and Hardesty dawdled away from the entrance; on the other side of the bus, she changed direction, snarling under her breath as an incoming police car cut off her intended route. The cop slowed, watching her, and Hardesty shifted her backpack onto both shoulders then picked up her pace toward the highway. He slammed the door of his cruiser on his way inside.
Bidwell walked purposefully out the far entrance just then, turning the corner toward the parked SUV. He didn't appear to see Hardesty, but jangled keys and whistled, a little out of tune, as he went. Taylor and Wilson followed from the other door. Hardesty reached the highway, checked for oncoming traffic, and seeing none slowed her pace. She turned at the light, heading away from town, hoping Wilson or Bidwell had seen her. A minute or two later the SUV blew by, then the brake lights came on and the vehicle pulled over.
“Need a lift?” Wilson's voice came from the passenger seat as Hardesty reached the vehicle.
“Thanks,” Hardesty said. The back door swung open, and Hardesty hefted her backpack inside as though it were much heavier.
“Wow,” Taylor said. “You look different.”
“So do all of you,” Hardesty said. “Nice job back there, Taylor.”
“Proud of you, son,” Bidwell added.
“Never got to put my dirty clothes in the trash before,” Taylor said. “I like it, though.”
“Me, too,” Wilson said. He had taken a cue from Bidwell in choosing the new clothes both he and Taylor wore: jeans, multi-pocketed hunter's vests, long-sleeved polo shirts. With his green eyes and dishwater hair, Wilson looked like Taylor's ... uncle, or big brother, or dad.
“I guess it's time,” Bidwell said. “What's in the backpack, Angela?”
“The stuff I trusted out of my belt bag and Taylor's,” Hardesty said. “Some odds and ends from the drug store – first aid, personal hygiene. Camera, binoculars, ponchos, the water bottles, matches, the trowel. There wasn't much food left, but I've still got my stove and fuel. I ditched the beans-and-weenies MRE, though.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said sincerely. “I ate enough of those things to last a lifetime, while I was in Afghanistan.”
Bidwell raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were career Secret Service.”
“Doesn't mean I'm not a reservist,” Wilson said. “ROTC paid my way through college. I did my first tour in 2002, my second in 2004 and my third one in 2006.” He looked steadily at the driver. “I know you ... lost ... your wife over there, sir. I'm lucky to be able to have come home.”
“God willing,” Bidwell said, “All our people will be able to say that soon.”
“Not if Robertson wins,” Hardesty warned. “We're about all there is stopping him.”
“Well then,” Bidwell said, unconsciously echoing his son, “we just can't let him catch us.”

To be continued ...

Liberator Part VI

“That's it – there's the car!” Taylor said excitedly. The SUV rolled to a stop after turning the corner and passing a house. Bidwell glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, Angela,” he said. “How do you want to do this?”
“I think I'll run up and ring the bell ...” she thought carefully. “See how it goes. Do you want me to carry enough cash to pay for it now, or come back to pick it up if we want it?”
“If you can get a test drive,” Wilson started, “that would be good. We don't want to buy something we can't use.”
“Oh, I can,” she said. “Woman on the phone a couple of hours ago really wants that car out of here. Says her ex spent all his spare time and money, and then some, on it. I think she's jealous.”
“What a shame,” Bidwell said softly. “It looks fairly clean, considering.”
“We're not judging this as a collector's item,” Wilson said.
“We're sure not,” Hardesty answered. “No trailer queens need apply.”
She grinned at Bidwell and strode away. Using the rear-view mirror – this time, the outside passenger one, electrically adjusted to focus on the door where Hardesty knocked – Bidwell watched her. A woman came to the door – young, not bad-looking, but fatigued in appearance. Hardesty gestured, speaking rapidly; the woman nodded and disappeared inside, but returned with keys a moment later. Hardesty kept an animated conversation going all the way from the front door to the car; the woman unlocked the door and handed over the keys. Hardesty nodded, said something, and the woman slipped under the wheel.
Hardesty hustled around to the back of the car as its engine came to life. She crouched and looked underneath, from front to back then back to front. The woman shook her head in answer to something Hardesty said, tapping the watch on her wrist. Hardesty appeared to be pleading; the woman shrugged, went back in the house and returned, carrying an infant strapped in a car seat.
They fussed with the seat in the back, briefly, then the woman sat down and closed the passenger door. Hardesty slid under the wheel and backed out of the driveway. The car passed from view; Bidwell left the window down, listening until the sound, too, faded away.
“Well,” Wilson said. “What do you think?”
“About what?” Bidwell looked at him, and the younger man swept a hand in the direction of the departed car. Bidwell stretched as best he could, leaned his head against the back of the seat, and closed his eyes. “I think we should wait and see what happens next.”
Wilson shook his head. Taylor unbuckled his seatbelt, scrambled out from between the two men, and crawled into the back seat to peer out the window. The quiet, warm afternoon unfolded around the three of them. Presently even Wilson's eyelids grew heavy.
The spray of gravel and crunch of tires interrupted his fight against somnolence. From the back seat, Taylor yelped, “They're back!”
Bidwell glanced at the mirror, then sat up straight. Hardesty was helping the woman unbuckle the infant seat. The two women were laughing and talking like old friends; as Hardesty opened the door and handed over the keys, the woman nodded. She carried her child over her threshold, but didn't close the door. Hardesty walked away from the house, parallel to the street where Bidwell had parked, a spring in her step. Bidwell started the SUV, made a block, and met her at the corner.
“Well?”
“Well,” Hardesty said, “it'll run. It'll turn and it'll stop and it's not making any funny noises. The seats are good – not original. The frame's okay and the front end's in line, and it doesn't smoke and it shifts like it ought to, and the tires are fair – if I was leaving for California I'd probably think about replacing the spare. Nothing's leaking under the hood or on the driveway underneath it. The paint's okay and there's no bondo or bad rust I can see. All the lights and turn signals are okay – she put a fresh inspection sticker on it last week.
“ She'll take $2,500 less than the price in the ad for cash before the bank closes today – and she needs a ride to the train station. If you gents are in a sporting mood, we can close the deal in the next few minutes, and as a bonus, she'd probably be happy to drive your Suburban to the train station.”
“Or the airport,” Wilson said. “The farther from us, the better.”
Hardesty nodded. “That would be good, too. She could park there, leave the keys under the seat, lock it up and walk away -- and there'd be no surveillance tape of us.”
“That's not a bad price,” Bidwell said.
“That's not a bad old Plymouth,” Hardesty answered. “It's partly a restoration and partly a modernization, best I can tell. Lots of the insides are from a way newer vehicle. It's got electric adjustable seats in front and shoulder belts for four, plus factory air that works and a serious stereo. Not to mention what's under that hood. If that Hemi's more than two years old, I'll eat my socks.”
“Hemi?”Wilson said.
“What, are you deaf? I drove right by you.” Hardesty looked at him; Wilson shrugged his shoulders. Bidwell handed her two stacks of well-worn bills, and Hardesty nodded.
“If I put the rest of the money in the backpack,” Bidwell said, “I can leave the briefcase here. The only other thing we need to worry about is the rifle, isn't it?”
“I can take care of that,” Wilson said. “I'll carry the backpack this time, too.”
“Done, and done, gents. Taylor, you and your Uncle Tim wait here. Your Dad and I are going to go pick up a car.”
Fifteen minutes later Wilson faded back out of the alley; he clasped the backpack's straps in his left hand and Taylor's wrist in his right. That the tired-looking woman in the black Suburban hadn't seen him or his charge, he felt fairly sure. That every possible thing Regent One had bugged or stuck a tracker to remained with the vehicle departing or now rested safely in the truck stop's trash cans, he also felt fairly sure. What he didn't feel remotely sure about amounted to pretty much everything else in the world.
“Need a lift?” Hardesty pulled up beside him, grin blazing.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Shotgun,” Taylor said firmly, and Bidwell chuckled.
Wilson hefted the backpack – now much heavier than before – through the open window. He pulled on the door handle; Bidwell stepped out, tipped the seat forward and smoothly doubled over to slide into place behind Hardesty. Wilson blinked as Taylor swung into the front, then stepped inside and ducked into the back seat himself. Buckles clicked and windows rolled up, the air conditioner and the stereo came on, and the Hemi growled its way out of town.
They passed four black Suburbans, six dark-colored government sedans and a parade of police cars headed into town as they headed out. Once the last one had disappeared down a shallow hill behind them, Hardesty put her foot in it. The big engine coughed authoritatively; she set the cruise control for 75 and pointed the car's nose away from the setting sun.

At midnight they stopped for gas and restrooms; Taylor had been dozing, as had Wilson. Hardesty bought coffee, tried a sip and spat it out on the parking lot. She tossed her cup into the trash can, growling, and picked up the squeegee to clean the windshield instead. Wilson came back from his trip into the convenience store yawning, but Bidwell, carrying Taylor, just looked tired.
“Switch drivers?” he asked.
“My turn,” Wilson said. “I've slept since either of you have.”
“No argument,” Hardesty said. She pitched him keys, installed Taylor in one back seat and herself in the other, and they rolled on into the night again. By the time the first lightening signs of the rising day appeared, the road beneath the Plymouth's spinning wheels had changed from a two-lane blacktop winding amid small rural towns in old mountains to an Interstate, peeling away the miles in a straight line toward the Capitol.
He picked out another truck stop by the signs along the road, but turning into the jammed parking lot and noticing the line at the door to the cafe, Wilson decided to keep driving. He pulled through and back onto the highway and hit the button for “seek” until the radio spat out a newscast.
“...forces under the command of General George Whittier and Colonel Caleb Robertson have claimed control of the White House ...” Before Wilson could stop it, the seeking tuner moved on to the next station. He slammed his fist into the rim of the steering wheel so hard he thought he'd broken his hand as first a preacher, then a gospel singer, then a Spanish advertisement – he thought that one might be for a football game – followed. The radio went all the way around the dial before it came back to the newscast. “... intensive care, but First Lady Mikaela Benton and her daughters are reportedly stranded at The Palmer School, which is likewise surrounded by Robertson's troops ...”
“Oh, my God,” Bidwell said softly.
Wilson shook his sore hand. “I bet God didn't have a lot to do with this, sir.”
“God,” Hardesty said from the back seat, “gets blamed for a lot of stuff people do.”

To be continued ...

Liberator Part VIII

“They might be right,” Bidwell said. “The next in line under the Constitution is the Speaker.”
“The Speaker is Colonel Robertson's brother-in-law,” Wilson said. “Is there any indication that the Speaker might be inclined to go along with all this?”
“All what, Uncle Tim?” Taylor came out of the bathroom.
“It's on the television, Taylor,” Hardesty said quietly. “That story that we heard on the radio in the car – the story that you and your dad and your Uncle Tim were missing, and that I was holding you hostage.”
“But that isn't true,” Taylor said.
“Sometimes,” Bidwell said gravely, “Taylor, when ... grownups want to get things their way, they imagine the worst thing they can imagine someone doing, and then they tell that to other people as if it were true. That's what's happening here.”
“Is that why that man accused you and Aunt Mickie of cheating Uncle Ben?”
Hardesty's mouth fell open and Wilson looked like he'd been sucker-punched, but Bidwell nodded. “That's exactly why.”
Taylor turned and looked at the other grownups. “Dad would never cheat Uncle Ben. They work together all the time. They've been working together since I was little. Aunt Mickie and Tasha and Caylee are our friends, too. I used to stay with them after school, until Dad finished working in his office in the evenings.”
“Taylor,” Wilson said, “I know that. I've been with your Dad for years, too.” He sighed and looked across at Hardesty. “I even know how it started. A letter from overseas to a lonely man, who needed to talk to someone with a woman's perspective after he read it – and the woman he went to talk to happened to be his best friend's wife, who had her own worries about her husband's workload. Not to mention basic things like this health and safety.
“I didn't realize it was anything but a conversation between friends – I still don't think it was. But when the senior aide to the Joint Chiefs comes double-timing down the hall asking for the Vice President ...” he sighed and shook his head. “I opened the door, and there they were, crying, with their arms around each other.
“Robertson said something – I don't even remember what it was, now, but he took off like a scalded dog. That afternoon we got the telegram about Mrs. Bidwell ...”
Hardesty wrapped Taylor in a hug. “So for five solid months, this thing's been building up based on that ...petty ... excuse?”
Bidwell, wearily, shook his head. “No,” he said. “This thing's been building up for a lot longer than that. I know what Robertson said, Tim. The word was miscegenation.”
Wilson closed his eyes and stepped backward, shaken to the core. Hardesty looked up at the man who'd hired her to tutor his son. He stood there, looking at them.
“I swear I never thought about it, before what Robertson said that day, but yes, I do know what that must have looked like to him. A man who sees what he hopes he can use against someone, before he looks for the truth – that's the kind of man Robertson has always been. It's a very good thing, in some professions. It makes a lot of sense if you're on a battlefield and can't be sure who's on your side, for example. But it must be a difficult way to run your life – as if you never knew for sure whose side anybody's on.” He shook his head. “He's wrong about what he saw that day, although ... Mikaela is a lovely woman. In hindsight I guess I should've realized just exactly how believable a scandal like that could seem, for someone who ... didn't trust me.”
Taylor shook off Hardesty's hold and ran to his dad. “It's not you. He ... hates ... Uncle Ben and Aunt Mickie, Dad, and Tasha and Kayli too. He called them ... mud people.”
Wilson whitened further, and Bidwell ground his teeth. Hardesty put her head in her hands.
“I can't believe a senior officer would express that kind of prejudice in front of a child,” she said finally.
“I can,” Bidwell said. “I'm enough older than you two so that I remember when the services were separate, when schools and theaters and churches were segregated and black people were supposed to ride in the back of the bus and drink at different bubblers. I thought ... we'd come past that, when Ben won.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I thought we had a chance to just move on into a better future. It felt like we could put all those ugly old ideas away, because they didn't matter any more.
“I should have been paying closer attention.”
Hardesty sighed and shook her head. “So many people were so happy, when the two of you won, five years ago.”
“Five years ago. It's a lifetime. So much work done, but so much still to do,” Bidwell said slowly. “I so hoped Taylor would be able to grow up without having to do this part over again.”
“Stubborn things, people and stupidity,” Hardesty muttered.
Wilson launched a comment into the room. “Is there any truth to what Robertson's been suggesting?”
“Oh, sure,” Bidwell said archly.
“No,” Wilson said. “Not the personal ugliness. The political ugliness.”
“That we were going to reprioritize the budget, overhaul the structure of the armed forces?” Bidwell leaned back against the cabinet. “Of course. We had to figure out ways to pay for the things we need, Tim. I thought you'd heard enough of the meetings to realize that.”
“I heard plenty,” Wilson said. “But I confess, I didn't understand everything I heard.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I'm a bodyguard, when you come right down to it. My specialty is protection – not policymaking.”
Hardesty began to pace around the couch.
“We gotta talk to Uncle Ben,” Taylor said. “Aunt Mickie, too.”
“That much is indisputable,” Bidwell said. “How to arrange that, though ... that's what we're not sure about, Taylor. We don't even know exactly where your Aunt Mickie and the girls are.”
“I thought they were supposed to be checking out a school for Tasha to go to,” Taylor said.
“The TV this morning ...” Wilson began.
“Gave implications otherwise,” Hardesty reminded him, emphasizing a word very subtly. Wilson's eyes widened, and then he began to nod.
“Hostages,” was all he said.

(To be continued)

Liberator Part IX

Taylor's eyes began to leak. “Will they be all right?”
“If we have anything to say about it,” Hardesty growled, “They will.”
“What do we have to say it with?” Wilson asked quietly. “That sniper rifle? You told me you'd used it like a club.” He rolled his shoulders, walked around behind the couch. “Bend the barrel? Throw off the sights?”
“Marksmanship instructor,” Hardesty said, “doesn't mean sniper. Does mean gunsmith, though.”
Wilson blinked at her. She smiled a slanted smile and raised a shoulder at Bidwell. “Your responsibility, Wilson. Mine's different.”
“Vengeance?” Wilson's voice and expression went arch.
“Clear my name,” Hardesty said, simply.
“How?” Bidwell inquired. “Seems like a lot for one woman to tackle.” She twisted around to look up at him, and he went on gravely, “One woman who actually has a job already – tutoring and protecting one small boy.”
“I'll resign,” she began.
“No,” Bidwell said. “We'll help.”
“Taylor needs -- “
“Us all, yes,” Bidwell said. “We'll need him before this is over, probably. Look, Angela – I know what's at stake, here. Mikaela's my friend. The girls are Taylor's friends.” He stopped, tamping down a raw edge of something in his voice; Hardesty could almost hear him counting to ten. “Ben is my friend, as well as my boss. If I let anything happen to his children, to his wife – how am I supposed to face him after that?”
“Depending on how involved the Regents are in this,” Hardesty said, “You might be choosing to let his Presidency end. How do you think he'll react to that?”
“So long as I'm telling him about it afterward as a vague possibility, and not a fait accompli, he'll be fine,” Bidwell said. “Of the two, he'd rather lose the job than his family.”
“I'd lots rather he didn't have to lose either one,” Wilson put in. “This is not a plan, people. This is an emotional catharsis, and I won't say we can't all benefit from it – if all it does is make us feel a little less helpless, that's a good thing too. But if you're serious – and I don't doubt for a minute that's how you feel – we can't just go charging off in all directions.”
“First,” Hardesty told him, “I need to look over that rifle.”
He nodded.
Taylor raised his head. “What do you need me to do?”
“Stick to your dad like you were glued on,” Hardesty told him. She vaulted the back of the couch, sat beside him. “Taylor, listen to me, okay? You're the most important person in this room right now. Your job is to make sure that you and your Dad stay safe. It won't be easy and some of it will be absolutely no fun at all, Taylor. You've had to grow up – hard and fast – a lot in the last few months. But you aren't done yet.
“Tell me about Tasha.”
Taylor's ersatz spectacles lent his earnest expression a melancholy air. “What do you want to know?'
“What did she want to study?”
“She likes airplanes,” he answered. “She wants to be an engineer, and design jets that could go faster and farther on less fuel.”
“The Palmer School,” Wilson said, “would be perfect for a budding engineer. The math and science curriculum there is designed to prepare students for MIT or UCLA advanced placement.”
Hardesty gave him an appreciative glance. “You do your homework, too.”
“When Taylor's ready,” he began.
“I wanted Tim to accompany my son to school,” Bidwell said, “so he'd have someone familiar to rely on.”
Hardesty pursed her lips. “Lots of confidence in you, Timothy.”
Wilson flushed.
“Uncle Tim knows how things work,” Taylor said. “He's just like you, Miss Angel. Well ... not exactly like you. But he knows the same things, about how to do something, how to get people from place to place, how to win an argument with my Dad.”
All three of the adults glanced at each other from beneath raised brows.
“Tasha thinks he's awful cute, too,” Taylor said. “Kayli thinks she's got a crush on him.”
Hardesty smiled, showing off dimples. “That,” she said, “is really good news, Taylor. Does Kayli like him too?”
He shook his head. “She doesn't not like him. She just hasn't ...” he stopped. “Kayli doesn't like anybody, the way Tasha likes Uncle Tim.”
Wilson, whose cheeks were scarlet and whose lips were gnawed white, looked helplessly at Hardesty without letting Taylor see his face, and mouthed, “I had no idea.”
Bidwell put a hand on Wilson's shoulder, threw a nod toward the bedroom. Once they were out of sight, Hardesty heard Bidwell talking to Wilson in a low, reassuring voice.
“How about you, Taylor,” Hardesty said. “Do you like anybody the way Tasha likes Wilson?”
He considered. “I like you, a lot,” he said. “But I don't think it's the way Tasha likes Uncle Tim. I think Dad likes you that way, though. So, would you stay on with us, if he asked you to?”
Stunned, Hardesty opened her mouth, but couldn't get words out for several seconds. Finally she managed, “If he asks, sure.”
Taylor grinned hugely. “I'd like that. So what are we going to do now?”
“Well,” Hardesty said, “I guess I'll teach you a little bit about firearms, Taylor. Hand me Wilson's backpack, and let's get started.”
Taylor lifted the black nylon bag from beneath the coffee table. “Do you want me to turn off the TV?”
“No, leave it on,” Hardesty said. “We might hear some important news that we'd miss if it were turned off.” She didn't add that she felt sure Wilson and Bidwell needed the background noise to reassure themselves. She opened the main zipper of the backpack and lifted out the lower receiver of the take-down rifle, carefully.
“This is a stock,” she said. “This is a receiver ...”
Half an hour later Bidwell touched her shoulder. “Can you take a break, Angela?”
She lifted her head to look at him squarely. “In about a minute more, we should be done.”
He nodded and she fiddled minutely with a last adjustment on the newly-assembled rifle. “That sets the windage, and this ...” she showed Taylor, “adjusts the elevation. Any questions?”
“Why is it so heavy?”
“Helps damp down the recoil,” Hardesty said. “Makes the weapon steadier on a rest.”
Taylor nodded. “Okay.” He looked up at his Dad. “I think we're done, now, Dad.”
Bidwell winked at the boy. “Grab a glass of milk and a couple of cookies for Uncle Tim, would you?”
Taylor glanced up, noticed that Wilson still hadn't come back into the room. “I embarrassed him, huh?”
“You think?” Bidwell asked. Taylor sighed and walked over to the kitchen sink, where he washed and dried his hands then hunted for a glass and saucer. While he poured milk and counted out chocolate-chip cookies from a bakery bag, Hardesty slipped the pins back out of the takedown points on the rifle. “What shape is it in?”
“I need to reset the sights and seat the barrel so it's aligned with the chamber correctly,” she answered. “It'll work as it is, but I wouldn't want to depend on it at any kind of distance. Over about 300 yards it'll be out yay far.” She held up her finger and thumb, spread them apart from roughly three to over four inches. “Much more than that and you can't depend on your shot at all. I'd know more if I could go someplace and zero it in.”
“So what it's really good for,” Bidwell murmured, “is likely to be a bluff.”
Hardesty nodded sharply. “Yes sir.”
Taylor stepped through the door with the cookies and milk, and Bidwell nodded.
“We can't afford a bluff, Angela,” he said. “I've been talking to Tim. We'll get one crack at this, if we're very, very, very lucky.”
“It's always better to be good than to be lucky,” she said. “How many more rifles like that does the Detail have?”
“Four,” Bidwell said, “Tim thinks. No more than four, anyway. Maybe only two.”
“Does he know who carries them?”
“He says nobody carries them full-time. They're too awkward for fast work in close.”
She grinned toothily. “Depends on how fast and how close. That one was really handy when I ... acquired it.” Something caused her to turn pensive. “I'm a little worried about that Marine.”
Bidwell's attention went to the TV, where a “Breaking News” graphic flashed. “I think you can stop worrying about him, Angela.”
“Oh, damn,” she murmured, recognizing the face if not the name.
“They'll be hunting you for murder, now,” Bidwell said, ashen-faced.
Hardesty looked up at him and shook her head. “I'll be hunting them.”

Liberator Part X

“Boneheads,” Taylor said from the doorway. “They've killed a Marine.” He came into the room, hugged Hardesty hard. “NCIS will be all over them, before you know it.” Hardesty managed a wry smile and forced herself to relax enough to reassure the boy. She looked up at Bidwell, who patted her shoulder.
“I wish the world did work more like TV,” Hardesty said quietly.
“It will if we help it,” Bidwell told her. He gestured at the screen.
“Hey,” Taylor said. “Those are the people who were chasing us in the woods. The ones we hid from.”
Wilson, catching sight of the screen, almost dropped the dishes he'd been carrying back to the sink. “I can't hear that – what are they saying?”
Bidwell thumbed the remote and the volume rose.
“...Hardesty. It's unknown at this time,” the woman went on, “whether in fact Secret Service Supervisory Agent Timothy Wilson is a participant in the kidnapping or a third victim. Since the vehicle and equipment Wilson was operating have not been found, and in light of the slaying of the Marine whose rifle Hardesty carried out of the woods ...”
Wilson stood there, in the middle of the room with his back to the window, staring open-mouthed at the television.
“...with too many Senators unable to return immediately for the vote,” the woman went on. “We're afraid the Vice President's been eliminated as well. So we're asking the Speaker to move for an invocation of the Amendment immediately ...”
Bidwell surged to his feet, swearing.
“...meanwhile, please report any sightings of this boy to the proper authorities ...” a photo of Taylor – very recent – filled the screen.
The Vice President of the United States used a savage snap of the remote. “How dare she ...”
“That murder victim wasn't just a Marine,” Wilson said. “Sergeant James Raven had nineteen years and eleven months and eighteen days in service. He worked with the Detail for the last nine weeks, because he was our incoming liaison for Marine One communications.”
“That's what he was doing out in the woods with the rifle?”
“Every Marine is a rifleman,” Wilson said indirectly. He turned and stared at Hardesty. “That was Bill Waddell standing on that platform. Robertson's people include the former head of the Detail.”
“I know,” she answered. “This goes a lot deeper than one rogue Marine Colonel, doesn't it?”
“Maybe not,” Wilson said. “So far as I know Raven was the straightest kind of arrow. And Raven hadn't carried a rifle in years, before my boss tapped him for the estate search.”
“Your boss?” Hardesty asked.
“That woman on television,” Wilson answered wearily, “is also known as Regent One. She's the most dangerous single individual it's ever been my privilege to work with.”
Hardesty studied Wilson. “So, when we checked into this place, I didn't notice any hotel security cameras in obvious places. What do you figure the coverage really is?”
“I'm glad there's been a shift change since we checked in,” he answered.
“There's a fire-escape map,” Hardesty said, leafing through the binder of information for guests parked on the suite's tidy work-station tabletop. She flipped out the page to its full-size. “Business center, office, lobby, guest laundry, pool, diner ... rooms here. Second floor a guest laundry, exercise center, more rooms ... third floor two conference areas in this wing and ... presto.”
Wilson peered over her shoulder. “Yeah, that looks like it.”
“Looks like what?” Bidwell asked. “It says utilities.”
“Doesn't say what kind,” Wilson said idly. “Might mean anything from a janitor's cubby to ... the hotel security office to ...”
Fourteen minutes later he whispered in annoyance, “...pipe chases and electrical boxes.” Carefully, he stepped through the door; its lock, not set up for a keycard, had been surprisingly easy to work around. He closed the door almost to behind himself and advanced along the utilitarian, hallway-like space. “And ...” his voice trailed off.
Hardesty, outside in the hall, tapped knuckles against the door. “You OK?”
Wilson emerged, dusting himself off. “It's a closed-circuit system. Looks like they record one full tape every 24 hours, and store the last week's worth somewhere off-site. The next one due to be loaded shows a date from two weeks ago tomorrow.”
“Not too shabby,” Hardesty murmured. “So they bill on a seven-day cycle, and keep a seven-day security log in case of insufficient funds or claims for lost luggage or whatever.”
Wilson grinned. “What we need is a magnet.” She gave him a plainly boggled look. “A sufficiently strong magnet will erase video tapes,” he explained. “Also computer hard drives, audio tapes, possibly flash drives and random-access-memory chips.”
“Wouldn't it have to be an awfully powerful magnet?” she wrinkled her nose. “Like a junkyard car lifter?”
He grinned. “You,” he said, “used to watch as much TV as Taylor, didn't you?”
“Spent a lot of Friday nights in Hazzard County,” she replied, “trying not to grow up in spite of graduating high school.”
He chuckled softly. “Did it work?”
“So far,” she answered. “What about you, Wilson?”
“I was a big fan of Bill Nye the Science Guy,” Wilson said. He pushed the button on the elevator. “It doesn't have to be a huge magnet if it's close enough to the tape or you make several passes with it. Something like one of those business-card refrigerator magnets, even, could make the tape useless for identifying the people on it.”
Hardesty bit her lip, closed her eyes, leaned against the elevator door. “I know where there's something better than that. In the kitchenette, in the suite. On the side of the oven – there's a fire extinguisher. It's held in place with a magnet.”
Wilson lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed an elegant kiss. “You're a genius.” He freed her hand, and added as he hurried away along the hall, “Go on back and tell the Boss everything's under control.”
“Because ...”
“Because there's a kitchen right across the hall, in that big conference room. If they put magnetic fire extinguishers in every kitchenette, they probably put two or three in the caterers' area.” He flashed her a grin. “I'll be down in two shakes.”
Hardesty bumped the stairwell door with her hip, as the elevator had not arrived, and hurried away.
She found Bidwell brewing tea – very strong tea. She sniffed the concoction curiously as he locked the suite door behind her. “Got a cold?”
“Preventing something worse,” he said. “Look, I can do Taylor. But I need your help, after.”
“Do Taylor?”
He gestured with the heavy glass mug. “I can get him to let me soak his hair and eyebrows with this, to darken them. I can run a chapstick along his eyelids and the edges of his hair so it doesn't stain his skin. I can even time it – but to do something about my hair, I need somebody who can see if I've missed any spots in the back or on the top.”
“Oh,” she said instantly. “Why tea?”
“Coffee smells too strong,” he answered. “You never told me how you got those blonde streaks, at the truck stop.” His gaze turned quizzical. “Highlights ... Whatever you call 'em. They look good, by the way.”
She grinned. “Thanks. I picked up some first-aid peroxide and lemon juice at the convenience store.”
“The ponytail and glasses make a difference,” he said, and suddenly his voice seemed to catch. “I ... uh ... you know, Taylor's crazy about you.”
“Funny,” she said. “That's what he told me about you.” She looked up at him, expecting that casual, sideways, open grin – and surprised a look on his face that took her breath away.
“Get out of this in one piece, Angela,” he said. “Please.”
Hardesty suddenly felt no urge at all toward flippancy. “We will. All of us. Bet on it.”

Wilson let himself in a few minutes later to a suite that, as far as he could tell, had gone empty. He glanced quickly into the kitchenette, then headed for the separate bedroom. Finding no one there, he noticed the bathroom door partly closed.
“What in the world ...” Taylor sat on the corner of the vanity, wrapped in a towel, with his father daubing a cotton ball into his eyebrows. Bidwell's focus had kept him from hearing Wilson come in; now he stopped, stared at the door, and blinked. Taylor grinned at him, and Wilson whistled softly. “That what I think it is?”
“More disguise,” the boy said happily.
Wilson glanced around. “Where's Hardesty?”

Liberator XI

Bidwell blinked. “I thought she was out front.”
“TV's on. No sign of her.” Wilson walked to the window, peered out. “Damn. Car's gone, boss.” He turned back toward the bathroom and his eye fell on Hardesty's backpack. “Uh oh.”
“What?”
“Where'd this come from?”
Bidwell, still carrying the dripping cotton ball, peered over Wilson's shoulder. “Never saw it before.”
“I have,” Wilson said with a sigh. “It's issue. Looks just like the ones Regent One procured for the whole team ...” his voice trailed off and he shook his head. “What was she thinking?”
“Who?” Bidwell took in the alarm on Wilson's face. “You're not talking about Angela.”
“Text message,” Wilson said. “Apparently this came from Regent Four.” He picked up the cell phone, held it within Bidwell's field of vision. The older man read the screen, then turned a puzzled frown on the younger. “It looks like GPS coordinates – Hardesty used to be on the Detail. She'd recognize some of them from memory.”
“Like those?”
“Like these,” Wilson confirmed. “The Palmer School's somewhere else. These are for Bethesda Naval Hospital. That's probably where the President is, right now.”
“Where in the world did she get this, Tim?”
“I have no idea ...” Wilson flipped the phone over and groaned. “That's Regent One's call-code.”
Bidwell chewed his lip, then hastened back to Taylor. He finished daubing the boy's hair with strong tea and checked his watch, then set an alarm for ten minutes. “Tim,” he said, “we may need to get out of here in a hurry.”
Wilson nodded.
A few minutes later, the watch beeped. “Okay, Taylor – you hit the shower and wash your hair. Don't take too long, okay?”
Taylor bounced off the vanity and nodded. “Okay, Dad. You know, Miss Angel was doing laundry – shouldn't somebody check on it?”
Wilson said quietly, “I'll take care of it.” He pushed open the door into the hall and headed down to the designated guest laundry for their floor. Bidwell watched him out of sight before shutting the door, then poured himself another cup of coffee while he waited for Taylor. He'd no more than taken a sip when the door banged open, admitting a white-faced and fast-moving Wilson.
“Quick,” he said, with a gesture. “Grab Taylor – we've got to get out of here.” Bidwell raised an eyebrow, but Wilson had already turned off the TV and grabbed Hardesty's backpack. “The FBI's in the lobby.”
“Oh, rats,” Bidwell said softly. “Taylor ...” He pushed open the bathroom door.
Two minutes later a trio of black-suited men burst into the suite.
“Somebody's staying here, right enough,” one of them said, gesturing at the coffee Bidwell had abandoned on the counter. “Check the bedroom.”
“Clear!”
The second and third armed men reappeared. “Wet towels and a kid's laundry in the bathroom, chief. No sign of anything in the bureau or the closets.”
“Nothing?”
“Desk clerk said two guys, one woman, one kid,” the third agent pointed out. “Not a lot of sign in the room, for that kind of population.”
“Check over there,” the man in charge replied, nodding at the French doors that opened onto the balcony. These proved locked. The youngest agent opened them quickly and shoved through, but came back in right away.
“Nothing,” he said, disgustedly.
The other agent stepped out, looked both ways, checked below. “The vehicle isn't here.”
“We missed them,” the man in charge said. “They were tipped off.” The desk clerk looked at him, fear in her face, as the three men converged on her. “Let's go back down to your office,” the man in charge said flatly. “I want to have a look at your security tapes, and the phone records for this room.”
The woman trembled a little as the group left the suite; the man in charge deliberately didn't shut the door behind him.

Wilson peered around the edge of the door from the balcony into the suite, saw the open door into the hall and swore under his breath. He stepped back out, stood on the rail and reached up toward the balcony above, catching the heavy braided-nylon camouflage belt Bidwell had dropped over the side. He wrapped the buckle-end around his hand, gave a tug and used the belt to help him rappel up the split-face block wall to the next balcony.
“Good thing this room was empty,” Bidwell said, with a nod to the space beyond the doors. “What now?”
“They've had a look around down there, but our best bet is to be somewhere else as soon as possible.” Wilson sighed. “Taylor okay?”
“I think he might be a little scared,” Bidwell said softly. “He's never done trapeze work before.”
“You took right to it,” Wilson said, approvingly.
“His mom had a third-floor bedroom, when we were in high school,” the Vice President answered mildly. “How exactly do we proceed, Tim?”
Wilson shook his head. “I would give my eyeteeth for a telephone, so I could get in touch with Hardesty.” He looked at his boss and the boy on the balcony and added ruefully, “Since I haven't got one, I guess she's on her own.”
“Just like us,” Taylor murmured.
“Just like us,” Bidwell confirmed.
Wilson jimmied the door, let them into the room beyond. It proved a utilitarian space, not another suite but a storage and service area.
“Well, well, well,” Wilson murmured. He grinned at Bidwell. “Look what we've got here.” Stacks of staff uniforms filled a floor-to-ceiling shelf; a laundry chute from overhead dumped into a thermoplastic cart. Not long thereafter, Bidwell, dressed now in a housekeeping uniform, pushed the cart – artfully heaped with sheets and towels – down the hall toward the freight elevator at a desultory pace, knocking randomly at doors as he went.
“Don't sneeze,” Taylor said, grabbing a towel and muffling Wilson in it as the latter's face convulsed a second time. “Somebody'll hear you.”
Wilson muffled the explosion in the towel, then whispered back, “thanks.”
The freight elevator opened, descended, opened again; Bidwell walked out into the covered parking area, checked the van with its back doors open and grinned at the keys hanging from the ignition. He turned around, trotted back and shoved the hamper into the van, slammed the doors and swung into the driver's seat. A moment more and the van had negotiated the alley, turned out into a quiet back street, and put the hotel behind them.
Taylor popped out of the hamper. “Dad?”
“Right,” Bidwell said. “How's Tim?”
“Sneezing,” the boy replied. “I think he's allergic to something in the laundry.”
Bidwell chuckled in spite of everything and swung the van up an on-ramp into freeway traffic. A few minutes later Wilson joined him in the van's other front seat, buckling in carefully.
“Taylor,” he said quietly, “isn't big enough for that uniform, boss.”
“I was afraid of that. Well, we'll have to find a place to get some clothes anyway,” Bidwell said. He glanced down at the dull-maroon smock and black trousers he'd donned in such haste earlier. “These are anything but inconspicuous, unless you're actually working.”
“Mmm,” Wilson said. Forty-five minutes later they parked the van in the lot in front of a busy discount warehouse chain store.
Disconsolately, Taylor poked his head over the side of the hamper. “Now what?”
“Tim's turn,” Bidwell said. “Bear in mind we're getting low on cash.”
Wilson sighed. “I think,” he told Bidwell, “we need reinforcements.”
“I think we need to get back to our quarters, without getting caught,” Bidwell said. “Surely by now they know we're not there.”
“You don't think they're watching the place?”
“Only like hawks,” Taylor said.

Liberator XII

Angela Hardesty considered her options. At the moment they appeared few and bleak, but that hadn't stopped her before. The car ahead of her slowed; Hardesty shoved the stick down and pulled to pass on the wrong side, blowing off the sudden storm of horns. She had a destination and a deadline, and the ratio of success she could expect depended directly on covering the distance under the time limit.
“Long way to go,” she muttered. “Short time to get there ...”
The black Suburban materialized – government plates and all – six car-lengths ahead. Hardesty grinned and shoved herself down in her seat as she toed the gas pedal floor-ward and listened to the back barrels open up in the big engine's carefully-orchestrated intake sequence. The Plymouth would, at this rate, suck down gasoline faster than a Streak Eagle absorbing humid air, but she'd have to think about how to answer for that later. The long low blue hood in front of her gave the impression of aiming at her prey. She pushed her way through the traffic, oblivious to the noise rippling out behind her passage.
Hardesty pulled even, nosed ahead, shot a look into the cab, and grinned in recognition. The next bit would be tricky, but her recent display of lane-changing ought to cover her intention here ...
She braked, wrenched her wheel to the left, counted a heartbeat's quarters out loud and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The transmission squalled and the engine bellowed and the Plymouth felt as though it leaped into the air under her. She caught the wheel against a thigh and cut through another narrow gap then slid down an offramp, but behind her she'd already seen the Suburban go up in the air, climbing the rear left quarter of a car the driver never saw. The huge black vehicle flipped onto its back and spun around once before another car clipped a corner, sending it into a merry-go-round motion that carried it into a guardrail. Hardesty wondered almost idly if it would go over. Should it, her job would be harder later; for now, the delay in Regent One's arrival at Bethesda seemed enough. She pulled into a corner filling station and sucked in a breath.
A check of her gauges and a fast walk-around showed her the Plymouth had taken no damage in the exchange. She wondered how many of the dash cameras on the freeway would have her image embedded now; no helicopter's overhead drumming threatened, at least for the moment. Hardesty blew out her breath and climbed back into the car; she took her bearings and drove away, not as though in flight. Pass under the freeway, turn along her earlier route, take the onramp; by the time official vehicles gathered around the turtled Suburban in sufficient force to think of pursuit, she ought to be long gone. That thought firmly uppermost in mind, she headed back to check on her charges.
The hotel parking lot scared her. Way too many official vehicles in way too small a space; Hardesty never even turned in. But from half a block down on the far side of the street, she munched a submarine sandwich and sucked down a soda while pretending not to watch the parking lot. The official vehicles remained gaggled together there, convincing her that the Bidwells and Wilson must be elsewhere.
Where and how to find them now became her problem.

“Where's Miss Angela?” Taylor asked, coming out of the back of the van to stand between his dad and the man who'd watched over his dad like a hawk since Taylor's earliest memories.
“I don't know, son,” Bidwell said. “I do think we need to get away from this vicinity. Mightn't be a bad idea to get away from this van. As soon as it's reported stolen it'll be a very big target.”
“Speaking of ...” Wilson nodded at the discount store anchoring the shopping center where they sat. “Let's see if we can find some inconspicuous duds in there.”
Taylor growled. “My glasses are broken.”
“That's okay,” his dad said. “I don't think you need them, now. That dark hair makes you look very different.” He took a moment to wrap the boy in his arms. Taylor wriggled briefly.
“I want Miss Angela back,” he said.
“So do we,” Wilson murmured.
“She doesn't know we've left,” Taylor pointed out.
“Well, by now she probably does. But what she doesn't know is how we left or where we are.”
The boy looked at his dad. “How do we find her?”
“We,” Bidwell said, “let her find us.”

Hardesty gave a moment's thought to communications, then grinned and flipped on the radio in the car. She turned it up, tuned in a hard-bass-beat station, and cruised down the access road past the hotel, then two more; she took a side street and counted three blocks before turning back along her original route. One, two, three ... there. The service entrance to the place they'd been staying swarmed with cops, and a distressed man in a linen-company coverall paced along the loading dock.
“Oh, boss,” Hardesty breathed. “You're a genius.”
Ten minutes later she sat in a branch library office, checking through local listings for linen services. A photo of the hotel's staff uniforms appeared as a feature ad in one company's quarter-page display, and she read the fine print and memorized the logo. Then she strolled over to an empty computer and used the internet as she checked maps in the area, using the street view to get a feel for the neighborhoods surrounding discount stores.
A few minutes later she strolled back out to the Plymouth. Whistling happily, she pulled onto a quiet street, drove three blocks down, turned left and began scanning the lot in front of her.
The linen company van didn't look out of place, really. The driver's silvering hair framed an open, handsome face – and the way his eyes lit up as she drove past made Hardesty grin.
“Bingo,” she said softly. She pulled the Plymouth up next to the truck and tapped the gas pedal once, raising the sound of the engine to a purr.
Seconds later Taylor piled out of the driver's door of the van and bounced around the back of the Plymouth, leaning in the open window to hug Hardesty around the neck. “You found us!”
“Yep,” she said, reaching over to open the door for the adults following him, “and if I can so can the bad guys, so it's better we don't hang around here too long, fellas.”
“Been quite a morning,” Wilson murmured.
Hardesty made a noncommittal noise and waited while Wilson slid into the back seat.
“Lie down, Tim,” Bidwell said. “I cleaned the key and door handles and wheel, but I might've left a print or two somewhere in that truck. I'd just as soon we leave here without being seen.” To that end he tucked Taylor's head down into his lap and slid his own bucket seat back, scrunching himself down below the window-ledge. “Angela, I suppose you know by now our hotel's crammed full of FBI.”
“Wasn't sure what kind of agents,” she answered laconically. “Any of y'all happen to snag my backpack on the way out of there?”
Wilson growled something, and Bidwell snapped his fingers. “It's in the hamper in the truck – I'll grab it.”
“No, you won't,” she answered. “Wilson left it. He can fetch it.” She turned and gave the agent a long look. “While you're in there, make sure there aren't any fingerprints left on anything. I'll pick you up down by the sub shop when you're finished. We're going up to see the President after that. I'll be danged if I'm leaving us unprotected.”

Liberator XIII

Wilson vanished into the van. Hardesty looked at her passengers with a glint in her eye. “Gentlemen,” she said mildly, “when Tim rejoins us we are indeed going somewhere. Boss, do you know how to get to Bethesda?”
Bidwell nodded.
“Good. You'll be driving, then. Taylor, you stick to your dad like you were Velcroed on, hear me? We've got about a half a snowball's chance of making this work. I want to be sure the two of you are absolutely safe.”
“Angela ...”
“I know. But one of us has been tracked consistently since we all met up. You're not wearing or carrying anything you had, and neither is Taylor. I'm not. So who does that leave?”
“You had that cell phone.”
“Uh-huh, I did. Hidden in a box of bullets AFTER we got together. It wasn't there before – that box was full of ammunition, not half-full and hiding a cell phone originally issued to members of the Regent team.”
Bidwell went white. Taylor looked scared.
“I put it to good use this morning. Or at least, I think it was a good use. It's in the backpack now, I would guess?”
Bidwell nodded.
“Okay. Well, we're getting pretty close to the end of this thing. If Tim's in on it on purpose ... I'm sorry, guys. I don't have a gun or even a knife, and I don't know what he's packing. If he's not in on it on purpose ... I guess we'll see which side he's on when we get there. I don't know what he's doing. I don't know what he's thinking. I may have handed y'all over to him like ... pigeons in a cage or rabbits in a trap.” Hardesty, briefly, hung her head. “Not what I was supposed to do, gentlemen, and for that I apologize.”
“I'm the one who said we had to trust each other,” Bidwell pointed out.
“I'm the one who didn't tell you I saw him with the rifle and the box,” Taylor said. “I thought you knew he had 'em.”
“I did know, while I was negotiating for this car,” Hardesty said. “Did he have them later?”
“Yeah,” Taylor said, sounding breathy. “He was fiddling with 'em in the back seat, that first night. I think he thought I was asleep.”
Bidwell blinked. Hardesty leaned her head against the steering wheel. “Wonder just how good the bug in that thing is.”
“One way to find out,” the Vice President suggested.
“Sure enough.” Hardesty turned the key and drove away slowly, but instead of parking in sight of the sub shop she drove past it. “Come to think of it ... that thing was with you this morning. That might explain how I got close enough to wreck a convoy.”
“Wreck?” Bidwell asked. “I didn't see any damage to the Plymouth.”
“That,” Hardesty answered, “is one of the things that's different about growing up in Hazzard County.” She gave him a wicked grin and an over-played wink. “You learn how to steer toward the wreck, 'cause by the time you get there it's someplace else and you can go right on through.”
He looked at her, closely. “I'm not sure I want to understand that, Angela.”
“You do,” she said. “And whenever you're riding with anybody but me, you want the driver to understand that, too. I know we're all professional paranoids since nine-eleven, but people do forget. It's not a cop-show principle; it doesn't get reinforced every night on three networks. You'd have to have wanted to ride with – or better yet be out there to outrun -- King Richard or The Intimidator to have seen it worked where it was invented.” She licked her lips. “Ever watch Top Gun, Taylor?”
“Sure,” he said. “I didn't like it much, though. It's too girly.”
Hardesty's grin blossomed. Bidwell looked completely nonplussed.
“Movie's old, boss,” she murmurmed. “Times change, tastes change, Taylor grew up in a world at war. They're not flying Tomcats anymore.”
Bidwell nodded reluctantly. “More contractors. Not so many look like Kelly McGillis.”
“More pilots, but none of 'em look like Tom Cruise. You can do that stuff in peacetime. You can't afford it when the next guy on your six really wants to kill you.” Hardesty raised her head. “Do we wait for Tim here? Or do we go see Mikaela and the girls first?”
“You know where they are?”
“Yep.”
“If we could all go see the President together, he'd like that, I bet.” Taylor piped up.
“Colonel Robertson and his outfit would purely hate that, too.” Hardesty said firmly.
Bidwell looked at her. “What are the chances?”
“Realistically? Awful. But then again ...” Hardesty grinned. “I never expected to get you and Taylor together, this close to home safe, when I took off with him that morning.”
“What are you going to do when this is over, Angela?”
She blew out a breath. “I'm going home, boss. Texas is way more peaceful than this big city.”
“You'll be back,” Taylor predicted. “You'll get bored.”
Bidwell burst out laughing. “That,” he said, when he could manage it, “is a guaranteed slam-dunk, son.”
“I like being bored,” Hardesty said plaintively.
“Right,” Bidwell said. “That's why you're here.”
“Well, technically, I'm here 'cause I gave you my word I'd do a job for you. You can't say Taylor hasn't had some amazing learning experiences lately.” She rolled her shoulders, glanced into the backseat via the mirror, and grinned at her charge. “He's sure taught me some important lessons.”
“And you're here 'cause you hate not having a regular paycheck, too,” Taylor pointed out.
“There's that,” she admitted. “But what I'm earning, lately, isn't measured in dollars and cents.”
Bidwell sucked in his breath, watching the look she gave the boy. “That makes two of us. Unrealistically, what are the chances we could all go see Ben as a group?”
“Pretty good, if we get after it,” Hardesty said. “Do we bring Wilson, and keep an eye on him?”
“No,” Bidwell decided. “Unless you're afraid we can't do it without him.”
“If that was all I was afraid of we'd be there already,” Hardesty answered. “I'm afraid he's a good guy who doesn't know how he's being used, too.”
Taylor said softly, “Here he comes.”
“Well. I guess we find out,” Bidwell said. He opened the door and walked around the car as Hardesty scrambled into the backseat, making room for Wilson on the passenger side.
Wilson swung into the car and settled into the seat, tossing the backpack casually into the space between himself and Bidwell behind the wheel.
“Thanks,” Hardesty said, retrieving the bundle.
“No problem,” Wilson answered. “What about the van?”
“Did you leave the keys in it?” Bidwell asked.
“Yeah,” Wilson said.
“Good,” Hardesty said. “It'll either bring the cops here, or wherever it ends up. If it ends up somewhere else, that's all to the good, from our point of view.”
Wilson bit his lip. “I could take it somewhere else, catch up with you at Bethesda.”
“How would you get there?” Taylor asked mildly.
“Ditch the van somewhere close to a bus stop,” the Secret Service man replied. “Take the bus.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Bidwell said. “How long?”
“I should be there in a couple hours, tops.”
“Do that, then,” the Vice President said firmly. “Take the rifle with you. If you haven't seen us by ... he glanced at the clock on the dashboard, “sixteen hundred hours, head for the hotel. If we're not back together by an hour after you get there ... go to the FBI and tell them everything you've seen and heard since Hardesty walked out of the woods with Taylor.”
“The FBI? My boss will eat me alive.”
“That's a chance you'll have to take, Tim.” Bidwell's eyes were warm, but his mouth was tight and Hardesty could hear the worry in his voice. “What we know now is your boss might be – probably is but we don't know for sure -- working with Robertson's outfit too. Don't go to the Hoover building. Go to a local office. Or if you'd rather talk to somebody at ATF ...”
Wilson shuddered. “No, thanks. Fibbies, here I come.”
Bidwell stopped next to the van's driver's door. “See you in a couple of hours, Tim.”
Hardesty hefted the backpack. “You'll need this, Tim. You can give it back when we hook up again; if we can't, you'll need it for evidence.”
He shouldered it and nodded. “Thanks. See you at Bethesda.”
Bidwell waited until the van had pulled into traffic. “I hope we didn't just send an armed assassin after the President.”
“Me too,” Hardesty muttered.
“I wish,” Taylor said, “Olivia was here. Or Agent McGee.”
“Me, too,' Bidwell said.

Liberator XIV

Hardesty looked at her charges. “Come on, guys. Have a little faith.”
Taylor nodded. “I do. I just ... think we could use some help.”
“Trained, adult help,” Bidwell added almost under his breath, and Hardesty laughed out loud.
“Den leaders,” she murmured.
Bidwell caught her eye in the rearview mirror and winked. He checked the dash, frowned, and said mildly, “We need gas.”
“Yeah, I ...” Hardesty swallowed. “...burned some, this morning. Let's go ahead and fill up.”
The Vice President blinked and his son's tutor smiled into the mirror at him. Jason Bidwell had seen, in the past several days, this woman competent, worried, flirting shamelessly for public display, exhausted, delighted, frightened, haggling, scrambling and sapiently patient. He had not, in his memory, seen her smile like this. He had known for some while now that he liked her – a lot – and that Taylor adored her. It dawned on him now that he could share his son's assessment of Hardesty, without much effort.
They stopped; Taylor trotted into the cashier's domain with one of the last of their $50 bills in his fist while Hardesty pumped gas and scrubbed windshield, windows and back glass. She glanced in at Bidwell before reaching through the open passenger window, thumbing open the glove box and picking up a digital tire gauge. While the pump continued running relentlessly through their funds, Hardesty checked the pressures in all four tires. She made a motion at Bidwell and he pulled the hood release; Hardesty popped the hood and checked the oil. She thumbed the radiator cap release and peered into the overflow reservoir, then put everything back where it belonged and disconnected the Plymouth from the gas-pump umbilical.
“Looks good all around,” she said casually as Taylor arrived with the change.
Bidwell nodded, turned the key, and said to his passengers, “Buckle up.”
Five minutes later, heading down a major street, Hardesty said mildly, “We're taking a little detour. Make a left, and then in seven blocks make a right.”
They pulled up in front of The Palmer School. A couple of black SUVs, a half-dozen police vehicles, two media vans and a crowd surrounded the police barricades in front of the sturdy old brick structure. Hardesty raised an eyebrow at Bidwell.
“Think they're still inside?”
“Somebody is,” he answered. “What do you have in mind?”
“Bustin' 'em out,” Taylor said happily. “I knew you would, Miss Angel.”
Hardesty raised an eyebrow at him. “With what army, Taylor? Take a look at all this.”
“Uh huh,” Taylor said. “Just like the hotel, this morning.” Bidwell chuckled wryly and Hardesty swallowed a groan of dismay. But the boy grinned trustingly up at the adults who had, as far as he could tell, behaved like super heroes for the past several days flawlessly. “It'll be a piece of cake.”
His guardian angels' eyes met over his head, and both of them shook their heads almost imperceptibly. But for Taylor, neither would show the self-doubt tsunami each could see in the other's eyes.
“This might be easier said than done, Taylor,” Bidwell murmured.
“Might be, at that,” Hardesty muttered, looking at the hotel staff uniform Wilson had discarded in the back seat. “Pull on around behind the building, boss, and let's think about this a minute.”
On the reverse side of the surrounded school the cordon lacked media reinforcement; otherwise it appeared just as formidable as the frontal array – except for the huge old trees flanking the building. Rows of them marched away along the property line from either end, and several actually overhung the dormered roof. Hardesty considered.
“People look around, and sometimes down,” she pointed out. “Up, not so much. If I'm not back in an hour I'm not coming, so go on to Bethesda and make yourselves as safe as you can when you get there.” She slid out the passenger door and walked across the street to the side of one of the trees farthest from the building; a convenient limb six inches around jutted out at shoulder-height, and Hardesty hoisted herself into the fork and climbed.
Taylor elbowed his father. “Look at that, Dad.”
“I am,” he answered, surprised anew at Hardesty's athletic ability. She moved from her tree to the next in line by the simple expedient of walking along branches thirty feet above the ground as if she were walking a balance beam. Another tree, then another; he lost her in the foliage halfway to the building.
“Now what do we do?”
He glanced at the dashboard clock. “We give her an hour. If she doesn't come back we go see Uncle Ben.”

Fifty-three minutes later Hardesty pecked on the glass behind him. Bidwell sat up and stared at her, and her trailing companions: a beautiful but haggard-looking woman shepherding two daughters. “What did you do?”
“My job,” she said. “Let us in and let's blow out of here.”
“Mikaela?”
“Jason! We've got to get moving – girls, sit in the back and buckle up,” the First Lady said firmly. “Taylor, sit in the middle – you're the shortest.”
“Aunt Mickie!”
“Mom!”
“This is a heap,” Tasha said conversationally, but she obeyed her mother despite her wrinkle-nosed expression.
Bidwell glanced at Hardesty. “You driving?”
“Naw,” she answered. “Let's get these ladies home where they belong.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. He started the car, pulled away along the shady street, and had made a turn past the corner of the school before he let himself ask one of the questions boiling up inside him. “How ...”
“Basement,” Hardesty said. “Side away from all the crowds had a boiler room.”
“There's a couple of Secret Service agents who are going to be really annoyed with you when they wake up,” Mikaela said softly. “If they wake up. You hit that second one awfully hard.”
Bidwell glanced at the rear mirror, where a police cruiser had just turned into traffic behind them; it fired up lights, and he groaned. “Hang on, everybody.”
Four lefts, two rights and a cut through an alley later they had shed all the police cars, but Bidwell now had no idea exactly how to get back to a major thoroughfare. Mikaela, however, had a cell phone in her purse.
“I can get directions with this,” she said. “Where are we?”
They rolled slowly down the alley, Bidwell crossing intervening streets carefully, watchfully. Presently he called out the name of a couple of cross streets. The First Lady typed rapidly on the little keyboard that folded out of the side of her device, stared at the card-size screen, and said firmly, “I don't think Mapquest knows where we are.”
Bidwell shrugged and rolled through another block. Hardesty glanced over at the screen.
“Take the next left, then go three blocks and do it again,” she said gravely. Bidwell obeyed, and then flashed a scimitar smile over his shoulder.
“Oh, I know how to get anywhere, from here,” he said. In the distance the Capitol building rose, appearing to block the street ahead. Seven minutes later they were pulling through the gates of the White House. Bidwell slowed to flash his driver's license at the guard.
“Sir,” the Marine said. “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to wait here.” He gestured quickly; a pair of armed men in similar uniforms appeared, one barring the road with a rifle leveled at the windshield and the other, similarly posted directly behind the car.
Mikaela Benton's door opened and she stood straight up, turning to stare at the uniformed guard. “Lance Corporal,” she said in a command voice so crisp it yanked Hardesty to attention too, “what is the meaning of this?”
“Ma'am, I have orders to detain this man for Colonel Robertson,” the Marine answered firmly.
“This man? What for?”
“Colonel Robertson didn't give me that information, ma'am,” the Marine said.
The First Lady nodded decisively. “I want to speak to the Colonel.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that, ma'am,” the Marine said.
“Why not?”
“He's not available,” the Marine said.
“Who's your immediate supervisor?”
“Gunnery Sergeant Martinez, ma'am.”
“Is he available?”
“She is, ma'am, a radio call away,” the Marine said.
“I'd like to speak to her immediately,” Mikaela told him.
“Yes ma'am,” the marine said. “PFC Quinones.”
Another Marine, this one in an undress green uniform, appeared. “Yes, Corporal.”
“Escort this lady to the comm station and put through a call to our NCOIC,” Lance Corporal Sharon commanded. The PFC said only, “Yes, Corporal. Ma'am, if you'll come with me.”
Mikaela glanced at Bidwell. “I'll be right back.”
“Sure,” he said easily. He kept his hands on the wheel and his foot off the gas. Hardesty slid over and closed the passenger door.
“Boss,” she said in a low voice, “plan B is for me to take out the sentry behind us and you to get yourself to the Senate floor ASAP.”
“What?”
“The news was on inside the school. A quorum is assembled, and at two o'clock this afternoon they're going to vote on declaring the President incapacitated. If you're not on the Senate floor by the time that vote starts, the next person in line to take over ...”
Bidwell went white. “I wish Ben hadn't reappointed that skunk.”
“Bad decisions happen,” she said philosophically. “We have an hour and twenty minutes to get you to the chamber and put a stop to this little coup.”
“Or get shot trying, at least,” Bidwell said. He glanced at her and suppressed a smile. “Never thought I'd have to make a decision like that, at my age.”
She looked up at him and grinned again. “Your age doesn't look too bad from where I'm sitting.”
“You're just saying that,” he joked, “to break the tension.”
“Still wouldn't lie to you,” she answered. “Especially not in front of the kids.”
He checked the rear view mirror, rolled his shoulders and sucked in his breath. “Thanks, Angela.”
Minutes went by. The kids in the back seat relaxed from round-eyed, breath-holding silence through furtive glances at each other, the adults in the front seat, and the armed troops guarding the car. Hardesty blew out a breath and tightened her grip on the door handle. “Plan B starts in 3, 2 ...”
“Hold on,” Bidwell said, as Mikaela and her Marine escort reappeared. Hardesty waited, every muscle tense as a guitar string.
“Jason,” Mikaela Benton said. “Colonel Robertson is on his way here.” She did not smile. Her voice trembled, but whether from fear or rage neither Bidwell nor Hardesty could tell.
“I have a very bad feeling about this,” Hardesty murmured.
Bidwell said softly, “That makes three of us.”
PFC Quinones stepped back onto the curb. “Corporal, we're to take these people up to the house to wait for Colonel Robertson.” She caught Bidwell's eye, her back to Sharon and her profile to the other Marine at the front of the car, and winked broadly with the eye the armed guard could not see.
Sharon nodded, and Hardesty opened the door, sliding into the middle of the seat as Mikaela folded back into her former spot. “Walk up with the vehicle, Quinones.”
The PFC nodded, and the armed men moved aside, still covering the vehicle.
Bidwell dropped the car into reverse and floored the gas; Quinones missed her step from the curb and stumbled, but before anything worse could occur Bidwell swung the car over a curb, circling tightly. The back tires cut deep into the grass before grabbing traction. Mikaela Benton made a half-smothered noise and Bidwell swung back onto the road, changing gears with a panache that made Hardesty laugh out loud.
If the Marines chose to fire, nobody in the Plymouth heard the shots.

Eighteen minutes later the Vice President of the United States walked into the Senate Chamber and smiled broadly at the Sergeant in Arms. “Joint session, eh?”
“Yes sir.” The man considered his interlocutor and then added quietly, “They'll not be looking for you. I wouldn't miss this for the world.”
Jason Bidwell chuckled. “I bet.”

Liberator: Chapter the Last

Sometime later, he walked off the floor of the chamber into his office as President of the Senate and considered the last week's happenings. Much remained to be done, starting with finding out exactly why Ben Benton had been taken to the hospital and held incommunicado for nearly a week and working through exactly where Robertson's renegade crew could be found now. The coup had failed without so much as a whimper, although the appearance of Major Wilson, Timothy NMI, armed with the sniper rifle Hardesty had confiscated from Robertson's Marine had livened proceedings in the chamber up considerably. Tim had walked in with the takedown rifle, still in three pieces, in Hardesty's backpack, knelt behind the podium where Bidwell stood to speak, and put the thing together before handing it over.
“This is what could have happened to any of us, or all of us,” Bidwell had told his colleagues. “A trained shooter with this very weapon was sent after my son and his tutor, ladies and gentlemen.” He'd checked the chamber and grinned at Wilson. “Nice, Tim.” The sergeant-at-arms and the Secret Service protective detail tried to swoop down; Bidwell casually handed the weapon back to Wilson and said, mildly, “Keep an eye on everybody.”
Jaws fell open throughout the assembly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bidwell had said. “The President of the United States is unable to join us at this time in this place, but as the duly elected Vice President of the United States, I give you my word: the continuity of President Benton's government is assured. I will not bore you with the details of the past six days. I will tell you that any attempt to overturn the Constitutional government of these United States will fail. The United States Marine Corps, the U.S. Navy, the United States Army, and the U.S. Air Force, as well as the U.S. Coast Guard, the Merchant Marine, and all our reserve and guard forces, honor the oaths they swore – the oath to support and defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
“I don't know offhand how many of you here swore that oath as members of the U.S. Armed Forces at some time in the past, or how many of you currently serve with the guard or reserve, ladies and gentlemen; that's knowledge that's far more material to you, individually, than it is to me or to this legislative body collectively. What I do know is that every breathing one of you took that oath again, when you undertook your duties as a duly elected member of the United States Senate or the United States House of Representatives.
“I'm here to hold you to your oaths. I'm not here to frighten you or upset you. I am here to tell you that from this moment onward, however, the honor of each and every one of you is at stake. Don't think you can send a message from this floor to encourage Robertson, Waddell, or anyone else with similar ideas, ladies and gentlemen.”
He paused, looked out over his audience, and gathered them in by eye – a long lingering look on every row from back to front, holding their attention by the sheer force of the conviction he stood upon – and said firmly, “No one here, surely, has forgotten that Ben Benton's last State of the Union address indicated we could not – would not – absolutely will not go on fighting a war of aggression on two fronts. Ladies and gentlemen, that has not changed; the war is over. We're done. Our soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines are gathering up their equipment as we speak, preparing to come home. Now. Today. In accordance with the orders Ben Benton sent, in writing, before he gave that last State of the Union Speech on this very floor eight nights ago. Make no mistake. The United States of America will not abandon its friends; but we are done with heedless wasteful headlong aggression, ladies and gentlemen.”
No murmur, no outcry, no applause followed. Many faces reflected anger; a few showed relief. Jason Bidwell smiled then – not the smile of a father greeting a son or a solon greeting a colleague; the smile of a wolf upon sighting prey, the smile of a shark upon sensing blood in the water; he owned that smile as thoroughly as he had ever owned an affable expression or a questioning glance.
“I'm tired of cowering, ladies and gentlemen. I'm tired of the rule of fear and suspicion. I'm tired of innuendo and whispering. I'm tired of subterfuge and covert plotting. Ben Benton can't be here tonight, ladies and gentlemen. But I can, and I am.” The look he covered each member with after those words cut like a knife. “Thank you for your attendance, ladies and gentlemen. We'll reconvene tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Until then we're adjourned. I look forward to seeing you – and all your colleagues who weren't able to join us today – at that time.”
He'd thumped his gavel once against the podium, given Tim Wilson a wink, and walked out of the Chamber without looking back.

Hardesty loped up the hallway to the office. “Good afternoon, sir!”
“It is, Angela,” he said. “Come on in. Have a seat. Grab a drink.”
She chuckled. “Pour me a water. The Marines are coming in, and they're bringing a healthy number of Security and Law Enforcement types from Andrews Air Force Base with them. I don't think there'll be much room around here for me when they arrive. I wanted to know if you needed anything else from me today. Oh, and,” she fished in the pocket of the jeans she'd changed into. “Here are your keys, sir.”
“My keys?”
“To the Plymouth,” she answered. “I thought you might be needing it again.”
He smiled. “What about you?”
She shrugged her shoulders, accepting the glass of clear liquid he offered. “We're back in D.C. I can walk, or get a bus, or take the Metro, pretty well anyplace I need to go by myself.”
He shook his head, but he pocketed the keys. “What about Robertson and Waddell and their cohorts?”
“So,” she answered shrewdly, “You're saying I shouldn't go a lot of places by myself, until you catch them.”
“No,” he said, firmly. “I'm saying you shouldn't go a lot of places by yourself. Period.”
The tutor made a puzzled noise.
The Vice President smiled tiredly. “Taylor needs you, still. More than ever now, in some ways, I think. And I need you too, Angela Hardesty.”
She looked at him, inquiringly.
“I've needed someone like you since Becky deployed,” he said. “Somebody I can trust even when it's dark outside.” He lifted his glass, tossed off the last of its amber contents. “You've no idea how liberating I find your presence.”
Hardesty glanced across at the love seat in his office, where her seven-year-old student slept.
“I didn't realize you needed liberation, sir,” she said mildly.
“Call me Jason,” he said.
Hardesty just nodded.

END

Author's note:
My apologies for the delay. Thank you all for your patience in continuing to read.