“We can get him,” Daniels said. “He’s coming our way.”
They were still moving fast, the road here devoid of traffic in either direction. Fog kept clouding the windshield and windows, the defroster churning out more noise than heat. Brief glimpses of the chaos came when the gusts relaxed. Then a new sensation caught her eye. Red lights flashing. And a siren that wailed and howled. She whipped her head around and saw a police car behind them.
“We’ve got no time for them,” Daniels said.
“They might not see it your way.”
“They’ve got to catch me first.”
He gave the engine more gas, which surged them forward along a straightaway. Then, up ahead, she saw more lights flashing and cars blocking the road. She counted six. That explained the lack of traffic in the other lane. They were closing fast on a barricade, less than a mile away. Uniformed men stood ready. Several had guns aimed.
“Are you going to ram them?” she asked.
Half a mile.
She waited to see what Daniels would do.
Quarter mile.
Suddenly the windshield burst to life with a spiderweb of a thousand glittering opaque lines. Someone had fired at them and now it was impossible to see ahead. Daniels seemed to sense the futility and lifted his foot from the accelerator, jamming the brakes and turning the wheel sharp right. The car’s rear end swung around, perpendicular to the road, and they slid for a hundred yards on the soaked pavement before grinding to a stop.
Then, quiet.
Only the rain peppering the roof disturbed the silence.
Men encircled the car and screamed words in a language she did not understand.
But she didn’t have to.
“This ain’t good,” Daniels muttered.
And for once she agreed with him.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, DC
7:25 A.M.
Stephanie dropped Danny at the White House then headed for the Mandarin Oriental, where she always stayed when in town. Her travel bag had been delivered by a Justice Department staffer, who’d met the jet when it arrived hours ago from Atlanta. Luckily, the hotel had a room immediately available and her things were waiting on her when she opened the door. One of the bellmen had hauled up the wooden crate with books in it and she tipped him $5 after he laid it on the carpet.
A hot shower and some food would be great. So she cleaned herself up, then headed to the eighth floor and the Tai Pan Club where breakfast was offered. She needed to know what was happening in Venice. There’d been no reports from anybody in several hours. The last she heard Luke Daniels was headed to Croatia with the Treasury agent and Cotton was on a ferry with all the remaining players, including the satchel full of documents. Maybe they’d caught a break and things were under control. Then again, she’d learned not to rely on luck. Better to make your own.
At present, nine of her twelve agents were on assignment across the globe. She’d already delegated operational control over eight of them to her second in command. She kept Luke Daniels. Cotton was an independent, the only outside contractor presently working for her. They were utilized from time to time, but sparingly. She preferred full control over her people. Cotton was the exception, though he could, at times, prove problematic. Still, he was the best that had ever worked for her. Never, though, would she tell him that. No need, really. He knew.
Danny had encouraged her to read Howell’s book, and he wanted a full report as soon as news came from overseas. So to pass the time she took him up on his suggestion and downloaded a copy of The Patriot Threat. Before leaving the book’s home page she checked out the 43 customer reviews, with an average ranking of four stars. Most liked the unique ideas presented, but thought the premise a bit far-fetched. Several loved it, but they sounded like anarchists and nearly all of the reviewers hated income taxes.
Who didn’t?
She decided to hang out in the lounge for a little while and read. The book’s introduction stated that Howell was not a lawyer, but he had spent a number of years studying the federal income tax. He invited any and all readers to challenge his assertions and investigate his conclusions on their own. Debate is healthy, he wrote at one point.
That it was.
She glanced at the table of contents and decided to skip around, focusing first on a chapter where Howell hypothesized about the possibility that the 16th Amendment may not have been properly ratified. In the opening paragraph he freely admitted that he possessed no proof, but then stated—
Over the past two decades, many tax protesters (myself included) have claimed that the 16th Amendment is not really part of the Constitution. Therefore, the income tax is illegal. Is this argument valid? A few tax protesters have conducted extensive research, finding that versions of the amendment, as ratified in the individual states, contained minor textual errors. Some neglected to capitalize the word “States,” or referenced “income” in place of “incomes.” Another utilized the word “remuneration” instead of “enumeration.” Still another said “levy” instead of “lay,” and so on and so on. So the question becomes, if the requisite number of states did not all vote on the same identical text for the 16th Amendment, can the amendment really be considered ratified?