by Chad Zunker
I looked down at the speedometer in the dashboard. She had the Cherokee up to 102 mph and still climbing, the engine red-lining as we raced past slower moving vehicles on the road. We blazed through a toll check without even slowing down. We were on the bridge now and over the ocean. I could see ships in the Atlantic. Within seconds, we would be underwater, inside the tunnel. We debated just parking there and waiting for the police to arrive.
I saw the sparks before I even knew what was happening. They appeared on the road ahead of us and then all around the Cherokee, then I heard multiple pops against my door and the back window, shattering glass. They were shooting at us. From the sky. I peered up through the window, the two Redrock choppers on both sides of us, flying really low, men with machine guns hanging out of opened windows and taking aim.
“Sam!” Natalie screamed.
“Keep swerving, we’re almost there!”
Natalie whipped the steering wheel back and forth as bullets skipped up all around us, even as we sped past other cars. We ducked as low as possible in our seats. The island was up ahead, the entrance to the first underwater tunnel section. We were so close. The Cherokee almost flipped entirely, but Natalie did an incredible job of holding it together. We were within fifty feet. Thirty feet. Ten feet. Before a bullet could hit us square, we were suddenly swallowed up by the protection of the underwater tunnel as the two choppers veered off out of our sight.
But we unfortunately had no time to exhale. There were headlights right on our tail. I knew it wasn’t just another driver on the highway. They were after us. I peered through the shattered back window. It looked like a Chevy Impala. It was a much faster vehicle than Natalie’s old Jeep Cherokee.
“We’ve still got trouble,” I said, turning to Natalie.
Natalie nodded. “I see them. What do I do?”
“Keep going. We’ve got to be running into police soon. They can’t chase us forever.”
“I’m going as fast as I can.”
When the other lane was clear from traffic, the black Impala swerved into it, started speeding up beside us.
“Don’t let him pass, Natalie!”
Natalie turned the steering wheel, veered into the lane, cutting the car off. It swerved back behind us again, then made another pass. Natalie swerved again. We both flew past slower vehicles in the open lane, then returned to our lane. But we were no match for the speedy Impala. This time, the vehicle juked us, swerved right, then left, and then made a clean pass. When it was a few feet in front of us, the Impala veered directly into our front bumper, crashing against us. Glass shattered, metal crunched, and sparks flew everywhere. It was a blur. The Impala was relentless, pounding us into the wall of the tunnel until we both finally came to a screeching and sudden halt. I smelled nothing but smoke and gasoline.
In the collision, I had flipped upside down in the backseat. I think there was blood on my forehead. I was dizzy. My hearing was muffled. Tommy was no longer in my ear. I’d lost him somewhere in the wreck. I quickly righted myself, reached for the door handle, then I spilled out onto the hot pavement. I was coughing and fuzzy headed. I heard Natalie yelling something, still sitting in the front seat. She had on her seatbelt. The authority in her voice let me know she was basically okay. But I couldn’t tell what she was saying, my head was pounding so badly. She looked frantic, yelling my name over and over again. And then I looked up, realized why. Square Jaw was approaching. He had been the driver of the Impala. My nemesis was standing right over me, gun in hand. There seemed to be a deep sense of satisfaction in his eyes as he lifted his gun, ready to end me. Something he’d wanted to do three nights ago.
But the satisfaction did not last. His head whipped back. Once. Then twice. Then blood. Lots of it. Pouring out over his face, his eyes glossing over, his legs buckling, the gun in his hand dropping to the pavement beside him. He fell to his knees, then flat on his face. Square Jaw was dead.
In the chaos of the seconds before, I hadn’t noticed another set of headlights. Another vehicle that had pulled in right behind our wreckage. Before I could even process what had happened, I was face to face with the gray-bearded man. Two feet apart. His clear blue eyes barreling directly into mine. He spoke to us for the first time.
“Sam, Natalie, come with me. Hurry.”
He held out a hand, lifted me to wobbly feet. Then he hurried over and pried the door open for Natalie to get out.
“We don’t have much time,” the man said. “You have to trust me.”
I could hear police sirens now. Somewhere in the distance.
I stared down again at the pavement, looked over to Natalie. How could we say no? He’d just saved my life. Again. She nodded, as if in agreement with whatever I was conveying with my eyes.
The gray-bearded man ushered us over to a black Suburban with tinted windows. He opened the back door for us, we climbed inside. My eyes went to the driver. I was shocked to see the blonde banker, William Alexander, CIA agent, sitting behind the steering wheel. He gave me a quick nod of recognition. The gray-bearded man quickly climbed into the passenger seat as the Suburban pulled around the wreckage. We passed a row of police cars racing into the tunnel from the opposite direction. Soon we were out of the tunnel and back onto the bridge. As I peered up into the night sky, there were no Redrock helicopters anywhere to be found.
FORTY-FOUR
Monday, 10:06 p.m.
Washington, DC
1 hour, 54 minutes to Election Day
We rode in silence back to DC. The gray-bearded man promised we would have all the answers we wanted as soon as we returned to the city. So we just sat back and waited. I had no desire to argue about it. I was just thankful to be alive. My girl beside me. The flash drive with the video snug in my fingers, undamaged in the wreck. Natalie was texting back and forth with her editor the entire way. Natalie’s colleagues had been digging like crazy. Of the dozen companies that gave to Tolstoy & Peters, which in turn gave to the Roots super PAC, Natalie’s editor had already connected six of them directly back to Victor Larsen and Redrock. An aide inside Senator McCallister’s office had confirmed that he’d overheard private discussions between McCallister Sr. and Victor Larsen about the best channels to get McCallister Jr. onto the congressional investigative committee immediately upon election. The story was coming together.
The Suburban pulled up to the curb in front of the historic Hays-Adams Hotel, directly across from the White House. The gray-bearded man guided us inside through side doors, up the elevator and down a long hallway to a door labeled Federal Suite. He swiped a card and led us inside the spacious room. Someone was waiting for us near the patio doors to the balcony overlooking the White House. Natalie and I exchanged a quick, confused glance.
Lisa McCallister.
Wife of Lucas McCallister.
Lisa wore a conservative dark blue dress, her blonde hair pinned neatly back. She looked dressed for a high-class dinner function. I noted the sadness in her eyes.
“Are you two all right?” Lisa asked. She seemed sincere.
“I’ve had much better days,” I replied, “but I think we’re okay.”
“Please have a seat,” she insisted.
We sat on sofa. Lisa chose to remain standing. The gray-bearded man stood off to the side. Lisa pressed her lips together, as if she was gathering her thoughts, her eyes drifting back and forth between us and the older man. Then she started. “I’m sure this must be very confusing to you, being here with me right now. I assume you know who I am?”
“Yes, Mrs. McCallister,” said Natalie.
“Please, call me Lisa.”
“Okay,” Natalie replied. “I assume the reverse is also true, that you know who we are?”
Lisa nodded. “Yes, I know all about you, Natalie. And you, too, Sam. Of course.”
Okay, that was a weird comment.
“Why are you here?” Natalie asked. “I mean, the election is tomorrow.”
Lisa nodded again, eyes toward the balcony. “Yes. My
husband thinks I’m on a plane right now headed back to Texas to meet him in Austin. But you need to hear the truth.”
“The truth about what?” I asked.
Lisa sighed. “The truth about why you were standing outside that motel room window in Boerne three nights ago.”
And there it was. I was on the edge of my seat.
Lisa began by saying that she needed to give us some background. Otherwise, none of it would make any sense. We might still have a hard time with it even after hearing it. But truth was truth, no matter how hard it was to hear. She said that the first few years of her marriage were magical. She and Lucas were college sweethearts at SMU, they’d married during his second year at Harvard Law, had the kids early, back to back, and she really enjoyed being connected to a very influential political family. Life was fun and exciting, with lots of adventure. It was a whirlwind. She got to meet interesting, famous people from all over the world. For a small town Texas girl, it felt like a real life princess story. But then a few years ago, things started to take a darker turn. Lucas changed almost overnight, started drinking more and even experimented with drugs. All while beginning to dip his toes into the family business of politics. Lisa urged him to stop, especially with two young kids at home, but he became dismissive to her. And then abusive. First, emotionally. Lots of yelling, lots of screaming, lots of cursing and name calling, even in front of the toddlers.
Then came the physical abuse. First, grabbing and slapping. Then it turned even more violent at times. To the point where Lisa was struggling to keep it hidden. And the affairs. There were several girls. Lisa begged him to get help, but he wouldn’t listen. Finally, at her end, she threatened to leave him, to divorce him. She just couldn’t take it. She wouldn’t take it.
And that’s when things went from bad to worse.
The first threat of divorce was almost three years ago, right in the middle of Lucas’ father’s presidential exploration. Lisa was visited one night at the house by her mother-in-law, Gloria McCallister. She’d never had a close relationship with Lucas’ mother, who was always standoffish. Lisa had tried early on to build a bond there, but her mother-in-law always kept her at a distance. Even after they’d had children. It was never hostile. They were at least cordial with each other. But that night, alone together, Gloria was anything but cordial. She said she’d heard about the talks of divorce between Lisa and Lucas. That her son was distraught. She encouraged Lisa to back off that kind of talk. Lisa had made a commitment to her son, to their family, really, and they took that commitment very seriously. Divorce was not an option.
At that point, Lisa felt the need to divulge the full truth. The drinking, the drugs, the emotional and physical abuse, the string of sexual affairs. The nightmare that had become her life over the past year. She’d not yet told anyone about her awful secret life at home. She felt alone and isolated. Her parents had passed away ten years ago, she was an only child, so she had no siblings or family confidante to lean on during those difficult days. She’d hoped that her mother-in-law would at least understand and sympathize.
Her mother-in-law did understand. But she did not sympathize. Instead, she made excuses for her son. She said life in power and under the spotlight was pressure-packed and very difficult. You don’t abandon your man during those challenging seasons. Their roles as wives were to support their powerful men through those difficult times, regardless of the personal sacrifice. Did Lisa really think that her mother-in-law had not experienced something similar at different points during her marriage? All great women in power did, she said. You deal with it. You don’t run away. Lisa said she didn’t want to deal with it. She couldn’t deal with it. She would no longer allow Lucas to treat her that way. She had to protect the kids.
At this point in the conversation, her mother-in-law began threatening Lisa, said she wouldn’t let some small town Texas sorority girl ruin her husband’s legacy or his chance at the White House by creating some unnecessary family drama. She wouldn’t stand for it. They could have the kids taken from Lisa. She would rarely see them. Who did Lisa think the courts would believe in a custody battle? Her mother-in-law assured her it would go very badly for Lisa.
Lisa believed her and was horrified. She dropped the talk of divorce, hunkered down, tried to endure it all for the sake of her precious kids. There were months where she thought Lucas was getting better, but then he’d revert back. Lisa felt more alone and isolated as Lucas’ political aspirations grew. Everyone called him a rising star for the party. That made it worse. She felt trapped. She had basically cried herself to sleep every night for the past two and a half years.
But when Lucas told her he was running for Congress, something reignited in her. A newfound courage. She decided she could not turn out like her mother-in-law. She knew she had to get out. Somehow. Some way. Before the stakes became even greater, if that was possible. She had to escape. But it was clear that she couldn’t do it the conventional way. She couldn’t simply hire a lawyer and file for divorce. They would destroy her and take her kids. They’d made that very clear. She would have nothing. So she began to devise an intricate plan. A plan that even a powerful family like the McCallisters couldn’t squash under the public scrutiny of it all. She would exploit her husband’s extramarital affairs at the worst possible time. Create a media circus around it. To protect her kids, she would ruin him and his career. She would get out clean in the middle of it.
But Lisa needed help. She couldn’t do it alone. Her life was under constant scrutiny. She felt like she was being watched very closely, so she called an old family friend. Marcus Pelini. He was like Uncle Marcus to Lisa. Marcus had even been at the hospital when she was born. He had watched her grow up outside of Dallas. Marcus had served with her father in the Navy many years ago, said that her father had once saved his life. After his time in the Navy, Marcus had spent thirty years with the CIA working in counter-intelligence around the world. He’d retired five years ago. In a private setting, she broke down and told Marcus everything. The whole truth. The anger, the fear, the willingness to go the distance to get away. Marcus, of course, agreed to help her. She was like a daughter to him.
At this point, Lisa officially introduced Marcus to us both.
The gray-bearded man. Marcus Pelini. Uncle Marcus.
I was sitting there in shock. Still trying to process everything she was saying.
“How did you choose Jill Becker?” I asked.
Lisa sighed. “With his career in politics ramping up, my husband had become more discreet. I knew it would take the right woman to get him to trip up at such a crucial time. And there was only one woman from our past that Lucas had never been able to resist: Jill Clayton. He cheated on me with her three different times back at SMU, always swearing it would never happen again. That marriage would change everything. I was stupid, of course. Kept forgiving him, wanting to believe. So Marcus tracked her down in New York City. We discovered that she was in a perfect position to accept such an assignment.”
“But how did you pay her?” Natalie asked. “We were told from sources that it was somewhere around a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Yes, I had to be very careful. I have a trust fund that my parents left me, for future grandkids, with a significant amount of money in it. It’s the only account I have sole control over. So I accessed it in private and have paid for this entire operation out of it.”
“But why me?” I asked. “I’m just a law student.”
Lisa looked over toward Marcus, who stepped forward.
“I needed the right guy,” Marcus said. “We could take no chances. I knew we’d have one shot at this. I needed someone who could handle the situation no matter what came up. Someone who had the skills to adapt and get the job done. You’re clearly much more than a law student, Sam. I chose you specifically.”
“Lucky me.”
“I got it right,” Marcus assured me.
“Why not just hire a private investigator, take some pics?” Nata
lie asked.
“Too risky,” Marcus replied. “We needed this to look like it came as part of a natural process in politics. We couldn’t have it look manufactured or leave a trail back to Lisa. Political trackers are a known commodity. It was an easy fit. A perfect plan. Until Lucas ruined it.”
“So the text to me that night was from Jill Becker?” I asked.
Marcus nodded. “Yes. She followed instructions.”
I shook my head. “But I don’t understand. I was inside Jill’s apartment this morning. I found the scribbled name of Devin Nicks, Congressman Mitchell’s chief of staff, on her notepad.”
“I planted it there for you to find,” Marcus said.
“Why?”
“To redirect. To throw you off the trail. I felt you were getting too close to Lisa.”
“So what, you were willing to throw Congressman Mitchell and his team under the bus on this thing?”
“Absolutely.”
Lisa interjected. “Marcus was only trying to protect me. Things, of course, did not go as planned with Jill and Lucas. I would never in my life have gone through with this had I known what would ultimately happen to Jill. I can’t sleep because of it. A woman is dead because of me.”
“Not because of you, Lisa,” Marcus corrected. “Because of him. You can’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t know how to stop blaming myself.”
I turned to Marcus again. “Why couldn’t we have had this conversation two days ago? Right after things went haywire. You and I were together in Austin. I saw you in the alley. You could have stopped this. Why have you left me hanging out there for the past seventy-two hours?”
