by Lauren Carr
Stu had not noticed the federal agent approaching him from behind. He wondered how long she had been there and how much of his conversation with Cross had she overheard.
Together, they watched Chris Matheson, flanked by Bruce and Elliott, climb the stairs. In his service vest, Sterling stayed at Chris’s side.
“Have you ever heard of driverless cars?” the agent asked.
Stu jerked his head in her direction.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Fantastic new technology. You might want to tell Burnett about it.” She greeted Sterling with a pat on the head.
Together, they joined the spectators flowing into the committee’s chamber.
Tristan Faraday had saved a row of seats for them in the back of the gallery. They filed in to take seats. Sterling at his side, Chris and Ripley opted to stand by the door.
Craning his neck to check out the spectators, Chris became concerned when he couldn’t find Murphy or the ladies. He was particularly concerned about his mother. Doris could either be in the hospital or jail. He didn’t know which would be worse. Both options were bad. “Where’s Murphy?” he asked Tristan.
“Doris and Francine are on their way,” Tristan said without taking his eyes off the screen of his cell phone. “They went with Murphy to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” Chris was struck by Tristan’s matter-of-fact tone.
“Yeah, he got shot.” One would have thought Tristan was announcing that Murphy had stubbed his toe. “Jacquie said it went through his thigh. The bad part is that he broke a bunch of ribs when he wrecked his bike. He really loved that bike. Jessie is on her way to the hospital.”
Burnett stepped into the chamber. A head above everyone else, he was very hard to miss. Upon entering, he scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes. When he located Chris, who was almost directly behind him, he focused in on him. His upper lip curled into a snarl.
Chris laid his hand on the weapon he wore on his belt. As a former federal agent with more than one contract out on his life as a result of his undercover work, he had a special concealed carry permit allowing him to carry in federal buildings.
The look on Burnett’s face caused Chris to think he might be needing it.
“Let us get started!” a voice announced at the front of the chamber.
Burnett slammed his bulk into Chris’s shoulder on his way out into the corridor. Elliott followed him.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Ripley told Chris.
The confirmation hearing opened with a speech.
For twenty-three minutes, Daniel Cross read a prepared statement about his modest childhood as the son of a school janitor, his dreams of traveling the world and serving his country, and the realization of those dreams—thanks to his nation.
A tear came to his eye, as he spoke of the price many paid for the country he loved—the self-less men and women who gave it all. They were his role models, especially the late chief of station in Lithuania.
“Samuel Goldman was my mentor,” Dan said with a catch in his throat. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of the supreme sacrifice that he made in serving our country overseas. He dedicated every hour of the day to protecting our country against those intent on harming it. A humble man, he didn’t do what he did for glory or riches or fame. He did it out of duty and honor to his country.”
A moment of silence fell over the chamber.
Chris could see Senator Kimberly Douglas, Cross’s biggest cheerleader on the committee, silently swoon.
Dan sat up tall in his seat and wiped a tear from his eye. “Since Sam Goldman’s senseless murder, I strive every day to live up to his memory. I know that sometimes I fail. Many days I fail. But that goal of honor and duty is what I aim for.”
Tristan looked over his shoulder at Chris.
Bruce placed his hand on Tristan’s where his thumb rested on the screen of his cell phone. “Wait for it.”
Thirsty after his long speech, Dan poured a glass of water.
“Thank you for giving us that insight, Mr. Cross,” Senator Keaton said. “I surmise based on your comments, that you are telling this committee that you have devoted your life to protecting our country from its enemies and pursuing only what is best for it?”
“That is precisely what I am saying, sir.” Dan took a long drink of water from the glass.
“Now,” Chris said.
Tristan swept his thumb across the front of his cell phone.
The chamber echoed as every cell phone in the room dinged, buzzed, and vibrated. The interruption was not confined to the chamber. Cell phones all across the Capitol building, mall, city, District of Columbia and across the nation alerted their owners to an incoming text message.
The hearing paused as everyone reached for their phones to check the incoming message from the President of the United States. The message contained two attachments. One was a pdf document entitled “Cross/Slade Industries.” The other was an mp4 file.
The Secret Service immediately began an investigation to find out who had hacked into the Presidential Emergency Text Message System. The White House’s secure network, who had become close friends with Nigel, wasn’t talking.
Daniel Cross set down his water glass and checked his phone to see what was so important that it took all attention from him. Before he could open the MP4 file, journalists were gasping. His security detail had to hold back reporters rapidly firing questions.
One of the monitors on the wall lit up to display a darkened image. As the focus sharpened, it became apparent that the recording was being filmed from inside a closet.
The voice in the recording was the same as that which had filled the chamber only moments before. This time, it was not smooth and charming.
“Monroe, do you really think that you and your lowly little girl can even touch me?” The focus zoomed in to show Daniel Cross waving his arms.
The middle-aged man on the receiving end of Cross’s rage was sweating profusely. The fear in his eyes made everyone watching the recording cringe.
Dan advanced on the man while jabbing him repeatedly in the chest. “Now, Monroe, Schiff told you to delete that report. Who the hell do you think you are to defy him?”
Les Monroe tried to back away from the finger poking him. “The director needs to see this report. Goldman made some very serious claims in it and—” He paused to swallow. “The fact that he wrote it just the day before he was killed—”
No one missed Blair’s gasp off-camera when Daniel Cross grabbed Les Monroe by the throat.
“Can’t we all just calm down?” Ned Schiff stepped into the frame and tried to part the two men. “Dan, you said we were just going to talk.”
Cross’s voice was low and menacing. “If you and your com officer had any brains, you’d think about that factoid. Samuel Goldman was the chief of station. He was my boss. He tried to stop me and suddenly he died. Not only did I get away with it—but I became a damn hero. Now, I am director of the intelligence directorate at the CIA. Do you think anyone is even going to notice when you and that minion are gone?”
Les fought to force his words around where Cross was squeezing his throat. “Even if those upstairs don’t have the morality to do what is right, we have to. Otherwise, Goldman’s murder will have been for nothing.”
“It was for something!” Cross shoved Monroe to the floor. “Don’t you get it. Goldman was an idiot. That’s why I killed him!”
A gasp rose up not only in the chamber but throughout the Capitol building.
In his seat before the judiciary committee, the blood drained from Daniel Cross’s face.
“Like he thought he could go up against me—when I had Leban Slade and all his power and his people backing me up! He knew who I had behind me—damn it! Didn’t you read the report! It’s all there. And you still think you can go up against me!”
&
nbsp; “So you admit that everything Samuel Goldman wrote in his report is true!”
Daniel Cross yanked a gun from the shoulder holster he wore under his coat.
At the front of the senate chamber, Senator Kimberly Douglas looked like she was going to cry.
Stu Dunleavy rose from his seat and hurried out of the chamber.
On the screen, Les Monroe scrambled for the door. He only made a few steps before Daniel Cross put three bullets in his back.
“What did you do?” Ned Schiff’s voice went up several octaves. “You killed him!”
“No, I didn’t,” Cross said. “Les Monroe committed suicide.”
“With three bullets in the back?”
“You’re chief of station, Schiff. If you tell your security people that Monroe committed suicide, then he committed suicide.” Daniel Cross waved the gun around the room. “Search the house. We have to make sure all copies of that report are gone.”
The image froze with Daniel Cross, holding the gun he had used to kill Les Monroe, filling the screen.
Daniel Cross’s security detail fell back. Ripley Vaccaro and five FBI agents swam through the mob of journalists angling to get a soundbite until they surrounded him.
Senator Graham Keaton peered over his eyeglasses at Daniel Cross. “Duty. Honor. Country. Huh, Mr. Cross?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elliott couldn’t believe he’d lost Burnett.
Paul Burnett was a busy man. Leban Slade’s global corporation was so crooked, that sometimes there were just too many messes for one man to cleanup. Based on the multiple teams sent to stop the Geezer Squad from reaching Washington, it went without saying that Burnett’s cleanup operation was a growing enterprise employing multiple international assassins.
As long as the Geezer Squad was in the building, Elliott wasn’t going to allow Burnett out of his sight—until one of Burnett’s men got in the way. He followed Burnett down the stairs to the basement level, where there were no tourists for him to blend in with. Elliott was forced to hang back and duck into doorways to keep him from seeing that he was being tailed.
After making several turns, Elliott rounded a corner to find himself face to face with a man in a security guard’s uniform. “Can I help you?”
Beyond the guard, Elliott saw Burnett go through a heavy door with the sign: Security Locker Room. “I was looking for the men’s room.” He pressed his thighs together and did a little dance of urgency.
“That’s not down this hallway.” The guard pointed behind Elliott. “You need to go back to the elevator and up one floor.”
“But I really need to go.” Elliott pointed toward the door through which he had seen Burnett enter. “Is that a men’s room? Do they have a bathroom?”
The guard shoved him in the chest. “I said to scram, old man.”
Elliott paused to look the kid up and down. Former military. Most likely been kicked out due to insubordination. All brawn, no brains. “Is that any way to treat a taxpayer?”
Pleased with the opportunity to bully the old man, the guard threw back his fist in a threat, only to get jabbed with a fist in the throat. The guard staggered backwards. By the time the stars cleared from his eyes, Elliott had disarmed him of his baton and gun.
With the guard in a choke hold, Elliott dragged him into the locker room where he handcuffed him to a pipe. He searched the room, but Burnett was nowhere in sight.
“Where is he?”
The guard chuckled. “He’s cleaning up.”
It hit home. The guard wasn’t just a cocky kid. He was one of Burnett’s people acting as look out while he changed into his latest disguise. “Who’s his target?”
“Whatever it takes to protect Slade. He’s our first priority.”
Elliott regarded the kid’s uniform. Burnett had ducked into a Capitol building security locker room. Surely, that was not a coincidence. He spoke into his ear com. “Burnett is on the move. He’s disguised as Capitol security.”
Phone to his ear, Stu Dunleavy hurried across the rotunda for the exit at the rear of the building. “It’s over, Slade. We need to cut Cross loose. … I tell you, Matheson had more than the Goldman report. She had a damn video of Cross confessing to murdering Goldman and the ambassador. Everyone in Washington and across the nation saw him shoot that communications chief in the back and order Schiff to cover it up. There’s no way we can spin this. Millions of people saw him do it.” He pressed his way through the double doors to the top of the stairs of the Capitol Building. “Best we can do now is eliminate Cross before he can cut a deal with the feds.”
He disconnected the call and sent a text. “Stop Cross from talking.”
“Do you know how many deaths are you responsible for, Dunleavy?”
Startled, Stu spun around.
“Or have you lost count?” Chris uncrossed his arms and stood from where he had been leaning against the side of the building. “I guess as long as you’re removed from the event—not seeing the look in their eyes or the lives affected—ordering someone’s death can be no more traumatic than sending someone a pink slip.” He chuckled. “You’re fired—from living.”
“Chris, I think you should go home and take care of your children.”
Stu turned to start down the stairs, only to find Sterling sitting before him. The dog’s lips curled up in a snarl.
“Did you order Blair’s death with a text or was it a phone call?”
“I did not order Blair’s murder,” Stu said.
“Oh, come on,” Chris said. “She was hiding in your house.”
“I thought she was hiding from you. I knew nothing about the communications people in Switzerland finding Goldman’s reports until last week when Slade sent Cross to me. Even then, I didn’t know Blair was the one who’d discovered the report until Saturday morning when you and Vaccaro came to the house.”
“You knew Blair was working for the state department in Switzerland!”
“There are a lot of state department people stationed in Switzerland,” Stu said. “Call me slow, but when Cross told me that some communications officer in Switzerland had uncovered a report written up in Lithuania ten years ago, the last person I thought he was talking about was my daughter’s nanny.”
“Don’t lie to me, Dunleavy,” Chris said. “I know how you operate.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t put it together until you and Vaccaro started asking if Blair had ever talked about what she did overseas. That was when I put it together. By then, she was already dead.”
“Give me a break, Dunleavy! Blair had been in your home. The medical examiner found four times the regular dose of sleeping pills in her system and the last thing she’d drank was a martini.”
Stu’s eyes grew wide. The expression on his face told Chris what they both realized.
“Chris!” Elliott screamed from high above them.
Chris looked up to see Elliott waving to him from the rooftop. In that same instant, Sterling hit Chris in the chest with a hundred pounds of force—knocking him off his feet. As Chris hit the ground, the bullet meant for the back of his head hit Stu Dunleavy between the eyes.
On the roof of the Capitol, Paul Burnett cursed. Chris Matheson had become a real problem. Why can’t he do me a favor and just die already?
Now, the Capitol police were going to be on their way to the roof to capture a sniper.
Didn’t matter. Burnett could dismantle the rifle, stuff it into its case, and hide it in less than twenty seconds. Then, with his uniform and police identification, he’d simply blend in with the law enforcement as they poured onto the roof and walk away.
If he hadn’t become so obsessed with taking out this one man who refused to comply with the directive and die, then Burnett would have used those precious seconds. Instead, he chose to use every bit of time he had to take one more sh
ot at the man running for cover with that damn dog who’d ruined his first shot.
Through the rifle’s scope, Burnett followed Chris as he ushered Sterling out of the line of fire. He pressed his finger on the trigger. “I’m going to get you if it’s the last thing I do, Matheson,” he said as Elliott’s shot from the other side of the roof struck him behind the ear.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The aftermath of the explosive confirmation hearing played out like a movie.
Immediately, Leban Slade left the country on one of his private jets and went into hiding while his lawyers spun things around. His American bank accounts were frozen, but that didn’t matter. Leban Slade had money in banks all over the world.
News analysts were quick to point out that most likely Leban Slade would come out on top. Legally, he had only broken American laws. It was a big world and Slade had rich and powerful people from many different countries under his thumb. He could continue with his luxurious life as long as he stayed out of America’s reach. Since Slade had mansions in practically every country, this would only be a small inconvenience.
Ned Schiff disappeared from his office on the fifth floor of the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, before the FBI could get a warrant for accessory to murder, conspiracy to commit murder, obstruction of justice, and other crimes. The next day, he was found hanging from a beam at his beach house in Hilton Head, North Carolina. The general consensus was fifty-fifty on whether Schiff committed suicide or if Leban Slade had sent a cleanup team to make sure he didn’t talk.
Daniel Cross sought to make a deal to go into witness protection in exchange for an extensive list of Leban Slade’s informants throughout the intelligence community and on Capitol Hill.
Before a decision could be made, a pair of men wearing U.S. marshals’ uniforms with federal IDs walked into the jail to transport Cross to a scheduled hearing. They walked out with Cross. Ten minutes later, the federal officials realized they had been duped when the real marshals arrived.
