Breaking the Story

by Ashley Farley

  “Not on horseback, I can assure you of that.”

  She shot him an icy glare. “In case you haven’t noticed, Guy, I’m not in the mood for joking.”

  “Sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood.” He fluffed his pillow and propped it beneath his neck. “From the time I was a boy, all I ever wanted was to marry a pretty girl like my mama and run cattle for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I have two older brothers who were first in line to inherit the family ranch. As odd man out, I had to make my own way. Good thing I got the brains in the family. Jake flunked out of college his freshman year, and Sam never bothered to apply. Both Jake and Sam got girls pregnant within six months of each other. It was almost as if they’d planned it. My father developed atrial fibrillation around that time and decided to take an early retirement. Since the ranch didn’t make enough money to support three families, they cut me out completely. I was pretty pissed off at the time. Part of me still is, actually.”

  Scottie’s face softened. “I can see why. How’d you end up on the East Coast?”

  “I applied to a dozen schools, all of them as far away from my family as I could get without going abroad. I chose Carolina because they offered me the most scholarship money.”

  “Did you major in political science?”

  “No, with law school in the back of my mind, I double-majored in English and history.”

  She jerked her head back. “You don’t have your law degree, do you? Or have you been keeping something else from me?”

  He shook his head. “My plans didn’t exactly work out the way I wanted. After graduation, in order to save money for law school, I took a job writing grants for a large nonprofit in Washington. One day, the president of that nonprofit, who’d been invited to deliver the keynote address at a black-tie fundraiser, asked me to help him write his speech. Next thing I knew, I was writing speeches for half of Washington’s politicians with all thoughts of going to law school forgotten.”

  “So you’re more than just a campaign worker? You’re Blackmore’s speech writer?”

  “Yes, I am one of several.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re the one responsible for the bullshit the candidates preach, as you’ve so eloquently put it?”

  He raised his right hand. “Guilty as charged. The money is good. What can I say? And the work allows me to express my feelings on a number of different topics without putting my own reputation on the line.” He rolled on his side, looking up at her. “Once the election is over, when the demand for professionally written speeches declines, I will have to go back to writing grants. Unless, of course, I’m offered a job with the new administration.”

  “Hence the reason you want Caine’s campaign to face a timely death.”

  21

  Scottie and Guy rode in silence on the short drive to Beaufort. As hard as she tried, Scottie was having a difficult time wrapping her mind around Guy’s confession. His involvement in politics wasn’t the big issue. Although being confronted with the truth required an adjustment to her way of thinking about her investigation. The realization that he’d kept the truth from her, all but lied to her, made her question everything about their relationship.

  She thought back to the night they first met at the Richmond airport. With his tall muscular body outfitted in a steel-gray suit, she’d deemed Guy her knight in shining armor coming to rescue the damsel in distress from a flat tire. When she learned he was returning from the Republican convention in Cleveland, she made up her mind that he worked for one of the security branches of the government, simply because a Secret Service agent was way more intriguing to her than a politician. Scottie held military men and law enforcement officers—men who place their lives on the line in order to protect their countrymen—in the highest regard. In her mind, a man who sacrifices his own needs in the service of others is the type of husband that would put his wife’s and family’s needs first.

  When they had drinks later that night at the Jefferson, and then again in Philadelphia, she saw in him the qualities she admired—courage and compassion and humor. A man who was the polar opposite of Brad. She wanted to believe Guy was an honorable man. With her marriage falling apart, having just found her husband in bed with another woman, she needed Guy to be her paragon of virtue. And to find out he had intentionally withheld the truth from her in order to accomplish his own agenda had burst her little bubble.

  Guy ran his finger down her cheek. “You look really nice tonight.”

  “Thanks.” For the first time since they left DC, she’d had the opportunity to spend a few extra minutes on her appearance. She’d even dabbed on a little makeup and straightened her curly hair. She thought the low-cut black sundress accented her figure without revealing too much.

  Although she was too angry with him to tell him so, Guy didn’t look half bad himself. He’d shaven off his three-day scruff and dressed in a plaid button-down shirt and pressed khaki pants, a more casual version of the handsome man she’d met only eleven days ago. Scottie had come a long way since then, both professionally and emotionally. She’d followed Will’s advice—Be free, little birdie. Spread your wings and fly. Professionally, she’d gone out on a limb in search of her big break. So what if she didn’t hit pay dirt the first time around. There’d be other stories. The important thing was, she’d learned a lot about the integrity of journalism during her investigation.

  Emotionally, after years of being trapped in an unhappy marriage, she’d allowed herself to be attracted to another man. True, she’d gotten hurt in the process, but lucky for her she’d escaped with her emotions still intact. And she wasn’t eager to remarry anytime soon. She needed to stand on her own two feet before she stood with someone else. Why not enjoy her time with Guy for however long their relationship lasted? This was the last night of their road trip. Why not have wild and crazy sex with no strings attached? That’s what their generation was all about anyway.

  When they arrived at the waterfront in Beaufort, event planners had blocked off the boardwalk and were allowing access only to those who had purchased tickets in advance. She presented her press credentials, which entitled her to a free pass plus one, to the woman at the table. In return, she received two neon-orange wristbands.

  Much like the events of the past three days, the merchants and restaurateurs along Front Street had opened their doors to the attendees, offering a large variety of seafood cooked in a number of different ways—anything from crab cakes to fried fish filets to steamed shrimp. Waiters passed samples of local craft beer, wine, and specialty drinks. Stationed at the far end of the boardwalk, out of the way of the crowd, a local band played classic country music—the likes of Patsy Cline and Randy Travis.

  Scottie and Guy wandered through the crowd, taking note of the food and drink offerings before they made their choices.

  “I can’t believe they are charging an entrance fee for this shindig,” Scottie said.

  “The campaign needs to earn money at some point. They can’t afford to give everything away. In the grand scheme of things, fifty bucks isn’t that much. I’ve been to political dinners that brought thousands of dollars a plate.” He took her by the elbow and led her to the edge of the dock beside the boats. He bent down to kiss her and she let him. “I’m glad you got us in for free, but I would’ve been happy to pay for both our tickets. You’re not a cheap date, Scottie. Don’t ever let anyone treat you like you are one. Capeesh?”

  “Capeesh,” she said and kissed him back with more fervor than before. “Now, let’s get a drink.” She dragged him through the crowd to the nearest bar.

  “What’re you in the mood for?” he asked.

  “Hmm, something refreshing.” Tapping her chin, she stared up at the sky while the bartender waited patiently for her order. “How about a Moscow Mule?”

  “Good choice. Make that two of them,” Guy said to the bartender.

  Drinks in hand, they filled cocktail-size plates with samples of dishes, then located an empty table. They fou
nd the evening breeze refreshing after the heat of the day, and for the first time in as long as Scottie could remember, she felt content.

  “I could sit here all night and watch the boats tie up at the marina, but I guess we better get to work.” She tossed the last shrimp in her mouth and washed it down with the remainder of her Moscow Mule.

  A half hour later, Scottie was shooting candids of the crowd when Guy’s cell phone vibrated. He checked the caller ID. “I need to take this.” He held his finger up to her, indicating he’d only be a minute, and crossed the boardwalk for privacy.

  She snapped a few shots of Guy talking on the phone to remember him by when he returned to Washington and she went home to Richmond. She was scanning the faces of the crowd with her camera when her mystery man came into focus on her viewfinder. He was dressed as though he’d stepped off a yacht in a blue blazer and white linen slacks. She held her finger on the shutter, allowing the camera to tick off twenty continuous shots of Brosnan as he walked into the bar where they’d gotten their Moscow Mules.

  She considered her options. She didn’t need any more photographs of Brosnan locking lips with the senator. All she needed was a name. Shoving her camera in her bag, she pulled a floppy sunhat over her blonde hair, and followed him inside.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked Brosnan, her hand on the back of the empty bar stool next to him.

  His eyes roamed her body in a way that made her feel dirty. “Not for you, pretty lady.”

  “I’m Mary Scott Westport.” She held her hand out to him. “And you are?”

  His hand was cold and dry. “Delighted to meet you.”

  Fine by me if he wants to play hard to get, she thought. Because I have no intention of giving up easily.

  The bartender set what appeared to be a Scotch on the rocks in front of Brosnan. “Anything for you?” Brosnan asked Scottie.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Once the bartender was out of earshot, she asked, “Have you met the candidate yet? I think Senator Caine is quite impressive.”

  “She’s no different than any other politician I’ve ever met. They can all be had for a price.”

  At a total loss of how to respond, Scottie decided to play the roll of dumb blonde. “I like the sound of that.” She walked her fingers up his coat sleeve. “You must be a rich and powerful man. What line of work are you in?”

  “Import, export.” He glanced around the room. “It’s crowded in here. Shall we go to my hotel room where we can talk in private?”

  Scottie had no intention of going anywhere with this slick-talking sleazeball, even if it cost her her big break. “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that very much.”

  “What a pity. I was prepared to offer you an evening of intense pleasure.” Brosnan waved at someone behind Scottie. “I best be on my way, then. My associate is waiting for me.” He slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar and left the restaurant.

  *

  Scottie waited thirty seconds, then slid off her bar stool and trailed Brosnan at a safe distance through the throng of people on Front Street. She texted Guy as she walked: In hot pursuit of Brosnan. She stuffed the phone back into her bag. She couldn’t let her mystery man get away this time. She needed to find a way to identify him, and a license plate number would work just fine.

  She dropped back twenty feet when he left the waterfront area and headed down a side street. Keeping a safe distance, she followed him down the street a block, then into a parking lot and through several rows of cars. When he stopped and looked around as though he sensed someone watching him, she ducked behind a nearby car and waited until he moved on. She lost sight of him altogether and raced through the maze of cars in a panicked search. She was ready to give up and head back to the waterfront when a beast of a man jumped out of a dark-gray SUV and grabbed her, knocking her sunhat off and sending her handbag crashing to the ground. He wrapped a muscular arm around her waist and clamped a beefy hand over her mouth.

  Scottie had taken a self-defense class at UVA. “Claw his eyes out,” her instructor had lectured over and over until it was ingrained in her memory. “Kick him where it counts. Fight dirty if you have to, but fight. Once he gets you in his car, your chances of surviving decrease dramatically.”

  Her screams were muffled by the beast’s massive hand. Squirming as best she could, she kicked at his shins and threw elbows to his ribs. He lifted her off the ground with ease and held her there, her feet dangling in the air. “Stop fighting or I’ll break your neck,” a deep voice with a hint of a foreign accent whispered in her ear.

  Scottie grew still and he lowered her back down to the ground. Brosnan appeared from around the front of the SUV. “Well, what do we have here? If it isn’t the amateur sleuth Scottie Darden in person,” he said, his expression smug.

  Scottie’s eyes grew wide. He’d set her up.

  “That’s right, Ms. Darden. All this time you’ve been looking for me, I’ve been following you.” He held his hand out to her. “Give me the memory card from your camera? I want to destroy the shots you took of me tonight.”

  The beast loosened his grip enough for Scottie to grab her bag off the ground and remove her camera. She released the memory card and handed it to Brosnan. The photos she’d taken of Brosnan on the waterfront were of no use to her anyway.

  He slipped the card into the inside pocket of his linen sport coat. “My friend here is going to remove his hand from your mouth so we can talk, but if you try to scream he will slice your pretty face into a million pieces with this.” The beast let go of her mouth, produced a switchblade from somewhere, most likely his pocket, and held it inches from her face.

  “Who are you?” Scottie demanded.

  “You don’t get to ask the questions, Ms. Darden. In case you haven’t noticed, you are not in control of the situation.” He took a step closer to her. “Let’s talk about the other files. We found the thumb drive in your box of tampons—a clever deterrent for most men but we are not dissuaded by feminine hygiene.”

  Her confusion turned to fear when she realized these men had gotten close enough to her to go through all of her belongings without her knowing it. If they found the drive in her tampon box, they’d undoubtedly located the files on her computer and iPad as well. She’d been too busy making love to Guy and too distracted by the revelation that he worked for the Republican Party to realize the photographs were missing. “How? When?” Scottie asked, but Brosnan shut her up with a menacing glare that made her blood run cold.

  “I warned you, Ms. Darden, about asking questions. However, lucky for you, this is one I’m happy to answer.” He chuckled, a strangled sound that resonated pure evil. “I’ll start with when. Last night while you were making love with your boyfriend under the moonlight. A bit cliché for my tastes but sweet nonetheless.” He fingered a lock of Scottie’s hair. “You really shouldn’t leave your car doors unlocked. You never know who might be in the area.” He twisted the lock of hair around his finger, and then grabbed a whole handful, yanking Scottie’s head toward him. “We erased the image files from the drives on your computer and iPad, both hard and cloud. I’m only going to ask you this question once. If you lie to me, and those images go public, we’ll hunt you down and my associate will end your life in a most unpleasant way. Do we understand one another?”

  Scottie nodded her head vigorously.

  “Are there any other copies of the files?”

  Since they hadn’t mentioned the memory card—the original one with the raw images hidden in the lining of her electronics bag—she prayed that meant they hadn’t found it.

  She shook her head no. “You found them all.”

  “Good.” He let go of her hair. “I would hate to have to kill someone so young and pretty, but I can promise you—”

  “Let her go.” Guy stepped out from behind the SUV with his cell phone pressed to his ear. “I’m on the phone with the FBI. In less than three minutes, one of their SWAT teams will descend upon this parking lot—just like th
e American troops who landed at Normandy on D-Day. I know who you are, Mikhail Popkov, Russian mob king and sex slave trader.” Guy held his phone out. “More importantly, the FBI knows who you are.”

  22

  When the beast loosened his grip on Scottie, she elbowed him in the face, breaking his nose on impact. With blood gushing from his nose, he dropped the switchblade and called out in pain.

  “Run, Scottie,” Guy shouted, and they took off across the parking lot. Thankful she’d worn her flat sandals instead of heels, she ran as fast as she could until she reached the edge of the crowd at the waterfront.

  When Scottie and Guy heard the squealing wheels of the SUV peeling out of the parking lot, they slowed down long enough to catch their breath, and then took off running again down a side street to Robbie’s Jeep.

  Once they were safely inside the car, struggling to catch his breath, Guy asked, “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “I took self-defense in college. I had an overly eager professor.”

  “You broke that man’s nose. And he was no ordinary-size man. That dude was a giant, close to seven feet if I had to guess.” Guy offered up a high five. “Remind me never to make you mad again.”

  “He’s a beast all right. I hope I never run into him in a dark alley.” She mopped sweat from her brow with a pink bandanna. “You know, now that I think about it, he might be the limo driver, the one who was driving Brosnan the night of the convention.” She paused. “I guess we can call him by his real name. What’d you say it was, Pop something?”

  “Popkov. It’s Russian,” he said. “And that would make sense that he was driving him the night of the convention. More than likely he’s Popkov’s bodyguard doing double duty as his limo driver.”

  Guy’s cell phone rang. He listened for a few seconds before he reported, “They’re headed west on Highway 70, driving a charcoal-gray late-model Cadillac Escalade with Pennsylvania plates. I didn’t get the number.”