“How could I be in two places at once though?”
“These bastards timed how long it takes to get from one tower to the other. It’s about twenty minutes, eighteen if you really hustle.”
“And the outside cameras that could prove I never walked that route? Where were they?”
Bob smiled. “There was an outage at that time. Nary a one caught anything during that time. You can’t even have an alibi to prove otherwise. It was a perfect op . . . almost.”
“Almost?”
“Yes, let’s go back to the tape. Do you see the guy who’s supposed to be you putting masks on these bankers?”
Hawk nodded. “What of him?”
“Well, I saw a tattoo on his forearm that you don’t have.”
“And that’s proof?”
“Maybe a conspiracy theorist would conjure up some explanation he believed to be plausible, but forensic evidence rarely lies. But just in case that isn’t enough, I was able to extrapolate how tall this guy is based on the shadows on the wall. And he’s not even anywhere near as tall as you are.”
Hawk exhaled but still wore a furrowed brow. “But that doesn’t help with the little problem of there being footage of me gunning down these people from my perch on the building next door. I can’t deny I did that.”
“Yes, but there are ways around this.”
“Such as?”
“Leave it to me, but I think I know a way to fix it.”
Hawk stood. “When you do, can you send all the video to a journalist I know?” he asked as he held out a business card. “This is how you can get in touch with Lee Hendridge at the New York Times. If anyone can take this information and disseminate it to the public, he can—and I know he’ll do a good job.”
“Was that the journalist whose life you saved?” Bob asked.
Hawk nodded. “We saw him tied up in an Al Hasib camp. I couldn’t just leave him there, and the decision nearly got us killed.”
“Looks like it’ll be the one that might end up saving you, too, so you can get your life back.”
Hawk chuckled. “This is my life. Whether I have it back publicly or not makes little difference to me, though the other members of my team might not feel the same way. However, I would appreciate being able to move between countries without being suspected as an assassin.”
“Key word there—suspected.”
“If you can make this happen, I’ll be eternally indebted to you.”
Bob waved him off. “I might cash in that favor some day, but in the meantime, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine in the dungeon of my own making.”
Hawk exited SnyperNet’s home and navigated through the dirty streets of Paris. For the first time, he felt like there was hope. The Chamber was on the verge of being fully exposed—and he couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER 26
New York City
LEE HENDRIDGE WALKED into Janet Carlisle’s office and dropped a typed manuscript on her desk. He crossed his arms and sighed, awaiting her response to his story. But she didn’t even pick it up, glancing up at him briefly before returning her attention to something else she was reading.
“Do you have a problem?” Carlisle asked.
“I brought by an article for you to publish,” Hendridge said. “I thought you might want to run this in tomorrow’s paper.”
“Why not just email it to me?” she asked, maintaining her focus on what was in front of her.
“I didn’t want you to dismiss it or send it to your junk mailbox,” he said. “I wanted to watch you read it.”
“I swear you’re one relentless little bastard.”
“If that’s the only disparaging remark you have to make about me today, I’ll take it.”
Carlisle took her glasses off and then slapped them down on a stack of papers to her right. “Do you see all these, Hendridge?”
He stared past her.
“Look,” she said. “I have actual work from actual employees that I need to get to today. I don’t have time to read your fantasy pieces when I could be—”
“It’s not fantasy, but it’s well sourced and is going to make the establishment squeamish at the very least.”
“I really don’t want to repeat myself.” She glanced up and nodded toward the door. “You can show yourself out.”
“Come on, Carlisle. Give this article a chance. Don’t make a decision until after you’ve read it. I think you’ll be pretty excited.”
She rolled her eyes, snatched it off the pile, and skimmed it, slamming one page down after another upon finishing each one. After she completed reading the entire draft, she held it up.
“This is utter garbage,” she said. “I can’t believe you brought this into my office today. Now go home and get some rest.”
“Seriously? There’s proof Brady Hawk didn’t do what he’s accused of doing. It’s all getting exposed.” He paused. “Or do we not do that any more? Are we simply involved for the money like everyone else at this point?”
She picked up the manuscript and shook it. “Who are your sources for this story?”
“Do you think I’d be willing to risk my journalistic integrity by making this up?” he asked.
“Who are your sources?”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever been asked that question by you in five years,” he fired back. “You trust me, and you know my work is good. And this story is front page worthy for every newspaper in America and beyond.”
“This reads more like a work of fiction to me,” she said before slamming it down on her desk.
Hendridge was about to rip into her again, an act that would likely cost him his job, when an uproar in the newsroom grabbed their attention.
“Did you hear?” a reporter asked as she rushed into Carlisle’s office. “Michaels has been cleared and exonerated. He’ll be reinstated as President within the hour.”
Carlisle picked up Hendridge’s manuscript and dropped it in her trashcan. “Peddle your fiction elsewhere,” she said. “Tomorrow we’re going to have a real news story on the front page, one that’s built upon facts. Maybe you should take some notes.”
She got up and exited her office, walking past Hendridge without so much as a glance.
CHAPTER 27
Washington, D.C.
J.D. BLUNT RECOGNIZED the familiar Caller Unknown tag across the top of his phone’s screen. He assumed Hawk and the Firestorm team were calling with an update. But Blunt was wrong.
“Did you just hear the news?” a man asked.
It took Blunt a few seconds for the voice to register. Noah Young.
“Did Michaels get cleared?” Blunt asked.
“The committee announced they didn’t find any indication of willful wrongdoing and proceeded to recommend he be reinstated in full immediately.”
“Well, ain’t that just a kick in the pants?” Blunt said, devoid of any emotion.
“This isn’t something to joke about,” Young said. “I heard Michaels was fuming when he learned Hawk and Samuels were responsible for stopping Al Hasib’s attack on the Verge oil facility in Kuwait City.”
“He’d get upset if someone shot a charging bull,” Blunt countered. “You have to take such reports with a grain of salt. Besides, who told you this?”
“General Kauffman.”
“Kauffman.”
“Yeah, apparently the General kept meeting with Michaels to keep him abreast of what was going on in the event that he got reinstated soon. I guess it was just a precautionary measure.”
“Bullshit. Michaels is up to something. He should’ve never been briefed under the circumstances of the agreement.”
“Well, he knows I’ve been talking to you apparently, that I was the one who informed Hawk and the team about the potential attack.”
Blunt huffed softly through his nose. “And who told him that? Frank Stone?”
“Maybe, but my money is on Kauffman.”
“Why would Kauffman do that to us? He was supposed to be our ally i
n all of this.”
“Just goes to show you can’t trust anyone in this town.”
Blunt sighed. “That doesn’t show me anything. I’ve known that for years, but that doesn’t mean I’m still not surprised sometimes when people switch allegiances and what motivates them to do so.”
“So, what’s our next move?” Young asked, the angst in his voice elevating.
“Stay calm and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone else, understand?”
“Got it,” Young said. “Is there anything I can do to help? I really want to help.”
“Stay out of the way,” Blunt said. “That’s always the best way for you to assist me in this process. Leave it in the hands of the professionals and move forward.”
Blunt hung up and sauntered over to his record player. He sifted through several jazz albums before he found one he felt fit his mood. Charles Mingus, Better Git It In Your Soul. He inspected the vinyl before putting it on and pouring himself a glass of scotch.
Blunt needed to think. He needed to figure out a way to avoid becoming a target of Michaels. Blunt needed to put the bullseye back where it belonged—on the President of the United States.
CHAPTER 28
Paris, France
PETROV STEPPED INTO THE STRETCH limousine first at the behest of her guests. She wasn’t sure if it was a sign of respect, chivalry, or distrust. Ultimately, she didn’t care. Tucked out of sight up her right thigh was a holster for her gun. She felt it just to make sure it was still there. Eventually, she’d have to use it, but not now. Not here. No, she intended to make her point with more than a simple bang. She had much more in mind for each of The Chamber’s board members.
Ricardo Valencia, the Mexican ambassador to Russia, slipped into the seat next to Petrov. She considered him a valuable asset based on his connections to the Western hemisphere. But, like everyone else climbing into the limo with her, he was still expendable.
Once the final passenger was loaded, bringing the total number to seven, the driver shut the door and then drove them toward the airport. Outside, the lights of Paris flickered against the twilight. A discussion broke out about the best restaurant in the city, quickly followed by a robust debate over the finest wine. Petrov remained quiet amid both conversations.
“Katarina,” Valencia began, “what is it that keeps you so preoccupied tonight? You seem distant.”
“I apologize, Ricard,” she said. “I’m lost in my thoughts about The Chamber.”
“And what might those thoughts be?” he asked. “I’m sure everyone here would be interested to hear them.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m excited—but nervous—about what’s happening with The Chamber.”
“Nervous? You?” Ricardo asked, resulting in soft chuckling among the rest of the contingent.
“I know it’s difficult to believe, isn’t it?” she said, forcing a smile. “But the truth is I see The Chamber changing the world.”
Richardo nodded. “I think we all believe that in some form or another or else we wouldn’t be here.”
Petrov held up her hands. “No, not like that. Not in the way that most people make such statements in an offhanded way. When I say change the world, I’m talking about a real and practical manner. In fact, I actually mean it.”
“What does that look like to you?” Ricardo asked.
Petrov glanced out the window for a moment and rubbed the corners of her eyes, trying to contain her emotions.
“When I was a little girl growing up in St. Petersburg—it was called Leningrad at that time—all I wanted was peace,” she began. “Perhaps it’s because I was surrounded by such violence. I only had to step outside my flat to see people getting pummeled for breaking some sort of arbitrary law. And it was no better inside either.”
She sighed before continuing. “My mother—she was a bit of a pushover. I wanted a stronger mother. In fact, it’s what I prayed for every night back when I believed that God existed and that he cared about me. But I no longer believe in such fanciful and whimsical things, perhaps to my detriment. Only time will tell.”
She thought for a moment then proceeded with her story.
“My mother only grew weaker and weaker, beaten down by life. She was also beaten down by my father—every . . . single . . . night. He would come home from one of his vodka-fueled drunken excursions and beat my mother. I begged her to stand up to him, to fight for herself, to fight for me. But she wouldn’t. She would just take it, night after night. To be honest, I don’t know if there was an exact point where my father damaged her beyond repair, but it happened. One night I watched her cover her head with her arms and writhe about on the floor while my father kicked her and punched her like she was a thief he was arresting. That night as she moaned in the hallway, I vowed while lying in my bed that I would never become like her, so weak, so powerless, so unwilling to fight back.”
She exhaled and then took another deep breath, her voice starting to quake.
“The next morning, I went into her room and stared at the bruises. Her eyes were almost swollen shut. Her nightgown was ripped, and I could see huge contusions everywhere. And while I wanted to have pity for her, I couldn’t. She was a stout woman and could’ve stood up to him, but she chose to just lie on the floor and let him treat her like a dog. So I found the only pity I had in my heart for her, which gave me the strength to put a pillow over her face and suffocate her. It took about a minute, one long, excruciating minute that ticked past, each second full of more regret than the last. But it was never enough to make me stop. I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop until she was out of her misery.”
She looked up at The Chamber board members, all of them eyeing her cautiously. While they were all ruthless in their endeavors, Petrov knew none of them were cold hearted enough to kill their own mothers. She planted a seed of doubt in their heads, though they’d never do anything about it. Too many of them already saw her as an ally, as a friend. And she wanted it that way. Gain their trust and their empathy, and then seize what you want. That was the Petrov way, the way her father taught her, the way the academy taught when she enrolled after killing her mother.
“I didn’t go to her funeral,” Petrov continued. “I felt as though it would’ve been hypocritical to do such a thing. Seeing her lying peacefully after I killed her—that was the first time I’d ever seen her like that. Fully at peace was how I longed to see her. And I finally saw her reach that state. But it changed me, for the better of course. It made me realize what I wanted to do with my life: I wanted to fight bullies by becoming one.”
Petrov took the calculated risk that bully had not yet become a nasty four-letter word among her traveling companions. And she was right. They nodded in agreement, each person understanding what she meant. Perhaps her story didn’t scare them, but it sure made them think.
“That’s what we do at The Chamber,” Petrov added. “We stand up to bullies, no matter who they are.”
Ricardo leaned forward and grabbed several glasses from the minibar in the back, doling them out one by one. He removed a chilled glass of champagne from a bucket of ice and passed it around. When everyone had a full glass, he raised his in the air.
“I propose a toast,” he began, “to Katarina Petrov, the woman who will stand with you in the face of injustice no matter what. I wouldn’t want anyone else standing by my side in times such as these.”
Calls of “here, here” echoed throughout the limousine, followed by the clinking of glasses.
“We will rise,” Petrov said, her steely gaze scanning all the passengers seated around her. “The Chamber will rise.”
She took a swig from her glass and drained it before sliding her hand along the upper part of her right thigh. Her gun was still there, and she was itching to use it.
CHAPTER 29
HAWK PRESSED THE BINOCULARS close against his face as he surveyed the approaching vehicle. The private section of Charles De Gaulle operated by different rules, rules that ma
de it easy to flaunt security measures. On the way to the airport, Hawk and Alex had received an earful from Samuels, who derided such practices for the executive flight club. He railed about how the rich lived by another set of standards. Hawk refused to disagree, mostly because Samuels had a sound argument, but also because it was clear he was like a dog with a chew toy when it came to lecturing about protocol and what was fair.
“What do you see, Hawk?” Samuels asked over his coms.
“I see Petrov getting out of the limo,” Hawk answered. “She’s carrying a weapon.”
Hawk smiled and waited for the predictable response.
“That burns me up that someone like her could just walk in here with a gun,” Samuels said. “What’s to stop her from strolling into the terminal and shooting people at will?”
“I believe she has other plans tonight,” Hawk said. “And we’re going to disrupt them.”
“It makes me so mad,” Samuels said.
“Settle down, Bro,” Alex said. “We’ll take care of her soon enough.”
“That won’t change a thing,” Samuels said. “There will still be—”
“Put a sock in it, Samuels,” Hawk said sternly. “We’re done discussing the privilege of the wealthy. It’s a fact of life. Time for you to move on.”
Hawk took a deep breath to settle his nerves and identified the rest of the party traveling with Petrov.
“Did you get all that?” Hawk asked after he finished.
“Copy that,” Alex said. “Now, go set that bird up.”
“My pleasure.”
Hawk put on a cap and drove the catering truck toward the plane. He watched the captain greeting his passengers, glancing nervously at his watch between interactions.
Once Hawk pulled the truck to a stop near the rear of the plane, he hustled across the tarmac to meet the pilot and put on his glasses.
“Sorry I’m late,” Hawk said in French. “I got held up at a security checkpoint.”
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