Pursuit Read Online Free Page A

headache, she stepped into the East Wing private quarters’ elevator that would whisk her up to the family residence. He had watched the doors close on the slim figure in the glamorous white evening gown, said a few words to Will Prescott, the agent on post in front of the elevator, and proceeded on down to the Secret Service White House command post in the basement. Once inside, he had spoken briefly with the agents covering the monitors streaming real-time, full-color views of all hallways and rooms except the most private areas of the residence. At the large electronic board that displayed color photos of every member of the White House Secret Service detail, he’d punched a button to transfer his name to the off-duty column. Then he’d glanced at the digitized protectee locator board that tracked each member of the First Family from room to room, and noticed that only Mrs. Cooper was in the residence, and she was in her bedroom.
    Safe and secure for one more night. Or so he had thought.
    Now she was dead.
    What the hell had gone wrong?
    “Who the—oh, it’s you.” The speaker was FBI Special Agent Ted Parks, whom Mark had known for the twelve years he’d been with the Secret Service and disliked for at least half that time. Of average height, wiry and bald as an egg at forty, making him four years Mark’s senior, Parks had his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets as he surveyed the scene. His narrow face looked ghastly in the harsh glare of the rescue lights. Shock or grief, Mark supposed. Annette Cooper had been wildly popular—at least with those who didn’t know her personally. “This is un-fucking-believable.”
    Mark didn’t even grunt in reply. He just kept on walking toward the car. The chemical smell of the foam they’d used to put out the flames was almost stronger than the burned smell. Almost.
    “Hey, sorry about Prescott,” Parks called after him.
    Prescott. The name hit him like a blow to the stomach. It confirmed something he’d been told but still didn’t want to believe: Secret Service Agent Will Prescott, his subordinate and a good guy, had been in that car. Last time Mark had seen him, Prescott was settling in for a long, boring eight-hour shift in front of the elevator. The job was like that: endless hours of routine punctuated by the rare few minutes of excitement. God save them all from those few minutes.
    Prescott and the First Lady in a car of unknown origin speeding away from the White House to an unknown destination. What the hell had happened while he’d been picking up his belated dinner at a Mc-Donald’s drive-thru and heading home through the Virginia countryside to the house he now shared solely and reluctantly with an emotionally needy cat?
    The third victim was reported to be the driver. A professional chauffeur. He’d been IDed, but Mark couldn’t remember his name. All he knew at this moment was that whoever the guy was, he had no business driving Annette Cooper. She had official vehicles with highly trained drivers and full-bore protection to take her anywhere she needed to go. No way should she have been in that car.
    “I’m sorry, sir. No one’s allowed past this point.” Another marine blocked his path. Just beyond him, an official barricade of sawhorses and police tape was being set up around the destroyed car. Now that the last of the bodies had been removed, emphasis was shifting to investigating the crash. He stopped, because there was nothing to be gained by going any nearer. He was already so close that he could feel the residual heat of the burned-out wreckage on his face. There was no brush here where the car had landed, and the dry thicket of last year’s grass beneath his feet was short. Short and crisp and black because it had been charred in the fire.
    “Fucking press.” FBI agent Jim Smolski stopped at his elbow, taking a deep drag on a cigarette as he glanced up the slope. Following his gaze, Mark became aware of a TV crew still filming