Authors: Vince Flynn
Term Limits
novel of government under siege
TERM LIMITS
“TERM LIMITS is a four-star, in-your-face, butt-kicking, bull's eye of a political thriller, unlike anything I've
ever read! Vince Flynn's debut is fast-paced and unforgettable. Tom Clancy, watch your back!”
âRichard Marcinko, best-selling author
of the
Rogue Warrior® series
“TERM LIMITS makes Absolute Power look like child's
play!”
âDanny O. Coulson, founder of the FBI's
Hostage Rescue Team and author of
No Heroes
“Flynn has crafted an adrenaline-charged political
thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
To compare Vince Flynn with Clancy and Ludlum is
not a flight of fancy.”
âNewport News Press
(Virginia)
“Plenty of action and suspense. . . . Flynn has tapped
the day's headlines . . . the characters are remarkably
like present-day White House and Congressional
figures.”
â
Florida Times-Union
“Nonstop excitement. Fans of political thrillers like
those of Tom Clancy will love TERM LIMITS. . . .
The fast-paced story line is crisp and interesting”
â
Midwest Book Review
(Wisconsin)
“TERM LIMITS really works. . . . A fine debut.”
â
San Francisco Examiner
Consent to Kill
Memorial Day
Executive Power
The Third Option
Transfer of Power
Term Limits
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To Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, Leon Uris, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Ernest Hemingway, for inspiring me to live my dreams
Acknowledgments
When I undertook the task of writing
Term Limits,
I had no idea how many people would eventually contribute their time and talents. I am grateful to all of you, but I am especially grateful to those who went that extra step in offering their skill, expertise, and friendship.
To Dan McQuillan, Paul Lukas, Liz Tracy, Mike McFadden, Kristin O'Gara, Judy O'Donnell, Matthew O'Toole, and Tom and Valerie Tracy, thank you for keeping me pointed in the right direction.
To Susie Moncur, for your advice and superb editorial skills. To Jeanne Neidenbach and my brother Kevin for keeping me supplied with fresh manuscripts. To my good friend Dave Warch for his humor and photographic talents. To Mike Andrews, Mike Dickson, Matt Michalski, and Dave, Don, and Mary at Stanton for all your enthusiasm and help. To Teresa McFarland and Maureen Cahill, you truly made the difference.
I also owe a great deal to all of the bookstores, media outlets, and readers in Minnesota who have supported me. Your positive comments have inspired
me to raise the bar another notch for all of the books to come.
To the Secret Service agents, FBI special agents, and former Special Forces personnel who took the time to offer me insight into their dedicated livesâI couldn't have done it without you. A special thanks to Dick Marcinko, the former Navy SEAL and legend, for taking the time to give me a few pointers.
It is next to impossible for a writer to succeed in the highly competitive world of New York publishing without a top-notch agent and a great editor. I have been blessed with both. To my agent, Sloan Harris, and Nasoan Sheftel-Gomes from International Creative Management, you are the best. To Emily Bestler and everyone else at Pocket Books, you have made my dreams come true.
Last but not least, I would like to thank my mother and father. Your support, love, and encouragement have meant the world to me.
â¦Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government⦠it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security.
âTHOMAS JEFFERSON,           Â
The Declaration of Independence
THE OLD WOOD CABIN SAT ALONE, SURROUNDED by trees and darkness. The shades were drawn, and a dog lay motionless on the front porch. A thin stream of smoke flowed out of the chimney and headed west, across the rural Maryland countryside toward Washington, D.C. Inside, a man sat silently in front of the fireplace, shoving stacks of paper into the hot flames.
The papers were the product of months of tedious and meticulous work. Each sheet represented hour upon hour of surveillance notes, in-depth subject profiles, and maps of neighborhoods throughout the D.C. metropolitan area. He knew when the police patrolled, when the newspapers were delivered, who jogged and at what time, and most importantly, where his targets slept and what time they awoke.
He and his men had stalked them for months, watching and waiting, patiently discerning which part of their daily routine could be exploitedâand when they would be most vulnerable. His strong hands reached for the fire and stopped short. Letting them hang near the flames, he flexed them
straight, then pulled them into tight fists. The men he had been stalking had sent him to some of the most obscure places on the face of the planet to kill people who were deemed a threat to the national security of the United States of America.
He had lost track of the number of people he had killed in the service of his country. He had not intentionally blocked the tally from his mind, it was just something he had never bothered to calculate. Whatever the number was, he held no regrets for the men he had killed. They were honorless, evil psychopathsâkillers of innocent civilians.
The solitary figure sitting in front of the fire was an assassin of assassins, an exporter of death, trained and funded by the United States government. His short blond hair glowed as he stared deeper and deeper into the flames, the crisp fire eventually turning into a hypnotic blur. Tomorrow he would kill for the first time on American soil. The times, places, and targets had all been chosen. In less than twenty-four hours the course of American politics would be changed forever.
The sun rose over Washington, D.C., marking the start of what would be a long and busy day. With the president's annual budget twenty-four hours away from a full House vote, the town was in a frenzy. Congressmen, senators, bureaucrats, and lobbyists were making a last-minute push to amend or strike certain elements of the budget. The count was too close to call, and the leaders of both parties were exerting great pressure on their members to vote along partisan lines.
No one was exerting more pressure than Stu Garret, the president's chief of staff. It was nearing 9 A.M., and Garret was ready to explode. He was standing in the Blue Room of the White House watching the president read “Humpty-Dumpty” to a group of kindergartners, and his anger was increasing by the second. Garret had told the president that the photo op with the kids was out of the question, but the White House press secretary, Ann Moncur, had convinced the president otherwise. It was rare for Garret to lose to anyone; even on the smallest point. But Moncur had sold the president on the idea that, in the throes of a cutthroat budget battle, it would be good PR for him to look as if he were above the dirty political horse-trading of Washington.
Garret had been working around the clock for the last month trying to get the votes needed to pass the budget. If the budget was defeated, their chances for reelection would be severely hampered. The count would be close, but there was a plan to make a last-minute charge. The only problem was that Garret needed the president back in his office making phone calls, not sitting in the Blue Room reading nursery rhymes.
As was typical of everything at the White House, the event had started late and was now running over its original half-hour slot. Garret looked down at his watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes and decided enough was enough. Looking to his left, he glared at Ann Moncur, who was standing several feet away. Garret slid between the wall and several other White House staffers and worked his way toward Moncur. When he reached her, he
pulled her back and cupped his hand over her ear. “This is the dumbest stunt you've ever pulled. If the budget gets torpedoed tomorrow, you're history. This circus has gone fifteen minutes over schedule. I'm going to the Oval Office, and if he isn't there in five minutes, I'm going to come back in here and personally throw your ass out on the street.”
Moncur strained to smile and look relaxed. She glanced around the room and noticed that some of the other staffers and several members of the press were watching. She nodded her head several times and was relieved when Garret stepped away and headed for the door. For obvious reasons, Moncur didn't care for the older, crass chief of staff. Simply put, he was a pain in the ass to work for.
Michael O'Rourke walked purposefully down the hallway of the Cannon House Office Building. It was just after 9 A.M., and the building was crowded with people. O'Rourke avoided making eye contact with anyone for fear of being stopped. He was not in a good mood. O'Rourke didn't like Washington; in fact, it was safe to say he hated Washington. Midway down the hall, he turned into an office and closed the door behind him.
Inside were five men wearing dark suits and drinking coffee. O'Rourke shot his secretary a quick glance, but before she could respond, all five men closed in on him.