The Shooters (Presidential Agent 4)

"Let me give a quick taste, and then we'll go get something to eat."

From the laptop speakers came the familiar sound of a bugle sounding Charge!-Castillo had replaced the annoying out-of-the-box Microsoft tune-announcing that the computer was booted up and ready.

Castillo opened the Google World program and shifted the image of the earth so that it showed the lower half of South America.

"Where in hell are we going?" one of them asked.

"Patience is a virtue, Mr. Reston," Castillo said.

Finally, he had what he wanted, and pressed the keys to zoom in on the image.

"That's an estancia, a ranch, called Shangri-La, 31.723 south latitude, 55.993 west longitude."

"What's there, Colonel?"

"A field big enough to take four Hueys at once and refuel them."

"Flying in from where?"

"The USS Ronald Reagan, at sea."

"Jesus Christ!"

"And where do we go from there, sir?"

"I'm working on that."

VIII

[ONE] 7200 West Boulevard Drive

Alexandria, Virginia 1115 7 September 2005 Castillo walked into the living room with Max on his heels and, following the dog, an enormous, very black man in a three-button black suit-all buttons buttoned-a crisp white shirt, and a black tie.

Colonel Jake Torine was sitting with Edgar Delchamps at the battered coffee table. They both had their feet up on it, and Delchamps was reaching into the box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the table between them.

Special Agent David W. Yung of the FBI and Sergeant Major John Davidson were sprawled in the red leather armchairs, with their own Krispy Kreme box between them on a footstool.

Torine was wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants. Yung, Davidson, and Delchamps wore single-breasted nearly black suits. Yung's and Davidson's suits looked as if they were fresh from a Brooks Brothers box. Delchamps's suit looked as if it had been at least six months since it had received any attention from a dry cleaning establishment.

"Welcome home," Torine said, taking a bite of his doughnut. They all looked curiously at the black man.

"Colin," Castillo said. "This is Colonel Torine, Mr. Yung, Mr. Delchamps, and Mr. Davidson."

"Gentlemen," the black man said in a very deep, very Southern voice.

"Every nice house in suburbia needs a butler," Castillo said. "So I got us one. Say something in butler, Colin."

"Yah, suh," the black man said in an even thicker Southern accent. "Can I fix you gentlemen a small Sazerac as a li'l wake-me-up?"

Delchamps's eyebrows rose. A smile crossed Davidson's face. Yung looked baffled. Torine looked confused, and then recognition came.

"I'll be damned," he said, getting to his feet and putting out his hand. "I didn't recognize you in that undertaker's suit. How the hell are you, Sergeant Major?"

"You are speaking, sir," the black man said, now sounding as if he was from Chicago or somewhere else in the Midwest, "to Chief Warrant Officer Five Leverette."

"When did that happen?"

"I took the warrant a couple of years ago when some moron decided they needed two officers on an A-Team and they wanted to make an instructor out of me," Leverette said. "It's good to see you, too, Colonel. Charley said they gave you an eagle. When did you get that?"