He shook his head.
“She’s made friends in high places,” I told him. “Like Einhorn here. And you. One of those friends is coming for her. One of them has sent a ship or a submarine. She’s leaving you, Niilo.”
Niilo tried to laugh this off.
But his hands tightened on the semiautomatic weapon.
“Let me guess, my friend. She begged you to charter a boat for her. She’s using you to get her into international waters.”
“There you are wrong, Jamie.”
Niilo’s face hardened in a mask of anger. He could mow us all down with that gun. He wouldn’t even have to raise it to his shoulder.
“I already own a vessel. It stands ready in Alexandria. You will not stop Mads from reaching it. You will not stop us.”
And before I knew what hit me, Niilo jerked the AR-15 in and up.
Chapter 37
Niilo cracked me under the chin with the butt of his rifle.
Blind with pain, I threw myself at him.
I wrapped my arms around his torso. He couldn’t raise the gun any higher. And with my weight knocking him off balance, he fell backward.
I landed on top of him.
He fought to free his weapon’s barrel, but it lay across his chest between us. Still, he had a finger on the trigger. His hand squeezed it tight.
Tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk!
I slapped a palm to the action, pressed the barrel to the grass.
Tuk-tuk-tuk!
I wedged my sore knee beneath me. I could straddle Niilo now. At his waist, my free hand fumbled for Barrett’s M9.
Triumphant, I yanked it clear.
But I’d gripped it around the slide. I didn’t dare let go of it to turn it the other way around. And I couldn’t possibly let up on the rifle to shift it.
Niilo bellowed in a language I didn’t understand. His narrow face contorted while his slender shoulders shook. He was wild with grief because I’d told him the truth.
Now the only thing I could do was put him out of his misery. I raised Barrett’s weapon high. I brought the heavy metal down on Niilo’s temple. I slammed it into his skull once, twice.
I couldn’t make myself stop.
Hands closed over my shoulders. Fingers grabbed at my wrist. And my father’s voice rang loud and clear.
“You got him, Jamie! You got him! Now let him go.”
I threw Barrett’s gun clear, fought off the hands that gripped me. Niilo lay unconscious under me. I ripped the rifle from his clutch.
“Jamie!” Barrett shouted.
I jumped up from Niilo’s chest, pivoted on the ball of my foot. I whipped the rifle to my shoulder, sighted down its barrel. My father knelt in the grass beside me.
He held up his hands in the universal symbol of surrender.
Barrett stood over Madeline. She lay facedown in new weeds. Her wrists, in the small of her back, wore cuffs.
Beside the van, Einhorn, curled in a ball, wept softly, his white coveralls splotched with his own blood and practically glowing in the advancing dark.
Riding the aftershock of adrenaline, I stalked away from Niilo. I cleared the weapon’s chamber. I placed it flat on the ground in front of me—just as a multitude of flashlight beams exploded from the woods.
“FBI!”
“Everybody down!”
McIlvoy didn’t give me time to raise my hands or drop to my knees. He descended on me like an avalanche. He cranked one of my arms behind me.
“Down,” he snarled. “Now!”
I knelt at his command.
“Hey!” Shelby materialized at his side. “Take it easy on the lady!”
And then Barrett was there, giving him what for.
Still, McIlvoy cuffed me. Truth be told, despite the discomfort of it, I didn’t really mind. It was part of the process—and I knew that process would grant me a full exoneration.
The special agent had just begun to listen to sense when Rappaport stepped from the woods. The newspaperman drew me to my feet without intervention from McIlvoy. And wrapped me in a bear hug.
“Are you all right?” he wanted to know.
Automatically, my eyes sought Barrett, now arguing with McIlvoy’s sidekick, the poor agent who’d had to babysit me while I dressed.
The sight made me smile.
“I will be,” I told Rappaport.
“You know, there’s a reason I chose not to be a war correspondent.”
“Still look like you were collateral damage.”
Blood had coursed down Rappaport’s temple and dried on the side of his face, thanks to Niilo, who’d come across him in the car and didn’t want him to sound the alarm. But Rappaport insisted he figured Niilo had got as good as he gave. From me.
“And then some,” Rappaport added.
“Oh, that reminds me!” I exclaimed. “Hey, McIlvoy?”
The agent took his time sauntering past the medics attending to Einhorn and patching up my father’s fists.
But when he did, Barrett and Shelby flanked him.
I said, “I’d suggest you get some agents and an ambulance down to the stables immediately.”
“Oh, really?” McIlvoy folded his arms across his chest. “Just why is that?”
“Because Madeline Donahue—Sarah McDermid—is holding Robert Fraley captive. And I think he’s in bad shape.”
Fraley was the evidence Madeline intended to turn over to my father.
Because he’d killed Pruitt, though Einhorn had arranged for me to take the blame.
Chapter 38
The next morning, I felt like death warmed over. Not that body aches from fighting for my life with a heartbroken billionaire could kill my mood. McIlvoy may’ve taken me into custody once the proverbial smoke had cleared the night before, but the news of an espionage ring busted at Daisy Chain Stables; my father, the Senator’s, sound bites; and Daniel Adair’s mad legal skills got a federal judge to issue a special waiver, dropping all charges against me and setting me free.
Barrett had remained wrapped up in red tape at the Pentagon. But his penance in Mississippi was indeed over. General Schneider, Barrett told me when he phoned, had hinted as much at the debriefing.
So, I went to work with a light step and a happy heart. And, to my astonishment, I found a welcoming committee there. Laura, Matty, and the rest of the associates at Sinclair and Associates had organized a small party, complete with flowers, balloons, champagne, and chocolate cake. They ambushed me with hugs and kisses at the reception desk. But once my glass was full, Laura called for attention.
“Okay, everybody, grab your plates! We’re taking this party down to the stockbroker’s.”
Popping a hasty bite of cake into my mouth, I gathered my plate and a party hat and got ready to go.
“Oh, not you, Jamie,” Laura said. “You’re staying here.”
Judging by the smiles and snickers that met me everywhere I turned, I figured Laura had one more surprise for me.
And she did.
She said, “There’s a potential client waiting in your office.”
Filing into the corridor, everyone left me alone with him. Cautiously, I entered my inner sanctum. And there was Barrett, seated in the guest chair Madeline Donahue had occupied.
He rose when I entered—and despite his natty Class A’s, I threw my arms around him.
This was a private display of affection.
“At least they gave you cake,” I said, snuggling against his chest.
“And I brought my own party hat.”
This was true.
Barrett wore his beret indoors to indicate he was armed.
“Congratulations,” he said, catching my hands in his. “The morning news reported you were wrongly charged—and now you’re completely exonerated.”
&nbs
p; “You should see what Rappaport wrote in the News-Journal.” I perched on the edge of my desk without letting go of Barrett. I never wanted to let him go again. “Einhorn’s been indicted on more charges than he can shake a stick at.”
Barrett stepped closer, smoothed a fingertip along my cheek. “Your father might end up as president after all.”
I couldn’t even wrap my mind around that. Or the fact that he’d made a deal with the devil to defend me. Sarah McDermid would pay for that plot.
And in many ways, so would Niilo.
Barrett pointed out that Niilo’s lawyers were already making the case in the press that he should be granted leniency.
Part of me hoped that he would.
“I liked him,” I admitted. “And he’s doing great things.”
But greatness, Niilo had said, kept a person alone.
I disagreed. Many things can conspire to leave us lonely, whether we’re great or not. And first among them is us.
We often get in our own way.
“You know,” Barrett said, “if you married me, I wouldn’t be able to testify against you the next time you’re charged with a crime.”
“Well, that’s a beautiful offer. I’ll keep it in mind. In case of a felony, marry Barrett.”
“I’m serious, Jamie.”
And to my infinite horror, Barrett dropped to one knee.
“Adam…”
He produced a pretty little box from his pocket. He lifted the lid. And nestled in the cushion inside lay a glorious emerald-cut diamond, keeping company with a brilliant sister on either side. The ring was rather avant-garde—and rather traditional. Just like him.
“Jamie Sinclair,” he said, “will you do me the honor of—”
“Wait.”
I couldn’t do this.
We couldn’t do this.
“Barrett, we’ve never discussed finances, living arrangements, retirement goals—all the things couples should work out before they get married.”
“We’ll get engaged,” he said, “and then discuss them.”
He hadn’t risen from that knee.
“What if that doesn’t work?” I demanded. “You like your life: your house in New Jersey, your truck, your dog. I like mine. My townhouse, my career, my—”
“You can keep all those things. We can keep them.”
“And what’s going to happen then, Adam? I’m the senator’s daughter who’s such a sucker for a sob story, she’ll bend the rules. You’re the military cop who can’t stray from the straight and narrow.”
That made him smile.
And the angels sang.
He said, “Are you saying you’re going to lead me astray?”
“I’m saying I’m a liability.”
That got him off the floor.
“You’re the love of my life.”
And that shut me up.
“This isn’t a zero-sum game, Jamie. You don’t have to lose who you are, or what you’re made of, just so I can win. Don’t you know that by now?”
He closed the ring box gently, returned it to his pocket.
And in that instant, I felt like my heart would break.
Barrett was the best thing that had ever happened to me. He was the one person who was always in my corner. The one I wanted by my side. I woke up wanting to see him. When he was away, I wanted him near—
But those things, as I understood it, were what marriage was about.
“Barrett?” I reached for him with both hands. “I want you to marry me.”
“What?”
“I want to marry you. I want us to marry each other.”
The warmest light came into Barrett’s chocolate-brown eyes.
And without warning, he swept me from my feet in his strong embrace.
“Grab your calendar,” he said when he set me down. “We’ll set a date.”
But I didn’t need to do that.
I knew what I wanted to do.
“How about today?” I asked Barrett.
“Get married today?” Barrett burst out laughing, a rich sound deep with joy.
And I was profoundly grateful to know I could make him feel that way. But then he sobered. He laced his fingers through mine.
“Honey, if you’ve decided to rush all of a sudden so you won’t get cold feet—”
“No. No, no. That’s not it at all.”
I didn’t know how I could explain this to him.
“Your history…mine…It’s like it’s brought us both to this same moment. I don’t want to turn away from that. I don’t want to turn away from you. I want our life together to begin as soon as possible. I want it to begin today.”
“All right.” Barrett offered me his arm. “Let’s go get married.”
And when I took the crook of it, I knew I was right where I belonged.
“You know, your grandmother’s going to kill us,” I warned him. “And your sister might, too. We’re cheating them of the chance to come to our wedding.”
Both of those ladies had been heartily in favor of my getting together with Barrett—even when I wasn’t.
Now, I realized, I loved them dearly for it.
“Something tells me,” Barrett said, “they’ll be okay with our decision. But if you really think we should invite them to our wedding—”
“And Matty and Laura and Daniel, too. And my father…maybe.”
That concept was a new one. The old general hadn’t been happy about the rise and fall of my first marriage. And last night, he’d told me in no uncertain terms that he was displeased with my butting into his meeting with Madeline. But still he’d risked everything to protect me in recent days: his office, his reputation, and his life.
“Well,” Barrett said, “in that case, we’ll just have to have two ceremonies. We’ll get married now and we’ll get married later.”
Married to Adam Barrett now and married to him later?
I rather liked the sound of that—all the way to the bottom of my heart.
For David,
now and always…
Acknowledgments
With Jamie’s sixth adventure, we’ve come a long way! Thank you for joining me on this journey, and for your notes and letters. I love to hear from readers worldwide.
To my infinite surprise, the men and women who served our nation in the theaters of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam are among those who write to me most often, and I cherish every note. Veterans, many of you tell me that you see a little of yourself in Barrett, and that you see Jamie as a daughter. In fact, you sometimes send advice about her love life! I’m honored that you feel this way and that you’ve chosen to read each new Jamie Sinclair novel. Thank you.
I also appreciate each tweet, post, and email from the up-and-coming crowd, men and women who are still in school, or who have recently graduated and are making their way in the world. In particular, I’m touched to hear from young women who are just starting out as writers, teachers, law enforcement professionals in their own right, and more. I have no doubt that you’ll go on to do great things.
Speaking of great, I owe a great deal of thanks to the two people who treated me to a fascinating tour of a campus not unlike Niilo Järvinen’s, and to your two friends who served as guides. You enabled my imagination to run riot, and I thank you for that. I had so much fun with you, and with wildly exaggerating the capabilities of CubeSats and companies like Stellar Unlimited in The Kill Chain.
Of course, The Kill Chain wouldn’t be what it is without my editor extraordinaire, Kate Miciak, and her terrific team at Random House, especially Alyssa Matesic, who fields my every question and always finds an answer, and my awesome literary agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein. Thank you all.
BY NICHOLE CHRISTOFF
The Kill List
The
Kill Shot
The Kill Box
The Kill Sign
The Kill Wire
The Kill Chain
About the Author
NICHOLE CHRISTOFF is a writer, broadcaster, and military spouse. She credits James Thurber, Raymond Chandler, and Jane Austen with her taste in fiction. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s out in the woods with her ornery English pointer.
nicholechristoff.com
Facebook.com/NicholeChristoff
Twitter: @NicChristoff
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