Page 7 of Edge of Honor

There was nothing natural or accidental about either. Both men had been murdered. Rogers was certain of it. Unfortunately, no one else had believed him.

Right now, it made no difference. The only thing that mattered was that he had no intention of becoming victim number three.

Bolting off the trail, he began to scramble up the hillside in a zigzag pattern, using as many of the thicker trees as he could for cover.

There was no way of knowing if the men behind him were armed and, if they were, if they planned to open fire. The more difficult he could make things for them, the better.

But by not scrambling in a straight line, he was lengthening the distance he needed to escape and was exhausting himself. His lungs were burning and he could feel his legs turning into lead. He wasn’t going to make it. Meanwhile, his pursuers were getting ever closer.

Rogers didn’t dare look back. He knew that any moment a bullet could be fired, severing his spine, or ripping right through the back of his head. Had he been a religious man, he might have used these final moments to beg for God’s mercy; to ask for deliverance from his attackers. Perhaps he might have prayed for forgiveness and atoned for the moments in his life where he had fallen short.

The lizard part of his brain, however, that place that controlled his very instinct to survive, wouldn’t allow it. He needed to push harder and his body responded to the call by pumping even more adrenaline into his system.

Ignoring the deadening of his legs, Rogers struggled up the hillside, putting every ounce of energy he could muster into each lunge forward.

He had spun up into such a frenzied pistoning that when he arrived at the top, his legs kept pumping and he was unable to stop.

Losing his balance, he launched face-first down an embankment and rolled into the paved two-way road at the bottom.

Car horns blared. Drivers shortcutting through the park to avoid D.C. traffic swerved to get out of the way. Others slammed on their brakes. One of those vehicles belonged to a National Park Service ranger.

Fighting his fatigue, Rogers forced himself to his feet and, waving his arms overhead, made his way as quickly as he could to her.

“Sir, what’s happening?” the ranger asked, getting out of her truck. “Are you okay?”

The first thing Rogers checked was to see if she was an armed officer. She wasn’t. “We need to get out of here.”

“Sir, I need you to calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

“My name is Brendan Rogers. I’m the former U.S. National Security Advisor. I’m being pursued by two men. Possibly armed. We need to move.Now.”

“I know who you are, sir. I’ve seen you on TV,” she replied, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. “Let me call Park Police.”

Rogers glanced over his shoulder, back toward the hill he had just tumbled down. And though his pursuers weren’t immediately visible, he could feel them—the two wolves, somewhere in the trees, staring at him.

“Unless you have a weapon in your vehicle, you and I are both in harm’s way,” he stressed. “As is every single motorist out here. Please, I’m begging you.”

The ranger’s eyes followed the same path that Rogers’s had just taken. She didn’t see anything either, but the man was emphatic. He was also the former National Security Advisor.

“Get in the truck,” she said, sliding her phone back into her pocket.

Once he had closed the passenger door, she walked backward to her vehicle, her eyes never coming off the hillside.

Instead of driving forward, the savvy ranger reversed her truck until she felt she was a safe enough distance away, and then pulled a U-turn.

Removing her phone and putting it on speaker, she called Park Police, had Rogers relay his story, and informed them that she was inbound.

Despite the fact that Rogers’s description of the two men could apply to lots of park visitors, a BOLO went out via radio and text message to all employees. Neither of the men was located.

Two hours after entering the Park Police station, Rogers was drivenback to where he had parked his car and wished well. Out of courtesy, the Park Police arranged for a marked D.C. Metro police officer to, within reason, accompany him wherever he wanted to go.

The one place he knew he couldn’t go was home. He needed to drop off the grid, if only for a night, as he figured out his next move. So he quickly assembled the best plan he could think of. He asked the cops to escort him to Reagan National Airport.

At the long-term parking lot, he pulled into a spot, thanked them for their help, and sent them on their way. After looking up a couple of things on his cell phone, he grabbed his wallet from the glove compartment and walked around to the rear of his car. Popping the trunk, he opened his go-bag—a small carry-on with toiletries, a couple changes of clothes, and, most important, an envelope of cash in various currencies, tucked behind the lining.

It was an old habit from his past life when his phone could ring in the middle of the night and he would be expected to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice. When those calls came, it was always easier to already be packed.

After cleaning himself with some disposable wipes, he changed into a new set of clothes, grabbed his go-bag, and locked his Audi. Placing his key fob behind the cover for the gas cap, he then walked to the nearest shuttle-bus stop.

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