by Stephen Frey
The mall erupted into another deafening roar when the six ten hometown hero emerged from behind a curtain on stage left and hustled up the platform stairs to loud music that ignited on cue. When he reached the emcee, he grabbed the microphone and held his arms aloft in victory, as he had on the basketball court so many times during his glittering career.
Angela held both hands to her mouth. She’d been so right to ask Trent to help her.
JD had arrived early to get a front-row position, and he was glad he had. Rockwell—and the men Rockwell was serving—wouldn’t be thrilled to see the size of the crowd that had turned out to support Senator Lehman’s competition.
One of the men had contacted JD directly, though he’d been warned very firmly not to let Rockwell know. Then a hundred thousand dollars had shown up in JD’s bank account an hour later. He wasn’t going to tell Rockwell anything, the bastard. He wouldn’t have, even without the money. But the money made it much better.
Only a string of large security guards stood between the platform and JD as the music finally faded. He’d heard of Trent Tucker before even though he wasn’t much of a basketball fan, though he’d never seen the man in person. Now that he had, he was duly impressed. Tucker was a huge physical specimen with a personality to match. JD didn’t know the technical side of politics the way Rockwell obviously did. But it seemed certain, based on the reaction he’d just witnessed, that the basketball star was going to get Angela Gaynor a lot of votes very quickly.
“It’s time!” Tucker shouted to the crowd, which quieted instantly for him. “It’s time to make the big introduction and big announcement you’ve all been waiting for.”
Someone sneezed, and a baby cried. Those were the only sounds in the huge pavilion.
“It is my great honor and privilege to present to you the next United States senator from the great state of Virginia. Please join me in welcoming Ms. Angela Gaynor!”
Gaynor appeared from behind the curtain and quickly climbed the stairs to the stage as the crowd erupted and the music reignited.
JD watched as she took the microphone from Tucker and begged the crowd for quiet while Tucker shook his head, wagged one long finger and exhorted the people for more. No wonder Rockwell was worried about this woman. She and Tucker formed a tremendous team. That was clear even to the casual observer.
The chanting and the music faded as JD focused. Even the people right around him who were whooping and hollering evaporated to nothing as his tunnel vision took control, and his eyes bored in on Angela Gaynor’s head. If Rockwell gave the word, he would blow that head apart with a single bullet. And that would be that. Her campaign for the United States Senate would be over in a fraction of a second. And not one of the screaming, cheering idiots in this huge mall had any idea what was going to happen—only him.
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
Chuck Lehman sat in a big, leather easy chair in the study of his West End mansion, sipping his third cup of espresso. Photographs of him with celebrities, sports stars, and other high-ranking politicians littered the tables and bookshelves. The room was a shrine to him, and he didn’t mind admitting how good it made him feel to see himself with all those other important souls.
He loved spending time in here. Unfortunately, he didn’t love what was on the wide flat-screen hanging from the far wall. It was ruining the great vibe he usually enjoyed in here. But he felt he had no choice but to watch.
“What are you watching, dear?”
Lehman glanced away from the screen as his wife, Martha, entered the study. She was tall, slender, and blonde, and at forty-seven still retained her classic beauty without having submitted to a single incision from a nip-tuck expert. He broke into a satisfied smile as she ran her fingers gently through his salt-and-pepper hair. He marveled at how she never failed to light up a room, any room, whenever she entered it.
“We’re watching this idiot from Virginia Beach announce that she’s going to take on—”
“Easy, Paul,” Lehman chided. His older son was home from Princeton for a few days, and they were going to spend the afternoon watching sports after Angela Gaynor was finished announcing her candidacy. “Let’s have some respect.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“I’ve read a lot about her lately,” Martha said, nodding at the TV. “She’s a remarkable young woman. She pulled herself out of poverty by the bootstraps and built one of the biggest construction companies in eastern Virginia. She hasn’t let anything get in her way her entire life. When she was eleven, she shot a crazy man who’d broken into her mother’s apartment looking for drug money.”
“Guess I better wear a bulletproof vest if we have any debates.”
Paul put his head back and laughed loudly. “Good one, Dad.”
Martha patted Lehman’s shoulder. “She’s a gamer, Chuck. You better be careful.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You’re right,” he replied, “and I will. I always trust your instincts.”
“I don’t want anything getting in your way to the Oval Office.”
She was the perfect political wife, Lehman thought to himself as he stared up at Martha. She’d told him on their wedding night that he would be president one day, and that she would do everything in her power to help him achieve that goal. He was convinced he was one of the few fortunate men in the world when it came to wedlock.
“I’m going downtown for a while,” she announced, running her fingers through his hair again. “We’re opening another home for runaway girls tomorrow, and I want to make sure everything is ready.”
“You’re too good,” he called after her as he refocused on the television. “I love you.”
“Love to both of you,” she called as she headed off.
“Do you really think this woman can beat you, Dad?” Paul asked when his mother was out of earshot.
“Not a chance,” Lehman answered confidently. “She thinks she’s God’s gift to the universe because she got lucky with her construction company. People in her district like her, but she has no idea what she’s up against now,” he said, grabbing the remote off the ottoman in front of the chair. “Let’s watch something else.”
CHAPTER 26
JURY TOWN
The guard jogged up to the young kitchen worker just as she reached her car in the parking lot. She’d been opening her door, but he slammed it shut again and stepped close.
“What are you doing?” she demanded angrily. It had been a long shift, she had a thirty-minute drive back to her dive apartment in Charlottesville, and she wanted to get on the road. She assumed he was about to ask her out—they’d made eye contact twice out here in the last few days—but that nasty look in his expression confused her. “I don’t have time to—”
“There’s money in this for you.”
She’d been about to start screaming when he blocked her hand from the car door, but the scent of cash distracted her. “What do you mean?”
The guard glanced around furtively. “I need to get a message to one of the jurors.”
“Are you insane?”
“There’s a lot of money in this for you.”
“I could get fired. Worse, they could bring me up on charges. Clint Wolf sends us memos and e-mails all the time warning us about this. Don’t you get those?”
“I’m talking ten thousand dollars.”
The guard’s image blurred before her as she gazed up at him, thinking about the things ten thousand dollars would do for two small children and her mother. “Ten grand?” she whispered incredulously.
“In cash.”
“My God.”
“I told you.”
She stared up at him for several moments more, then finally shook her head. “You could pay me a hundred grand, and I wouldn’t do it. We’ve got cameras on us constantly, and my boss is always watching for things like that. He tells us he’s watching; he doesn’t make any secret of it. And he’s got people watching him. He tells us that, too.” She shrugged. “Besides, the trays go
through slots on conveyors. We never see the jurors. I’d have no way of knowing if I was getting a message to the right person. They’ve got them roped off good. You’re going to have to find another way to get to them.”
He reached for her, and she jerked back, seeing that nasty look flare in his eyes. But he only touched her arm.
“We never had this conversation. You understand me?”
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
“How’s he doing?” Dez asked, nodding at Cameron, who lay unconscious on the bed, hooked up to a multitude of tubes and machines.
“The bullet went through his left lung,” Victoria answered, rising from the chair she’d been sitting in for the last fifteen minutes. She’d been thinking long and hard about that gun battle as she’d stared at Cameron’s ashen face. “It’s bad, but the doctors think he’ll make it.” It occurred to her that the surgeons might be painting a rosier picture than reality. “It’s seventy-thirty at this point. That’s what I was told, anyway.”
“What about you, Ms. Lewis?” Dez touched her cheek, and the dried blood just below the spot where the rock shard had torn her skin. “You got a nice battle scar there.”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“It hit you, didn’t it?”
She glanced up at him, still awed by the image of him tossing Cameron onto his shoulders like a rag doll. “What? The piece of rock?”
“No. The will to live. I saw it happen. You were about to give up; the panic was crushing you. But then everything cleared in a moment. You decided you weren’t going to die, not without one hell of a fight. I saw it happen.”
“Yes,” she said softly, goose bumps suddenly covering her arms. “Everything went to slow motion, and I could hear all sounds individually but all at the same time. It was bizarre.”
“That’s it,” Dez confirmed. “It’s a hell of a thing. Some people freeze at that crisis moment in their first real combat. I’ve seen men who’ve trained for battle for years and years still go cold at that moment. Some people can’t handle the chaos and the fact that other people are trying to kill them. You’ve never trained at all, but you handled it.” He hesitated. “I was impressed. I don’t say that often.”
“Thank you. I wouldn’t want to make my living at it,” she said lightly. “Thanks for saving my life, Dez.”
“Thanks for saving Lionel’s.” He shook his head sharply. “Besides, it’s my fault you got caught in that. I didn’t anticipate that kind of ferocity. You told me the attack on the mountain was made by one man.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m glad I clued in the local people as soon as I got down here. I’m not sure how much longer we could have held out. That won’t happen again. I can assure you of that.”
An hour ago she’d found a dark, secluded corner of the hospital and sobbed uncontrollably, overcome by the terror of coming so close to death and her fear that Cameron would die on the operating table. Dez didn’t seem fazed at all by what had happened.
“Who’s trying to kill you, Ms. Lewis?”
“People who don’t want Jury Town to succeed. People who want to send a message to other states that are thinking about doing the same thing.” She glanced up at him. “Did we catch any of the men involved in the attack?”
“Several. And the ones who weren’t wounded went to jail.”
“Anything?”
“We never had a chance to interrogate them. They’ve all made bail and disappeared. Even the ones who were shot are long gone from the hospital.” Dez shook his head. “They were turned loose like nothing happened. I’ve never seen anything like it.” His tone was grim. “Those people that you just mentioned, the ones who are trying to kill you to send a message. They are very powerful, Ms. Lewis.”
He was so right, she knew. The proof was lying on the hospital bed beside her.
“I want you by my side all the time from now on, Dez.” She could feel the deep furrows tightening her brow. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what it takes to get your time like that. I need you with me constantly.”
He broke the tension with a smile. “So is that a promotion or a marriage proposal?”
CHAPTER 27
NORTH WOODS OF MAINE
Philip Rockwell sat in the same secluded north-woods cabin, in the same hard wooden chair, beneath the same heavy blindfold, which reeked of furniture polish. The primary difference this time being that the Grays had engineered two massive merger-and-acquisitions deals directly into the glad hands of Shane Harmon, Rockwell & Company’s Managing Director and Head of M&A—on top of the equity underwriting transactions they’d already manipulated to the previously struggling investment bank.
Harmon had called to tell Rockwell about the second M&A deal just as he’d crossed over the Maine state line in his Mercedes a few hours ago, just as he was starting to become incensed by the long drive. Harmon had been as giddy as a kid on Christmas Eve as he’d described the sixty-million-dollar fee. And the rest of the drive had seemed to fly by for Rockwell.
Rockwell & Company was suddenly the hottest I-bank on Wall Street, and, in a matter of months, Rockwell’s personal net worth had soared to over a hundred million dollars.
So he sat dutifully in the uncomfortable chair, hands folded in his lap, as the meeting went on and the pain in his back intensified.
“Angela Gaynor has declared her candidacy against Chuck Lehman. It’s official.”
That was the Gray whose brother was CEO of Commonwealth Electric—Rockwell quickly recognized the voice—the Gray who was second in command at the National Security Administration. The Gray he’d tracked down on the Internet.
“She was introduced on stage when she made her announcement in Virginia Beach by a man named Trent Tucker.”
“Who’s Trent Tucker?”
“A pro basketball player who grew up with Ms. Gaynor. They’ve been friends for years. He’s a star with the Washington Wizards.”
“Was,” Rockwell spoke up. “He retired last year.”
“Yes, well, apparently people haven’t forgotten about him. The early poll results are staggering. Gaynor’s just twelve points behind Senator Lehman.”
“Twelve? That’s all?”
“And climbing.”
“She should be fifty points behind him and falling.”
“The place went ballistic when Tucker went on stage,” the NSA official spoke up. “Even crazier than when she did. This guy is a force. He could win her an election. It was an incredibly shrewd move on her part. You should have heard JD describe it.”
Rockwell caught his breath, resisting the urge to rip off the blindfold and run for his Mercedes. He had ordered JD to Virginia Beach to witness the Gaynor announcement in person, and he’d spoken to JD afterward. The kid had mentioned the crazy reception for Trent Tucker—but not a conversation with one of the Grays. The Grays were talking directly to JD?
The first pang of mortal fear rippled through Rockwell’s body. When intermediaries became expendable, they were terminated. But then why would the Grays pay him so much? Why would they navigate so much investment banking business to Rockwell & Company?
“Ms. Gaynor is a force. There is no denying that.”
“We may actually have to take extreme measures if her momentum continues. Chuck Lehman must win this election. We must protect our interests. If Chuck was defeated, and the balance of power in the Senate shifted, our use of all the information we have would very likely be curtailed.”
“Laws would be enacted. Watchdogs would appear everywhere.”
“Our ability to manipulate would be severely inhibited, perhaps ended.”
“Not to mention what would happen to income and inheritance taxes.”
“And the defense budget. God help us.”
“It’s the nightmare scenario.”
“Did you hear all that, Mr. Rockwell?”
He’d been hearing it for a year. And he understood and agreed with everything. They seemed to think that what was o
ver his eyes paralyzed his ears. Perhaps they simply took a perverse pleasure in reminding him of the blindfold. “I heard it,” he answered in a distracted tone. He was still stunned by the fact that they were talking to JD directly.
“We may need JD’s sniper skills at that point.”
“Easy, easy,” someone spoke up loudly, “let’s not be hasty. Assassinations ignite serious investigations. While I think we’re insulated, there’s no need to jump into the deep end of that pool.”
“We’re already in that end of the pool in terms of terminating Victoria Lewis.”
“All the more reason not to possibly point two investigations in our direction. No need for that kind of cross fire.” The man paused. “Have you been looking into Angela Gaynor’s affairs as we requested, Mr. Rockwell? Have you been digging?”
“I have.”
“And?”
Rockwell shook his head. “She’s clean as a whistle. Gaynor Construction has never had any major problems. Minor things any business runs into from time to time, but nothing of any consequence. Personally, she’s never had an issue, either, never even been stopped for speeding, as far as I can tell. But you are the ones who seem able to get anything on anyone.”
“Lucky we anticipated her honesty,” one of the men spoke up.
The other men chuckled loudly and stomped their feet.
Rockwell had no idea what that few seconds of stomping was all about, but his nerves could suddenly use a dose of something soothing. Every time they did it, it nearly gave him a heart attack.
“What about the Commonwealth trial, Mr. Rockwell? Have we gotten to Felicity West?”
“We’ve … tried,” Rockwell answered carefully. He was about to disappoint them again. “We made a first attempt … but it didn’t go well.”
“What do you mean?” the NSA official snapped.
“Through our senior contact at Jury Town, we had one of the junior guards approach a kitchen employee. We were going to slip Felicity West a note when she was getting a meal, telling her we knew about her felony conviction for running a prostitution ring as well as her arrest for running a dominatrix service, both under an alias, of course. Both of which would certainly disqualify her from further service at Jury Town.”
