Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

ALSO BY CATHERINE COULTER

THE FBI THRILLERS

Bombshell
(2013)

Backfire
(2012)

Split Second
(2011)

Twice Dead: Riptide
and
Hemlock Bay
(2011)

Whiplash
(2010)

KnockOut
(2009)

TailSpin
(2008)

Double Jeopardy: The Target
and
The Edge
(2008)

Double Take
(2007)

The Beginning: The Cove
and
The Maze
(2005)

Point Blank
(2005)

Blowout
(2004)

Blindside
(2003)

Eleventh Hour
(2002)

Hemlock Bay
(2001)

Riptide
(2000)

The Edge
(1999)

The Target
(1998)

The Maze
(1997)

The Cove
(1996)

A BRIT IN THE FBI THRILLERS (with J. T. Ellison)

The Final Cut
(2013)

G. P. Putnam’s Sons

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Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Coulter

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Coulter, Catherine.

Power play / Catherine Coulter.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-698-16578-6

1. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. 2. Sherlock, Lacey (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Savich, Dillon (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 4. Suspense fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.O843P69 2014 2014015439

813'.54—dc23

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my amazing husband, who continues to pour his heart and soul into my books. Thank you.

—C
ATHERINE
C
OULTER

Power Play
was pure adventure to write. I would like to kiss the toes of the following people:

Kurt Crawford, Public Affairs Specialist and Media Rep for the FBI Training Division.
Thank you for painting a word picture for me of Nicholas Drummond’s graduation ceremony at Quantico. If I got anything wrong, I’ll try to blame you, but I doubt it’ll fly.

Angela Bell, Office of Public Affairs, Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
My continued thanks to you for always being available for every off-the-wall question, always enthusiastic and laughing. My only wish is to meet you face to face.

Amy Brosey, Copy Editor.
My thanks to you for being as tenacious as a bulldog, never missing a thing and catching most of my brain hiccups. You are integral to making the FBI series fly high.

Karen Evans, Special Private Assistant to me.
Without you I would run right off the rails; indeed, I would be in sorry shape. Bless you for always being there to fix a gnarled-up computer, deal with technology, read and edit manuscripts, give great advice, and actually, to be perfectly honest here, handle everything that comes through the door.

Perry King, Fitness and Pilates Trainer,
who gave me her name. Thanks.

Buckner Park
Chevy Chase, Maryland

Middle of March
Saturday, late afternoon

S
he always ran at sunset. She rarely ran all-out, rather she maintained a smooth, steady pace because this was her thinking time. Thankfully, it wasn’t freezing cold on this early evening. The two-lane trail wound in and out of oak and maple trees, the terrain not too extreme. She loved how the light played through the still-naked tree branches, and how quiet it was with so few other people out in the park this time of day. Quite different from running along the Embankment in London—a challenge, since there were always people to watch out for. Here or in London, it was still her precious thinking time. Diplomatic protocols with endless snafus, relations with Her Majesty’s government, and now too often about people who wanted to blow up their neighbors, or London, still fighting out thousands of years of hatreds seemingly bred into their bones. Sometimes there were victories. Thankfully, she was good at her job, but there was
always something to work through, something to make her brain ache. But not today. Today she was trying to figure out what suddenly happened in her life that had brought her here. As she ran, a constant prayer looped through her brain that she’d left the danger back in England.

Her breathing was even, her muscles warm, and she relaxed into the repetitive movement. She focused on the quiet, even heard a blue jay, the sounds of small animals moving about in the underbrush near her, the slap of her running shoes on the trail, smooth and steady.

After another quarter-mile, the trail turned back toward Nickerson Road, with its two lanes and light traffic. She ran parallel to it for a hundred yards or so. George’s face flashed in her mind. He was eating spaghetti, of all things, and smiling at something she’d said, and she felt the familiar punch of grief, raw and deep.

And that was the question she always came back to. What had she done that would make someone want her to pay with her life? With George’s life? No matter how she turned it over in her mind, she simply couldn’t think of anyone who possibly hated her that much.

She heard a car approaching on Nickerson Road. In that stark moment she heard the engine revving, the car accelerating toward her. She twisted to look, stumbling on a clump of rocks at the edge of the trail and falling sideways, flailing her arms to keep her balance, but still she fell hard. The car was close now, nearly on her, and it was coming fast. She didn’t think, simply rolled into the bushes near several trees. She smelled the exhaust, felt the heat of that beast as it flew past her.

She heard the car brake hard, pictured the driver turning around to come after her again. She jumped to her feet and ran into the woods off the trail, the only sound in her ears the frantic beat of her heart. She plastered herself against the back of an oak tree and waited.