He was late, and the woman he was meeting would not be happy. King took another hard turn at Eighteenth Street and slowed his speed as he entered one of the most congested areas in town. Two blocks later he pulled up in front of Stone's, a posh, hot new bar. King stopped the car and yanked up the emergency brake just as a valet appeared at his door.
Grabbing his black sport coat, he handed the man a ten-dollar bill and said, "Keep it close."
Standing just inside the door was an Asian woman in a body-hugging red dress with a slit that seemed to run from the floor to her left hip. She looked up at the dashing Dallas King and offered her cheek. When she stepped forward, the slit in her dress revealed a long, toned thigh.
The young hostess had no idea what King did for a living, nor did she care. All she knew was he was handsome, welldressed, and graced the trendy bistro with his presence at least once a week—and usually with a different woman. The stunning jewel had been asked out by approximately every other man who entered the establishment, and she was beginning to wonder when this one would get around to the task.
As King kissed her cheek, the woman slipped her hands inside his suit coat and placed them gently just above his belt line. King felt the gentle touch other hands on his waist, and a sexual jolt hit him straight in the groin. Letting his nose linger by her smooth skin for a second, he took in a deep breath of clean, fresh perfume. With a furtive grin he said, "Kim, you look gorgeous, as always."
The young Asian woman took the compliment with a smile and slowly removed her hands from King's hips.
"Thank you."
King stared at her for a moment, allowing her the chance to ask him the obvious question about what was going on at the White House. The moment came and went, and it dawned on King that the beauty before him was either severely hampered in the brain department or she honestly had no idea what he did for a living. In either case she wasn't about to run out and join the local Mensa chapter.
King winked and then made his way toward the rear of the restaurant.
The bar area was crowded. The hostage crisis had given the city something to talk about. For Washington bar owners a scandal or crisis was like a big sporting event. Several of the more astute bar patrons recognized the young Californian as Vice President Baxter's chief of staff and began to whisper as King worked his way through the crowd.
As King walked past the trendy rag-rolled walls and secluded booths, he scanned the dining area for his newest infatuation. In the last booth before reaching the pay phone and the bathrooms. King saw her. Sheila Dunn had her laptop open, a cell phone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Upon seeing King, she said into her cell phone, "He's here.
I'll call you back." The thirty-four-year-old reporter set the phone down but kept the glass of wine securely in her grip.
"Dallas, where in the hell have you been?"
"I'm sorry." King bent down to kiss the blond-haired woman sitting in the booth.
Dunn offered her cheek and said, "I have fifteen minutes to get my story in, and my editor is about to pull my hair out."
With an angry look, she added, "You'd better talk fast."
King sat in the booth, and as he did so, a waiter approached. Dunn held up her nearly finished glass and said, "Two more of these," without bothering to say please, then turned her glare back in the direction of King.
"You're an hour late. That's a hell of a way to try and endear yourself to me."
"Excuse me," King uttered, a touch irked by her comment.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but we have a bit of a crisis going on, and I'm just a touch busy right now."
"Don't patronize me, Dallas. I'm very aware of what's going on, and I have a deadline to meet, so when you say you're going to be here at a certain time and you show up an hour late, without calling, don't expect me to act like one of your congenial little empty-headed bimbos." Dunn took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest. She had intentionally worked herself into this frenzy, figuring the more upset she was the more likely Dallas would be to hand over some good info.
This was the exact reason why King liked her. She was feisty. Most of the women he dated were great arm pieces, but they lacked something up top. Sheila Dunn was different. She wasn't knock-down gorgeous, as many of his women were, but her brains and drive made her every bit as attractive. Dunn was fairly plain looking. She had slender features, was not curvaceous in any sense of the word, but while many women her age had already seen their best days, Dunn was just moving into hers. She had the mature confidence of a woman who would hold her beauty for years to come. And most important, she was married, something that King had seen as an obstacle for years, but now embraced as a bonus. With the married ones it was all about sex. He didn't have to spend large amounts of money or play tiresome games.
Dunn had rebuked all of King's romantic advances, but the young Dallas could tell he was wearing her down. She was one of the Post's political correspondents, and King had gotten to know her since his recent arrival in the nation's capital. As Baxter's chief of staff, King had, as one of his first priorities, to cultivate sources in the media that could be used to leak information when needed.
He reached across the table and grabbed her hand.
"How are things with your husband?"
"Shitty," was Dunn's terse one-word reply.
Rubbing her hand, he asked, "When was the last time you two slept together?"
She pulled back quickly.
"Dallas, that's none of your business."
"Fine… you don't have to answer it, but you're far too beautiful a woman to be so lonely."
"Dallas, let's change the subject."
King had taken her down this road before, and he was gaining ground.
Dunn was having serious doubts about her marriage. She knew that King wanted her, and she thought this might be the time to give up the jewel.
This was the biggest story in three decades, and no one had any idea what was going on inside the White House or the FBI's command post.
No one was talking. The crisis had people tight-lipped. If sleeping with King meant she could get some info out of him, it might be worth it.
The drinks arrived, and King took a big sip. He let the dry merlot run down his throat and then said, "You wouldn't believe the shit that's going on down there."
Dunn leaned forward and placed her forearms on the table.
"Like what?" Rolling his eyes. King said, "Tutwiler, that stupid bitch.
She's the damn reason Schwartz and his secretary are dead. It was her stupid idea to jerk this nut-bags chain and only send him part of the money." King stopped briefly and took a sip, thinking of the warning the man from the CIA had given all of them—thataziz would react exactly the way he did.
"I tried to advise against it, but she won out. You know how she is. She took charge of the entire briefing at the Pentagon yesterday. The damn woman has the worst case of penis envy I've ever seen. She just couldn't pass up the chance to put all of those military types in their place."
King stopped and shook his head.
"And to make things worse, she's not around to take the heat. She had a fricking nervous breakdown after Schwartz got shot. They had to cart her off to Bethesda."
Dunn'sjaw hung loosely.
"You're kidding?"
"No." King shook his head for emphasis.
"I wish I was. I wish she was here to take the heat." King pointed to himself.
"Now I'm the one who's getting squeezed."
Dunn set her wine down and started tapping at the keys of her laptop.
"So Tutwiler is out… What in the hell is the FBI up to?" Dunn watched King shrug his shoulders and take another drink. She was going to have to work for this one.
"Come on, Dallas. Just give me some good background. I'm not asking you to give away any national secrets." Dunn paused to give him a second to think about it, and then in a soft voice she asked, "What's the FBI up to?"
King looked over the top of his wineglass.
"They're planning for every possible contingency. Collecting information and trying to find a way out of this. Sherman has told them that unless they can guarantee getting the rest of the hostages out safely, we sit tight."
"What about the president? Is all that crap your boss spun in his address the truth?"
"He's fine." King nodded emphatically.
"Just like Sherman said." Then waving his hand in the air as if the president was a non factor he added, "The people at the Pentagon say he can last for weeks in that bunker." King took another drink and then leaned forward. With his nose perched above the screen of Dunn's laptop.
King breathed in her perfume and said, "You smell great."
"Thank you." Dunn smiled halfheartedly and then got back to business.
"What else is going on? Do you know what their next demand is going to be?"
"Nope. We're not supposed to hear anything until the morning." Kings attention was drawn downward. Dunn's blouse was open one more button than normal, and a scintillating amount of soft skin was drawing his mind into a completely different area again. He looked down her shirt and said, "I want to get naked with you so bad."
Dunn grabbed him by the jaw and made him look her in the eye.
"This stuff you gave me about Tutwiler is good, Dallas, but there's more going on than you're telling me, and if you want to get me into bed, you're going to have to do a lot better… and fast."
King felt the blood rushing to his groin. His mind scrambled for any piece of information that might seal the deal, but he'd told her everything that was going on. The truth was, nothing was going on.
Everybody was sitting around and waiting to react… except… except one person. King pulled away and sat back. He couldn't talk about that, but there was something related that he could talk about—something that would play great in the press.
"There is one thing." Pausing, he tried to gauge how much information he could hand over.
Dunn saw his hesitancy and drew closer.
"What… what is it?"
King looked around the immediate area and then leaned forward.
"Listen, no one can find out I told you this."
Dunn feigned insult.
"Dallas, I've never revealed one of my sources."
Unimpressed, King rolled his eyes.
"All I'm saying is that this is serious shit, all right?"
Dunn nodded eagerly.
"You have my word. Your name will never be revealed."
The vice president's chief of staff looked around once again to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and then, in a whisper, he said, "The CIA knew about this attack before it happened."
Dunn's eyes almost popped out of her head.
"What? And they didn't do anything about it?"
"No." King shook his head.
"They only found out just before it happened. As soon as they found out, they alerted the Secret Service. That's why Hayes made it to his bunker."
"So the CIA saved the day."
King shrugged.
"It was hardly a banner day, but I suppose you could say that."
Dunn smiled broadly.
"This could be good." Frantically, she began typing. King watched her for about half a minute, and then Dunn closed her laptop. She packed it and her phone in her bag and said, "I've got to get this in before we go to press."
Dunn stood. She was wearing a tight blue skirt that hugged her thin frame. Leaning over the table, she grabbed King by the jaw with one hand and said, "You and I aren't done. If you keep this up, you just might wear me down." Dunn pulled King's lips to hers and gently ran the tip of her tongue along his upper lip.
She let her tongue hang there just long enough to leave him wanting more and then turned and left.
JACK WARCH STOOD by the bunker door and touched the smooth surface with the palm of his hand. It had been several hours since he had done so, and as far as he could tell the door was getting warmer. He took that as a bad sign. Warch had been beating his brains out all day over what to do if the terrorists got the door open before the Hostage Rescue Team intervened. He assumed from the explosions he had heard during the initial assaults that they had grenades. That would make it a short fight. He could put the president in the small bathroom on the other side of the bunker and buy maybe another five minutes. That would result in more dead agents and ultimately a dead or captured president.
Warch plopped down on his bunk. As he exhaled a deep sigh, he saw the president coming over. Warch straightened up a bit and started to stand.
Hayes gestured to him with a patting motion of his hand and said, "Don't get up. Do you mind if I sit?"
"Please," said Warch as he scooted over.
"You're from Wisconsin, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought so. I saw your two boys running around on the South Lawn one Saturday morning in their Packer jerseys. I figured either you or your wife was from Wisconsin."
Warch half laughed.
"No. My wife's from Minnesota. She hates it when I dress them up in the Packer gear."
"She should have thought of that before she married you."
"That's what I tell her." Warch smiled.
"What part of wisconsin are you from?"
"Appleton."
"Ah, the home of Rocky Blier."
"Yep."
"I met him once," pronounced Hayes with satisfaction.
"What a great man…" With a nod of his chin he added, "What a great story."
"Yeah, he overcame a lot. The best part about him, though, is he never let any of the success go to his head. He does a ton for the local community."
"That's nice to hear."
Hayes looked down at the floor for a while. The idle conversation seemed to be over. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, he rested his elbows on his knees and continued to study the ugly brown carpeting. After a moment he leaned back and glanced over at Warch.
"Jack, I'm sorry about all of this. I appreciate everything you and your people have done for me and my family." Hayes stopped and looked away.