Authors: Stephen England
It hadn’t been. Buhler had been forced to pull strings even to get them seats. “No calls.”
“I don’t know if you should have expected one,” the negotiator replied, his voice calm. Gentle, even. “Do you really have a plan, Marika?”
She hesitated for only a moment. No sense in trying to fool Russ. “No, I don’t. No plan. Just a gut feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Marika looked off into the city, thousands of windows glimmering in the afternoon sun. “That it all happens here.”
3:37 P.M.
Summerlin, Nevada
Betrayal. It never got old, no matter how many times you had done it before. Using people—getting close to them,
learning
them, using that knowledge against them. Exploiting their mistakes. Their sins.
And there were times even you didn’t know what you were doing, or what it would become. Like now.
One night had brought him to this. Just one night. A fling. And now it was their leverage.
Thomas picked up a framed picture off the coffee table, glancing into the eyes of a wife. A loving husband. Soon-to-be parents.
“Her check-in just placed her at a gas station three miles away,” the voice in his ear informed him. Carol. “Be ready.”
Right.
He knew when she entered the driveway, the chime of an alarm going off within the house. Heard her footsteps on the stairs outside in the garage, fumbling with a key in the door.
Showtime, and just like any good show, it was made of lies.
The fluorescent in the kitchen came flickering on, catching her in its light. The photo…hadn’t done her justice. She was more beautiful than he had remembered—radiant in the flush of her pregnancy.
Thomas waited for her to set down her purse on the counter, laying her phone beside it.
“Hello, Nicole,” he said, moving from the shadows of the family room. He saw her face go white at the sound of his voice, her voice trembling as she began to speak.
“W-what are you doing here? I told you it was over—it was a
mistake
. I told you never to call me again.” The words came tumbling out of her mouth in almost a panicked rush.
“So I didn’t call you,” Thomas replied calmly, eyeing the distance between her and her cellphone. “I just came. You weren’t that hard to find.”
She made no move toward it, indecision in her eyes. “What if Trent comes home—finds you here?”
“I’m counting on him doing just that,” he replied, a note of sadness in his voice. “In fact, I want you to call him, just to be sure he does.”
“
Why?
We’ve been happy these last few years, I’m expecting his child—and yes, don’t look at me like that—it is
his
child,” she retorted angrily. “I can’t allow you to ruin all of that.”
“And I won’t,” he lied, knowing it was an impossible promise. “You know I work in homeland security. I need to talk to him—can’t use normal channels. I just need you to get him to come home.”
She stood there, a look of disbelief on her face. “How?”
Thomas took a deep breath. It was Harry’s playbook, all the way to the bitter end. “Tell him you’re in labor…”
3:56 P.M.
FBI Field Office
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Special Agent Altmann,” Marika announced, flashing her badge. “We just flew in from Denver—you should have received a flash from the S-A-C there. We’re following up on a lead in the Abu Kareem case.”
“We did,” the young woman behind the desk responded, barely looking up from her work. “What can I do?”
“I was ordered to liaise with Special Agent Powers. Can you direct me to him?”
“You’ll have to speak with me instead.” The woman got up from behind her desk, setting aside a stack of papers. “Agent Chase, a pleasure to meet you.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Powers just went home. His wife is expecting a child.” A smile, for the first time. “Apparently she just went into labor. Men…they have no idea what we go through, do they?”
If you say so
, Marika thought. “What are you doing concerning the threat?”
“The LVMPD has been brought into the loop as much as we’ve deemed necessary and the resorts have been notified that Abu Kareem is a person of interest.”
“Is that all?”
Agent Chase half-turned, looking into Marika’s eyes. “This city deals with terrorist threats several times a year, Agent Altmann. We’ve even had chatter that suggested
Lashkar-e-Taiba
sympathizers might be operating in the city. That was over a year ago, but we don’t let our guard
down
. The resorts—their facial recognition software is more advanced than ours and interfaced with the DMV databases, in addition to ours and Interpol’s. If Abu Kareem darkens their door, we’ll know within minutes.”
7:09 P.M. Eastern Time
Vienna, Virginia
The pale glow of the laptop was the only light illuminating the
library, a cold light absorbed in the dark furniture, the towering oaken bookshelves.
Roy Coftey lowered his empty glass to the desk, still tasting the rum on his lips. The way forward was…unclear, to put it mildly.
His hand slid across the smooth mahogany of the desktop, tapping gently on the computer mouse. It was all there—everything, all the evidence of treason. E-mails dating back over the course of nine months, back to the time when Hancock’s campaign had first encountered trouble.
Coftey remembered it well. Remembered the late night teleconferences with Ian Cahill.
You have to deliver Oklahoma, Roy.
With the Sooner State’s electoral votes numbering a scant nine, he’d known they were desperate at that point. Known they’d be pulling out all the stops.
He just hadn’t known how many stops there were to pull. Voter fraud was one thing—they’d done it for years, no big deal. Just the way the game was played. But this…this was beyond the pale.
His shirt was damp with sweat, the tie loose around his throat. He ran a hand through his greying hair, the memories flickering across his mind’s eye.
Waist-deep in a rice paddy, the sun burning down
. Even now he could smell the burning, sulphurous stench of gunpowder, hear the sound of slugs splashing into the water around him.
They’d been out in the open that day in Cambodia. On their own. Deniable.
Just like Kranemeyer’s team in Israel. Betrayed by their own leaders.
Politicians
.
Coftey shook his head, favoring his empty glass with a weary glance. That was why he’d come to Washington those many years ago, wasn’t it?
To be
better
than them. To make a difference. And somewhere along the way…he had become like all the rest.
Thirty-four years was enough to corrupt a saint, and he’d never qualified in that category.
What had he become?
He cast another long glance at the evidence on-screen, his lips curling up in a sneer of disgust. Not
that
.
His hand slipped out, fingers encircling the bottle of rum as he poured himself another glass. Taking Hancock down would require going up against his own party, depriving them of their chance to retake the White House.
In all likelihood, it would be the death of his political career. Of everything he had worked to build over the decades.
He could feel a presence and he looked up to see Melody standing in the doorway of the library, her slender form draped in a robe. “Planning to join me?”
“Yeah,” Coftey replied, a slow smile passing across his lips. “Just as soon as I finish my rum.”
He watched her go before turning back to the computer—remembering his words to Kranemeyer.
“
Let’s burn it down
.”
Indeed, and his own fortunes with it. He shook his head, pulling the USB drive from the side of machine.
Let it burn…
4:17 P.M. Pacific Time
McCarran International Airport
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Welcome to Vegas, Congresswoman. It’s a rare pleasure.”
Laura Gilpin smiled, taking the proffered hand as she descended the steps of the LearJet onto the tarmac. Fifty-three and unmarried, she was known in D.C. as the “Iron Maiden”, as much for the physical discipline of her daily jogging as her heated debates on the floor of the House.
She could have passed for at least five years younger, maybe ten—depending on how prejudiced the eye.
“The pleasure is all mine, Steve, but there was really no need to send your own jet,” Gilpin laughed easily, displaying the effortless Texas charm that had swept her into office twice. “We’ll let the media play with that ball of yarn for a few days, shall we?”
“So long as you’re willing to break the President’s embargo of Vegas,” Steve Winfield responded, answering her smile with one of his own. The casino owner glanced up the stairs into the darkened interior of the Lear. “Don’t you usually travel with your own security, Laura?”
“Never when I’m visiting my friends at the Bellagio, Steve. Gave them Christmas off to be with their families. You’ll watch out for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Winfield turned to the short, stocky man at his side as they moved toward the waiting limousine. “Gilad, you’ll be personally responsible for the congresswoman’s safety from now until she leaves Vegas. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, the runway lights reflecting off his shaven head as he extended a hand toward the congresswoman. “My name’s Cohen, Gilad Cohen. I’ll do my best.”
Winfield laughed. “Don’t let Gilad fool you—he’s the best there is. Former Israeli special forces, the head of my security team ever since I stole him away from Adelson at the Venetian.”
The Israeli never even smiled, moving to flank Gilpin as they entered the limo. “Can you update me on your threat profile, congresswoman?”
Gilpin let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. She leaned back into the white leather of the limo. “The usual crazies, you know the drill. I get a couple death threats on Twitter every day, a few people ranting in all caps how they’d like to ‘remove me from office,’ nothing serious. Nothing like it was a year ago, right after my appearance with Frank Gaffney.”
“So, no threats that you would consider credible?”
“None.”
4:24 P.M.
Summerlin, Nevada
He could remember it all clearly now, Thomas thought, looking down into his whiskey. A night in D.C., just back from the sandbox—spending the evening in the Atlas Room. A blonde, alone at the bar.
No ring
.
“What are you going to say?” Nicole Powers asked, her eyes pleading with him across the kitchen table.
“About what?”
“Us, of course.”
Thomas shrugged, tossing back the last of the whiskey she had poured for him. “What’s there to say?”
What, indeed
. It had only been hours later, back in his room, that she had gotten a call from her husband. Out of the country, in the Sudan to be exact, working with the JTTF.
“He should have been here by now,” he observed, glancing at his watch. How many minutes was it since he had entered the house? He didn’t remember.
He pushed the glass away from him, silently cursing himself for giving in to the temptation. His weakness.
The sound of footsteps
on the stairs outside and the door burst open, revealing the silhouette of her husband. “Honey, I got here as quickly as I could, the traffic was heavy and I…”
His voice trailed off as he saw Thomas sitting there at the table. “Who are you?”
“Have a seat, Trent,” Thomas admonished, gesturing to the chair beside Nicole. “We really need to talk.”
5:17 P.M.
A grocery store
Las Vegas, Nevada
He had to do it.
Go now
, the voice within warned him. Nasir glanced ahead—they were almost to the check-out counter. Only one customer ahead of them, an overweight American woman with a cart heaped full of snack food, undoubtedly destined for a Christmas Eve party…or perhaps it was all for her. It was hard to tell.
Just enough time. He watched as Omar grabbed a pack of Trident gum off the display, placing it on the counter beside their loaves of bread.
“I gotta take a leak,” he whispered, nudging his brother in the side.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jamal replied, seeming preoccupied. “We’ll see you at the car.”
And it was that simple. Nasir felt sweat trickle down his face as he walked away, struggling not to run—not to call attention to himself. He moved up one aisle and turned, heading down another toward the back of the store, scarce daring to breathe.
Freedom
.
A double door marked “Employees Only” stood in his path and he pushed it open, half-expecting an alarm to sound. Nothing.
Nasir found himself standing in the storage room of the small grocery store, shelves filled with toilet tissue and paper towels rising above him toward the ceiling ten or eleven feet above his head. His hands fumbling with the back of the phone, he moved behind a nearby shelf, crouching down.