She nodded. “The reactor is here. Stacy got a private donor to build it. He was so proud of himself, going to use statistics from a fully operational reactor to sway the governor to his side. And it worked. Baine wants to start his own version of the WPA and build these all over the state, which sent the coal companies into fits. They went to their old buddy Ted Grayson, who jumped at the chance to set Baine up to take a political fall. Wyatt connected Grayson with Hamilton, who wanted to take his dad and President Denham both down—he hates the president because he believes women are good for little besides sex and procreation. He hates his parents because of something to do with his mother and a big secret, but he never told me what it was. He knew about Stacy’s reactor, and he knew about my dad, about what he’d found at his old lab. He decided it was the perfect weapon, new and secret and something nobody will see coming. There’s no metal, so detectors won’t work. They told my dad they’d kill me if he didn’t help them with the ionization process that produces their bomb. And they told me they’d kill him if I didn’t do what they said.” She turned her face to Joey. “What you walked into the other night . . . Hamilton set me up. I thought he was coming to meet me, but the guy who walked in said Hamilton sent him as a ‘gift.’ He was drunk, and so angry. Hamilton told me when he shoved me out of my apartment Friday with a gun in my back that I was supposed to die in that office. So thank you.” She sucked in a deep breath and coughed.
I believed every word. Her story made this whole damned thing finally make some sort of sense. And Hamilton Baine had some balls, handing her a gun and ordering her around. That was confidence that he was in utter control of the situation, right there.
“Please, before he figures out you got the door open.” She whisper-shouted, “Go.”
She couldn’t open it because of the voice key. But once we did, she was trying to help.
Dammit. I couldn’t leave her there. And I knew that vein poking out of Joey’s forehead meant he wouldn’t, either. How much could one person be expected to handle? She looked on the verge of falling to a zillion tiny pieces in front of us, and I wouldn’t blame her a bit.
“No. Come with us,” I said.
She shook her head so hard she sent herself into a fresh coughing fit.
“Sorry,” I said.
She waved a hand. “I can’t. He’ll kill my father. You have to”—cough, cough—“tell someone. Stop them. There’s not much time left.” She stood, her whole long frame trembling. “Please. He’s crazy, Nichelle. He thinks President Denham is going to destroy the republic because she has a vagina. Women can’t be trusted, he says, because his mother did something once that he can’t forgive her for. We cannot let this happen. Go.”
It was an impossible decision. She had been battered and demonized and finally broken, by her love for her family. How could we leave her?
I could tell looking at her that she wouldn’t leave her dad any more than I would leave my mother with a madman. And there was a national tragedy brewing that only we knew enough to stop. Maybe.
That’s how.
“The good of the many over the good of the one.” Joey did it again, whispering what I was thinking as he stood up straight and started up the stairs backward.
I held Lakshmi’s gaze for another half minute. “Take care of you. I’ll send help, I promise.”
She nodded. I spun, edging in front of Joey and holding the gun out in front of me, wondering how I’d keep that promise. Everyone was focused on protecting the president, including us.
One stair at a time.
Outside first. In the car.
Then I could figure out who to call.
33
Every one of the last fifty steps made my legs burn hotter. Even Joey, who ran six miles every morning along the riverfront, was huffing by the time we got to the door.
Which had a pin pad bolted to the wall next to it.
“Of course.” He let his forehead drop to the cold steel wall next to it. “Any ideas?”
“Actually . . . yeah.” I closed my eyes, rifling through my memory for Hamilton’s social media pages.
There.
I took one hand off the gun and lowered it. “Stacy built this place and he seemed pretty gone over Hamilton.”
“Too bad for him,” Joey snorted. “That kid isn’t more interested in anyone than he is in himself.”
Exactly.
I punched the keys for Hamilton’s birthdate.
The green light at the top of the pad flashed and the door slid back.
Joey bolted upright, waving me through. I raised the gun again and flipped around the opening, flattening my back against the outside wall like I was Charlie’s fourth Angel.
“Nice,” Joey said, pulling in a lungful of clean, cool, predawn air. “With the door.”
I was too busy gulping air myself to reply. Rotten wheat never smelled so good.
Finally, something was going our way. I glanced at Joey’s watch.
A little less than five hours, and we were two from the city.
I put my arms straight out and started jogging. “You still have the keys, right?” I called softly over my shoulder.
“Yep.” He came up alongside me, easily matching my stride. We dived into the withering stalks, not slowing down.
We were maybe fifteen yards from the car when the first shot fired.
I stumbled, taking one hand off the gun and raising it to examine the chamber.
Shit.
Not mine.
I turned to warn Joey just as he put his shoulder into mine, sending me flying into the wheat stalks with a shove that would do a professional linebacker proud.
I screamed, because I knew what was coming.
And I couldn’t move fast enough to stop it.
The peaceful morning exploded around me. Joey staggered backward like he’d taken a good right hook to the gut.
Except it was his shoulder where the black-red stain bloomed out from the little hole, spreading faster than he fell.
I scrambled backward, crab style, putting a few yards between me and the general direction of the bullet before I got my footing well enough to half stand. Creeping low through the stalks and moving slowly, I rested my finger on the trigger instead of the guard, the safety still off.
I couldn’t look at Joey, because panicking wouldn’t help anyone, and my heart wouldn’t stay under my rib cage if I saw him lying there bleeding.
Like Aaron.
Like Grant.
I’d been shot in the shoulder once. He’d be okay. As long as I managed to keep my head straight and get him out of here.
These assholes thought they were dealing with a reporter. They wanted me to freak out and run.
Time to show off what two years of digging myself into trouble chasing stories had taught me.
I’d sidestepped about ten feet when I spotted Hamilton through the stalks.
Holding a rifle to his eye like he was on safari.
With Ted Grayson trailing his heels, hiding behind the kid like the weasel he was. So much for that ankle monitor. Either he got it off or he figured nobody was watching it with the threat to President Denham. I couldn’t see his feet clearly enough to be sure.
Bastard. Hamilton Baine had a warped worldview and a serious lack of conscience, but Grayson was calling the twisted shots here.
I saw them before they saw me, but not by much. Grayson’s arm flashed up, pointing.
Behind the gun, Hamilton’s cold smile stretched his face farther than should’ve been possible. His finger moved to the trigger.
But mine was already there.
I heard Joey in my ear: “Aim lower than you think you need to.”
I kept my eyes open as I squeezed.
Hamilton crumpled, the rifle pointing up toward the sky before it fired as he fell.
I rushed forward.
Grayson, close enough now for me to see the nose hairs he really needed to trim, locked wide eyes with me.
His righ
t arm came up, the early light glinting off a small silver revolver.
My heart hammered so hard I wasn’t sure it could keep it up much longer. Blood rushed in my ears, muting everything around me. There wasn’t time to think, even if I could’ve managed coherence through the adrenaline-spiking survival instinct.
I aimed.
Fired.
Grayson fell on top of Hamilton.
I didn’t move to see if I’d killed anyone, keeping the gun on them as I backpedaled double-time to Joey.
“You okay?” he asked, trying to sit up.
“I got them both.” I didn’t have to try not to sound proud. It was horrifying. I shot someone. Two someones. My hands shook such that one of us might be third if I didn’t put the damned gun down.
But I was still alive, and had no doubt I wouldn’t be if I hadn’t pulled the trigger.
I knelt next to Joey, pressing the gun into his hand. I wriggled out of my hoodie, threw it down, and pulled one tank over my head, shivering under a single thin layer of cotton and a whole damn lot of adrenaline in the chilly morning air. Taking the hem in both hands and yanking until I heard the stitches give, I bunched up the length and wrapped Joey’s shoulder. Pulling as tight as I could, I finally managed to force my trembling fingers to tie it off on the third try.
He grunted. “Thanks, princess.” He managed a smile. “I may have to come up with another nickname. You’re kind of a badass.”
“Do badasses feel like they’re going to puke in these situations?” I stood, reaching for his punch-broken, non-shot hand and pulling him up, ducking under his arm to make myself a human crutch as he wavered, blinking.
“Whoa.”
“Easy,” I said. “Almost there.”
One painstaking step at a time, with me turning to look for a terrorist over my shoulder every five seconds, we made it to the car.
I hit the unlock button about fifteen times, belted Joey into the passenger seat and leaned it back, then sprinted around the hood and slid behind the wheel, cranking the key.
Clock check. Four hours and change. Shit.
I slammed a foot on the gas, spinning a U-turn with one hand as I fished my phone out of my pocket with the other.
“Hey, Siri, find the nearest hospital.” The phone binged. Flashed an address. For St. Vincent’s, in Richmond. Shit. No houses or schools meant no health care nearby.
I held the car steady and touched Kyle’s name in my call favorites.
His voicemail picked up on the fifth ring.
“Hamilton Baine and Ted Grayson are bleeding in a field, and Lakshmi Drake is locked in a nuclear reactor. It is a bomb, Kyle. No metal. And it’s not the speech, it’s before—” I stopped short of saying “the breakfast,” because I couldn’t be wrong. Not about this.
“I have to get Joey to a doctor, but please, please call me when you get this,” I said.
Clicking the call off and dropping the phone in the cup holder, I glanced at Joey. He was pale, but his breathing was smooth and even. “Hang on, baby. I’m going.”
“Where the hell is Miller?” he asked, trying to hide the pain that made his voice thready.
I shook my head. “I even sent him a pin. He knew where we were, and we’ve been gone all night.” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. Kyle was busy. And we’d be okay.
I hoped.
Laying my foot on the gas, I focused on the road. Ten miles from the silo, I reached for the phone again, this time dialing Landers.
He picked up on the third ring. “Do you know what time it is, Clarke?”
“Can I trust you, Detective?” I asked, not bothering with an apology for the hour.
“Of course,” he said. “Are you”—he cleared his throat—“are you okay?”
“I am not. But a whole lot of people aren’t going to be in a little bit if I’m right.” My brain was dropping puzzle pieces faster than I could keep up, processing the events of the past few hours as my heart rate came down. My stomach tightened a little more with every mile of blacktop behind us.
“How do I help?” Landers asked.
For all his blustery asshat facade, he wasn’t a bad guy at crunch time. And I loved Aaron, but today, I was sure Landers wanted to do the right thing. Aaron might be too blinded by politics to see the right thing if it gave him a lap dance.
“I’m going to send you a map pin. Take four officers you trust and go there. Hamilton Baine and Ted Grayson are in the hayfield, they’ve been shot. Lakshmi Drake is locked in the back silo. With a nuclear reactor.”
“A bomb?” Landers’s baritone exploded from the phone’s tiny speaker. “Christ, I thought Miller was being dramatic.”
“No, I think the bomb has left the building. I just hope I can catch up in time to stop it.”
“Did Grayson shoot the Baine kid?”
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, my voice shaking. “I—uh—I shot them both. I’ll explain later.”
I clicked “End” and sent him the location pin, nodding when he replied with a thumbs-up.
Joey snored softly from the passenger seat.
I spent the next hundred or so minutes shattering no less than a dozen traffic laws, whispering to myself as I worked out the rest of what I thought had happened in the past few days, and praying I actually had it right.
I was out of time for being wrong.
And the weight of the world—the free world, anyway—was really damned heavy around my shoulders.
34
The tires squealed, the air filling with the hot, acrid smell of burned rubber when I slammed my brakes in the ambulance bay at St. Vincent’s. Two orderlies strolled through the automatic doors shaking their heads.
“You can’t park here, miss,” the shorter one said.
“I’m not parking,” I said, rounding the hood at a run on sore, shaky legs and throwing the passenger door open. “He has a gunshot wound to the right shoulder. It’s been almost two hours. He’s bleeding and pale, but breathing well. I’m pretty sure he’s been unconscious for about an hour and a half.”
The tall one scrambled back through the door shouting, returning with a gurney and three burly nurses. Tears welled and spilled over before I could stop them as I watched them lift Joey onto the rolling bed and rush him inside.
I slammed the passenger door and slid back into my car, the stocky orderly who had yelled at me before tapping on the passenger window. “Park over there”—he pointed to the small lot—“and come in through the doors around the side to registration.”
I shook my head. “Please take good care of him.”
I couldn’t say anything else without dissolving into a puddle of adrenaline and tears, so I rolled the window up and put my foot on the gas, leaving the orderly waving his arms in the rearview. Just twenty-four hours ago I’d have said there was nothing that would keep me from Joey’s bedside in an emergency.
Turned out there was one thing.
Clock check: ninety-one minutes. The Coliseum was fifteen west of me in traffic.
Kyle’s office was five to the east. Kyle was a planner—he’d be getting ready for what he thought was coming tonight.
I took the left on Monument and sped toward the tall modern building that houses federal offices in Richmond.
He wouldn’t answer his phone, so I’d go tell him in person.
I clicked on the local NPR station.
Top of the hour, and the president was arriving at Jefferson Elementary.
I checked both ways and ran the light at Hamilton Street, swinging a U-turn and parking in front of a fire hydrant. Shooting two people before coffee made a parking violation seem pretty damned inconsequential.
Running into the building, I spotted Kyle’s friend John at the desk next to the metal detectors. I waved. He jumped to his feet, his eyes widening with alarm. “Miss Clarke?” His voice was a full octave too high.
Lord, what must I look like? Bloody hands, bloody shirt, hair that had seen many cleaner days h
alf sticking out of my ponytail. A girl could probably walk away from the zombie apocalypse with a less alarming appearance. Nothing to be done for it. There wasn’t time.
“Here to see Kyle, John.” I didn’t break stride as I crossed the lobby.
He stepped around his desk, shaking his head. “He’s in a meet—”
Nope.
I kicked it into high gear, sprinting through the detectors and betting John wasn’t in good enough shape to catch me before I got in the elevator. I tried not to think about the very real possibility that I might land back in jail after today if I didn’t get myself killed first. One crisis at a time.
Hitting the up button, I turned to see John standing at the end of the hall, his head swiveling between me and the doors. He threw up his hands and shook his head at me, returning to his post. Good. I’d apologize later.
If anyone still cared.
The elevator binged open to reveal Agent Chaudry and Wyatt Bledsoe.
I stumbled backward.
Chaudry barely looked at me, and Bledsoe flinched when the doors first opened, then looked between Chaudry and my bloody hands and walked past me, reaching for his phone.
I watched until he was out of sight, another question rifling through my brain. Was Governor Baine in this after all? Grayson might not have a shot at the White House, but Baine was beloved. Cool in a crisis. And a hell of an orator.
Dammit. Because I needed yet another reason to doubt myself today.
I shook it off. There’d be time to figure out who was into what tomorrow. I just had to get to Kyle and make sure there was a tomorrow.
I punched the button for his floor hard enough to jam my finger, leaving a red smear on the plastic. Reaching up, I pulled the elastic band out of my hair and tried to smooth it back. It was slightly better when I retied it. What I really needed was about four showers. Long, hot ones.
Later.
The numbers ticked up on the overhead display, my fingers tapping on my thighs as I moved into a starting-block stance when the elevator stopped. Kyle’s office was straight down the hallway on the right.
Deadly Politics Page 28
