“I want to stop at the Peking Duck.” Dahl’s favorite Chinese restaurant. He was starving and his wife had told him over the phone before she went to bed that there wasn’t anything to eat in the house. So he’d called ahead and placed an order for shrimp fried rice, his favorite. “We’ve got to hurry,” he said loudly, checking his watch. “The place closes at midnight. That only gives us ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dahl flicked on a small light in the backseat, donned his reading glasses, and pulled out a report from his briefcase.
When they reached the restaurant, the parking lot was almost empty.
“Hurry,” Dahl urged to the driver as the man wheeled the car up to the front door. “The order is under my name.”
The car skidded to a stop, then the driver hopped out and hurried into the restaurant.
Dahl relaxed into the seat, glad the restaurant door hadn’t been locked. The man who owned the place was a stickler about closing exactly at midnight. He didn’t make exceptions for anyone, not even a five-star general. Dahl smacked his lips. He could already taste the fried rice.
As Dahl glanced back down at the report in his lap, a white Volvo screeched to a stop beside the car and three men jumped out, clutching Uzi machine guns, their faces hidden by plaid scarves. Dahl realized instantly what was happening and reached frantically for the lock button—the car was bulletproof if it was secure—but he was a second late.
The man who’d leapt from the Volvo’s front passenger seat wrenched open Dahl’s door and opened fire, riddling Dahl’s body and head with bullets. Dahl’s reading glasses flew from his nose as his body slumped to the right and the lenses shattered against the blood-spattered far window.
Dahl’s driver raced out the restaurant door, pistol drawn, but was cut down instantly in a burst of fire from the other two assassins. He tumbled to the asphalt, clutching his stomach and screaming, blood pouring from his body.
“Praise be to Allah!” the assassin who had killed Dahl shouted, raising his weapon above his head in victory. Then he sprinted back to the idling Volvo along with the other two men and raced off.
A few minutes later, the owner of the restaurant opened the front door and peeked out at the carnage. He could hear sirens in the distance, growing closer. He’d called 9-1-1 moments after he’d heard the first shots, but that hadn’t been quick enough to save his friend General Dahl. There was no way he could have. The attack had taken less than thirty seconds.
“WHAT IS IT, BLANTON?
” Hewitt snapped. He sat across from McDonnell in the back of the limousine as it idled in the Newark Airport parking lot, the lights of Manhattan glowing in the distance. He wasn’t even trying to hide his irritation. “Hurry up.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“I was supposed to be out of here and headed back to Texas three hours ago,” Hewitt complained, checking his watch. “I’d almost be there by now.”
“It’s important, Samuel. Believe me. Thanks for taking the time.”
“Well?”
McDonnell had reached Hewitt by phone just as Hewitt was boarding. Reached him to say that there was an emergency at Jamison & Jamison, an emergency the board of directors needed to know about. He couldn’t tell Hewitt the truth on a cell phone.
“Blanton,”
Hewitt said, exasperated, “out with it.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Jamison and Jamison,” McDonnell admitted. “Is the intercom to the front seat off?”
Hewitt checked. “It is now,” he said, flipping the switch. “Now
what is it
?”
“It’s about the Order.”
Hewitt’s expression tightened, the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth suddenly more pronounced. “What about the Order?”
“Mace Kohler.” McDonnell had almost turned around fifty times on his way to see Hewitt, but now he was resolved. This was the right thing to do—for everybody. “You know Mace doesn’t agree with you about Jesse Wood, that’s been pretty obvious during the last two meetings. He thinks Wood ought to have a chance to run the country. You don’t.”
Hewitt nodded. “People can disagree.”
“Kohler’s convinced you’re going to have Senator Wood assassinated if he wins the election in November. Kohler’s convinced Wood will never make it to the inauguration.”
“
What?
That’s absurd!” Hewitt thundered. “I told everyone at the last meeting that we didn’t have to do anything, that I’m sure Wood isn’t going to win. Even if he did win somehow,” Hewitt added, squeezing the armrest, “I wouldn’t have him killed. That, Blanton, is insane.”
“Of course, it is.” McDonnell hesitated. “Kohler told me about Franklin Laird and Stewart Massey, about how they were both dead. He saw the newspaper articles.”
Hewitt’s expression softened. “Yeah, it’s awful,” he said hoarsely. “They were both good men.”
“Well, Kohler didn’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“He acted like he was glad they were gone.”
Hewitt clenched his teeth. “What is Mace’s problem?”
McDonnell swallowed hard. He hated ratting out a friend, but he’d be guilty by association if he didn’t do something. He’d noticed the way Hewitt was looking at him during the last meeting, like he was Kohler’s accomplice or something. He couldn’t have his tapes floating around out there for his wife to use in divorce court, couldn’t live like a pauper in a one-bedroom Jersey City condominium with nothing but stick furniture, couldn’t bear giving up the CEO post at Jamison & Jamison. He couldn’t do those things.
Wouldn’t
do those things. He loved his life too much. And he was starting to think maybe it was Kohler who was off his rocker, not Hewitt. Even if that was a convenient change of heart to have.
“I think Mace might be the one who killed Laird and Massey,” McDonnell said quietly. “Or had them killed.”
Hewitt had been looking out the window. His eyes moved slowly to McDonnell’s. “What did you say?”
“I think Kohler might have had Laird and Massey killed.” McDonnell looked down. “I don’t have anything concrete to go on—it’s just a feeling—and I feel terrible for saying it. I’m sure I’ve violated several sections of the Order’s code, but I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“Blanton,” Hewitt said comfortingly, “you did the right thing. I’m glad you came to me.” He hesitated. “I guess I need to tell you something.”
McDonnell looked up. Hewitt’s eyes were burning. “What, Samuel?”
“I think you’re right,” Hewitt said, his voice barely audible. “I told Dahl I thought someone inside the Order was responsible for Laird and Massey’s deaths. I didn’t say who, but I thought it was Kohler all along. At first I thought maybe it was just me, that I was reading too much into the way he was acting, what he was saying, but now I know I was right.”
Both men were quiet for a few moments.
“I’m worried about my safety,” McDonnell finally spoke up. “Yours, too. Everybody who’s left, really. I was with Mace this afternoon. I think he saw that I was wondering what was wrong with him. You should have seen his face, should have heard his tone of voice. He was so cold. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It was scary.”
Hewitt pulled out his cell phone. “Okay, I’m not going to screw around with this.”
Thirty minutes later McDonnell had a bodyguard driving him home to Connecticut—thanks to Hewitt. Someone would be with him twenty-four hours a day from now on. He relaxed into the seat, feeling much safer. Thanking God he’d thrown his loyalty back to Hewitt.
MACE KOHLER
had followed McDonnell from Manhattan to Newark Airport, then sat in his car in the parking lot and watched while McDonnell and Hewitt met. Watched McDonnell finally get out of Hewitt’s limousine and hop into a dark sedan that pulled up beside it. Now he was following the sedan across the George Washington Bridge as it headed north on I-95, toward Connecticut and McDonnell’s home, Kohler assumed.
McDonnell must have turned on him. He’d run to the master and told him everything to save his own ass, to make certain the tapes of him with that woman from the country club didn’t get out, to make certain he stayed CEO of Jamison & Jamison, most important to keep himself safe. McDonnell didn’t have the stomach for the right thing, didn’t understand the sacrifices that had to be made sometimes.
But Kohler did. The most important thing he’d ever learned in the Green Berets. Sometimes men had to die.
CHRISTIAN PEERED
through his apartment door’s peephole and saw Allison. “Hi,” he said, opening the door. It was late for her to be coming by, almost midnight.
She lived in the same building, had ever since she’d moved from Chicago, and it wasn’t by coincidence. She’d admitted as much a few weeks after starting at Everest Capital. Claimed she’d chosen his building because that made her search quick. Clearly, Christian wouldn’t live in a dump so why not just piggyback off the research he must have done while he was looking for a place. But that explanation had always sounded hollow to Christian. There were plenty of nice buildings in Manhattan, and it wasn’t that hard to find them.
“What’s up?”
“What’s up?”
Allison asked, a disdainful look scrunching her face. “What kind of greeting is that? Am I your pal or something now? I thought things had gone a little further than that the other night.”
This was what Christian hated about a relationship with a woman becoming more than a friendship—in this case, simply appearing that it
might become
more than a friendship. Everything—words, actions, looks—were suddenly parsed, critiqued, and interpreted so much more intensely. Simple mistakes or slips of the tongue that were quickly forgotten before now turned into ten-alarm blazes. He and Quentin never had that problem, neither had he and Nigel. He’d had frustrations with both men, but they’d always worked things out quickly, and there’d
never
been a problem over something trivial—like a greeting.
Of course, maybe his greeting had been a little formal. Quentin had confirmed that somebody within the Wallace organization had tipped off the SEC about CST, and there were signals that Allison was involved. But he just couldn’t believe she had anything to do with it. It had to be Gordon Meade. Of course, the next question was: Why?
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, moving through the doorway into the apartment’s foyer. “That was pretty lame.”
“What do you mean?”
“For giving you a hard time about the way you said hi.”
That was a new one. Someone actually admitting right away that a snipe for something trivial was silly. “You want something to drink?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Come on, party girl, I’ve got some champagne in the fridge.”
“Would you drink some with me?”
“Ally—”
She held her hands up right away. “I don’t want to drink alone tonight. Besides, I’m tired. I really should get to bed. I’m heading out to the West Coast early in the morning.”
He gazed at Allison for a few moments. Faith had sent him that e-mail accusing Allison of faking a romantic interest in him so she could take over Everest Capital. Which, as he’d thought more about it, meant someone had told Faith he was leaving, voluntarily or because he was being forced out, though not necessarily because he’d been tapped as a vice presidential candidate. Why else would Faith think there was an opportunity for Allison to take over Everest?
But he still wasn’t convinced Allison was dealing from the bottom of the deck. There was something about her that told him she wouldn’t do that, something in his gut that told him she would never turn on him. And he’d learned to trust his gut because it was usually right.
Usually.
“You think you’re close with the Aero Systems people?” he asked.
She nodded. “I think the family who owns the company is going to agree to sell it to me this time. I’ve offered a few more things, and they seem to like the package.”
“Make sure we get an exclusive,” he reminded her. “Don’t let them keep shopping the deal. Put some teeth in your breakup fee.”
“Of course, of course. Look, I need to talk to you about something. It’s important. That’s why I stopped by.”
“What’s up?”
“Faith Cassidy approached me in Central Park today. Accosted me, really. I went out there at lunchtime to do some thinking, to get away from the phones. I was writing some notes and all of a sudden she was standing in front of me. For a second I thought she was going to attack me or something, but all she wanted to do was talk.” Allison paused. “Well, threaten me in a couple of ways, too, but at least she didn’t get violent or anything.”
Christian had half expected Faith to surprise him sometime—she’d done it before. But her confronting Allison had never even crossed his mind. “How did she
threaten
you?”
“Said she had people who would do her favors. Said someone had told her I was angling to run Everest by trying to get you to fall in love with me,” Allison explained. “So that when you left you’d name me chairman.”
It was so hard to tell what was really going on here because the stakes were so high. Was Allison truly just reporting back to him on exactly what had happened? Or, figuring Faith would call Christian like she said she would in the park, was Allison telling him everything so it
appeared
she was just reporting back? Was this really just a preemptive strike? “I never told Faith I was leaving Everest.”
“Well, she knew.” Allison cocked her head. “You don’t seem very surprised by all this.”
Christian nodded toward the BlackBerry lying on the kitchen counter. “She e-mailed me about it.”
Allison’s expression soured. “You two still talking?”
“Nope. She’s e-mailed and called me a bunch of times, but I haven’t responded.”
“Uh-huh.” Allison made a face like she didn’t care one way or the other. “Like I said, she knew you were leaving.”
“Did she tell you
why
she thought I was leaving Everest? What I was going to do after I left?”
Allison hesitated, trying to remember. “No, I don’t think so.”
“The only people I’ve told about Jesse Wood asking me to be vice president are you, Quentin, and Nigel.” He left off Hewitt. There was no need to get into that whole thing right now. Obviously, Allison knew about Black Brothers—she’d gone to the initial meeting with Fleming. But he hadn’t told her about Hewitt and U.S. Oil. And he hadn’t been specific with Gordon Meade or any of the other Everest investors about
why
he suddenly felt so positive about the Laurel Energy sale.