The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“Isn’t his gunny going to wonder where the hell he is?”

“I told Alex Darby to tell the ambassador I exfiltrated Bradley with us. That’ll hold off the gunny for a couple of days, but even if the ambassador and Darby tell the gunny not to get curious he will.”

“So get him out from under the gunny. Get him transferred out. Can you do that?”

“Get him transferred where? ‘Welcome to Camp Lejeune, Corporal Bradley. Where have you been, what have you been doing, and why have you suddenly been transferred here? What do you mean you can’t tell me, it’s classified Top Secret Presidential’?”

“Yeah,” D’Allessando agreed again, chuckling. “Okay, stash him at Bragg. Call McNab and tell him the problem.”

“A Marine corporal would stand out like a sore thumb at the Special Warfare Center.”

“Not necessarily,” D’Allessando said. “There’s been some talk about taking some Marines—a lot of Marines, two or three thousand—into Special Operations. Another of Schoomaker’s brainstorms, I think.”

General Peter J. Schoomaker was chief of staff of the U.S. Army.

“Schoomaker’s one of us, Vic,” Castillo said.

“Yeah, I know. I knew him then, too. I was the armorer on his A-Team. Good guy. I wasn’t saying it’s a bad idea, just where I think it came from. Anyway, what they’re doing right now is running some Marines—mostly from their Force Recon—through the Q course. So they can tell us what we’re doing wrong, I guess. Anyway, we can stash the kid with them.”

“Where Corporal Bradley would stand out like a sore thumb among the hardy warriors of Marine Force Recon,” Castillo said. He chuckled. “Most of them have gone through that SEAL body building course on the West Coast and look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“That’s my best shot, Charley. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it. I’ll call General McNab.”

“I’ll deal with McNab. Just leave the kid here with me. There will be a Special Ops King Air here around noon. I’ll put him on it and it’ll take him to Bragg.”

“Thanks, Vic.”

As they were walking out of the bedroom, there was a melodious chime and Vic D’Allessando walked to the door and pulled it open.

“Good morning, Mr. Masterson,” he said. “Come on in.”

“I’m sorry to be late,” J. Winslow Masterson said. “It was unavoidable.”

He was a very tall, very black sharp-featured man wearing a crisp, beautifully tailored off-white linen suit. He held a panama hat in his hand.

Castillo smiled as what his grandfather had said about linen suits—or, rather, about seersucker suits—popped into his memory: The reason I wear seersucker suits is, they come from the tailor mussed and people expect that. When I put on a linen suit, it’s mussed in ten minutes and people come up to me sure that I know where they can find dope or whores or both.

“You’re smiling, Charley,” Masterson said, crossing the room with large strides to put out his hand. “There must be good news.”

Castillo was finally able to get off the couch.

“Actually, sir, when I saw that beautiful suit I thought of something my grandfather said.”

“I’d love to hear it,” Masterson said.

Charley repeated his grandfather’s trenchant comment.

Masterson laughed.

“Your grandfather had a way with words,” he said. “Did you ever tell Mr. D’Allessando about Lyndon Johnson?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Castillo had a magnificent bull registered as Lyndon Johnson. The animal, from the time it was a calf, had eaten heartily and therefore had droppings far above average….”

“No kidding?” D’Allessando said, laughing. “I didn’t know you knew Charley’s grandfather.”