Like groceries and the heating bill.
The ironic part of the whole heated “discussion” was that the money in question belonged every bit as much to Kim as it did Bradley. She was still working at the time, earning roughly the same salary as her husband. Hell, she was probably making more. She certainly worked harder.
That hadn’t mattered to Bradley, of course. Nothing but Bradley’s opinion ever mattered to Bradley. He’d become increasingly agitated as they sniped back and forth across the dinner table, eventually losing himself in his fury, pushing to his feet and slapping her.
The fight itself was nothing serious, really, aside from what it represented. Kim had grown up with two older brothers who enjoyed nothing more than torturing their little sister as she struggled to keep up. Both of them had smacked her harder on numerous occasions than Bradley’s little dinner table girlie-slap.
But Bradley Chilcott was nothing if not a quick learner, and within a couple of months he’d hit her again. This time the blow was harder.
More menacing.
More damaging.
And it was deliberate. It wasn’t a momentary slip-up in the heat of an argument, followed immediately—as the first one had been—by shame-faced apologies and assurances nothing of the kind would ever happen again.
Even at the time, Kim wasn’t so sure she could believe her husband’s words. She’d suspected the first assault was intentional.
But suspicions were unnecessary the second time. He’d meant to do it. Even now, years later, with the weight of experience behind her, Kim had a hard time wrapping her mind around that fact. Bradley had gotten angry—not even at Kim, except peripherally—and he’d struck her again.
And this time his assault was more cunning, as if he’d preplanned after the first time how he was going to attack his wife when he got angry enough to do it again.
He didn’t hit her in the face like he had on that first shocking occasion. Cheeks bruised easily and a nose could be broken in an instant. Either occurrence would be difficult to explain away and could be a career-ender for a man with his eyes fixed on a national political career.
Instead, he punched her in the stomach. Three hard blows that buckled Kim at the waist and sucked the breath out of her lungs. She was left gasping for air and sobbing on the kitchen floor while her husband stalked away.
His apology came later that night and felt utterly insincere to Kim, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to maintain the fiction that he’d simply gotten carried away in the heat of the moment.
The next assault came just weeks later and featured kicks and punches to her buttocks.
And just like that Kim Chilcott became a walking, talking cliché: the helpless domestic assault victim, unable to escape her attacker because she needed to keep her children safe, and let’s face it: there was no way on God’s green earth she would be able to match Bradley’s resources in a custody battle. She’d been raised in upper-middle-class comfort, but he’d grown up with a silver spoon planted firmly in his mouth.
If it came down to a battle of finances, she would lose.
In the years since that first horrifying realization her husband was not the man she thought she knew, nearly every inch of Kim’s body that could be covered up with clothing or otherwise hidden from view had been damaged by her husband’s inability to control his temper. His childish petulance. His smoldering rage.
Kim would never have imagined she could fall victim to domestic violence. The daughter of an enlightened father and a feminist mother, Kim would have counseled any abused spouse to walk away, to file a restraining order against the son of a bitch immediately and then take him for everything he had.
Until the shoe had been on her foot.
Then she just couldn’t do it.
Over the ensuing years she’d resigned herself to her situation, rationalizing her lack of action by convincing herself that for all his faults, and God knew he had plenty, Bradley had never once hit the children.
Her, yes. He’d hit her plenty.
But never the children.
Her situation was simultaneously exhausting, terrifying and humiliating, made so much worse by the fact that nobody knew. Not her mother or father—who, for all his “enlightenment,” would have taken a baseball bat to Bradley’s head if he’d known how Bradley was treating his little girl, Kim was sure of it—not the other wives at the health club, not Kim’s best friend since childhood.
Nobody.
It was her burden to bear, and hers to bear alone.
Now Kim stood uncertainly outside Bradley’s study, twirling her hair and dithering. She knew she was dithering and she hated herself for it, but Bradley simply would not abide being interrupted when he was inside his study with the door closed.
What he was doing in there, she had no idea. Maybe he was busy with official State of Maryland business. Maybe he was watching porn. Maybe he was Skyping with a mistress. Kim didn’t know and didn’t care. He was in there, which was a damned sight better than being out here.
At least when he was in his office he wasn’t hitting her.
But there was a problem, and that problem was the reason she was standing outside his door frozen in uncertainty. The roast would soon be as dry as the Sahara if she left it warming in the oven much longer, and bitter experience had taught her that if there was one thing Bradley hated almost as much as being interrupted in his study, it was suffering through an over-or-undercooked dinner.
She didn’t know what to do.
The sound of the kids fighting in the family room floated up the stairs and Kim wished with all her heart she could be down there listening to them scream at each other rather than up here trying to decide on an action that could well determine whether she would face the next several days without experiencing intense pain, pain that she would have to try to hide from the world.
Every second that passed without a resolution to her problem brought Kim one second closer to the next beating.
Finally she said a quick prayer—why she bothered anymore she wasn’t sure; God hadn’t been paying attention to the Chilcott family for quite some time as far as Kim could tell—and raised her fist and rapped on the door with her knuckles.
Very quietly.
A moment of silence followed, after which an annoyed Bradley hollered, “What?” He emphasized the “T” sound to convey his displeasure.
Kim cracked the door and stuck her head through. “I’m sorry to bother you, honey, but do you have any idea how much longer you’re going to be? Dinner is ready and the children are getting hungry.”
She steeled herself for his reaction, which might consist of anything from a warm smile and an “I’ll be right out, then,” to a screaming, spitting, fists-flying tirade that would almost—but not quite—put her in the hospital.
She held her breath, trying her hardest to maintain an air of humble servitude while her heart hammered like it was preparing to burst through her chest and the blood rushed in her ears until she thought she might pass out from the stress.
For a second his face darkened and a chill went through Kim’s entire body. Then he spoke into the phone—she hadn’t realized he was holding it until just now—and placed the handset quietly on the cradle.
He smiled at her, his lips twisting into something resembling a cross between a grin and a sneer. She’d seen the look many times before and wondered how in God’s name a man who looked as unhinged as Bradley Chilcott had ever managed to persuade enough people to vote for him to win election to the second-highest position in Maryland state government.
Of course, he’d convinced her to marry him and then have two children together, so she supposed she shouldn’t judge the voting public too harshly.
After hanging up the phone, Bradley shoved his desk chair back with his calves and stood. This was it. Things were either going to go very rapidly downhill, or Kim would be able to breathe easy.
For a few minutes, anyway, until her husband passed judgment on dinn
er.
She held her breath.
Bradley’s smile was followed by, “Thank you, dear. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. Governance never sleeps, right? Hell, it never even takes a break!”
She smiled and nodded. The smile was probably too bright and the nod too quick, but if Bradley noticed, he let it pass.
She said, “Your meeting went well, then?”
He shook his head in confusion. “Meeting?”
Dammit. Why can’t you learn to keep your big mouth shut. “Well, I noticed you were on the phone. I assumed it was a strategy meeting or something.”
“Oh, that. Yes, the call went well. It went better than well, really. It was fascinating.”
“Oh?” Kim had learned her lesson—again—and wasn’t about to fall into the trap she’d narrowly avoided by asking any more questions.
Bradley threw an arm over her shoulders. He turned and carefully closed the door as they exited. “Yep, fascinating. Things could be changing for the better in the career of one Bradley A. Chilcott.”
Kim tried to conceal her revulsion as they strolled together toward the dining room. His arm never left her shoulder.
6
Mike Hargus grew steadily more concerned as he maintained surveillance on his target.
He followed Sheridan all day. Started with ninety minutes sitting outside a movie theatre with his thumb up his ass as the couple and the little girl took in the latest Disney kids’ flick. Moved to the parking lot of the casual Italian joint while they ate an early dinner. Watched them cavort on the playground just before nightfall.
Nothing specific about any of the group’s activities triggered Mike’s concern.
It was there, nevertheless.
And why wouldn’t he be worried? That damned fool Bradley Chilcott had latched onto Jack Sheridan as the answer to all his problems. Chilcott was like a Rottie with a steak bone when he made up his mind about something, as he had done regarding Sheridan: relentless.
Chilcott’s plan was to manipulate Sheridan into restoring the lieutenant governor’s fading dream of a White House bid. He seemed to believe Sheridan possessed magical powers or something, like the guy could just snap his fingers and eliminate people.
David Copperfield making the Brooklyn Bridge disappear.
Or was it an elephant? An airplane? Apartment building, maybe?
Mike couldn’t remember. He loved magic but the damn trick had been done years ago. The point was still valid, though: Bradley Chilcott had no fucking idea what kind of tiger he’d taken by the tail when he settled on Jack Sheridan as the solution to his Jim Studds problem.
All Bradley knew about Sheridan were words he’d read in a CIA file, words detailing the man’s near-mystical ability to eliminate people in ways that appeared accidental to even the most experienced investigator or forensic team.
Sheridan could supposedly clean up any mess, and a mess was exactly what the supposedly savvy Chilcott had gotten himself into.
But Jack Sheridan was more than the sum total of a few dozen pages in a secret CIA file. Mike realized as much even if his boss didn’t.
Mike wasn’t laboring under any Chilcott-style delusions where Sheridan was concerned. His boss looked at Jack Sheridan and saw nothing more than a blunt instrument.
But Mike saw something completely different. Mike saw a clever, intelligent, extremely dangerous operator, a man who could turn the tables on an unwitting opponent without breaking a sweat, and then make that opponent wish he’d never been born.
And it wasn’t like the plan they’d developed was a bad one, as these things went. Mike and Bradley had huddled in the lieutenant governor’s home office deep into many nights over the course of several weeks, planning and discussing and refining until they’d settled on what even Mike Hargus had to admit was a relatively workable solution to the problem that threatened to derail Bradley’s career.
Where the two disagreed was in the selection of the proper person to execute that solution. Bradley fell in love with Sheridan almost immediately out of the possibilities he was given, but the more information Mike uncovered, the more he felt Sheridan would be absolutely the wrong choice.
But their partnership was not an equal one. Mike had known as much from the start. Bradley was a control freak. He was unquestionably in charge, possessing veto power and the final say in all matters. Mike knew his boss well enough to know he had already made up his mind.
He should know Chilcott, he’d been working for him long enough. Very early in his CIA career, Mike Hargus had come to the realization he wanted more out of life than a risky job doing dangerous work for a chain of command that would cut him loose at the first sign of peril to themselves, and would do so without a second thought.
What was more, the pay sucked, relatively speaking. If Mike was going to put his life on the line, the measly seventy grand a year he was making as a civil service drone wasn’t going to cut it.
Along about the time he was having this epiphany Mike had met a young agency desk jockey named Bradley Chilcott. The two men hit it off immediately, and before long Chilcott was opening up to Mike about his goals for the future and the “action plan” he’d developed to make those goals a reality.
It had occurred to Mike that this brash young man might actually go places. But to do so, he would need someone…harder. Someone with the kind of abilities and experiences men like Bradley Chilcott simply did not have.
When Bradley broached the subject, six months into the friendship, of Mike leaving government service and coming to work for him personally, it had taken roughly three seconds of consideration for Mike to agree. His wife at the time—soon to be ex-wife—disagreed with the decision vehemently, claiming with some merit that giving up a career with benefits and a guaranteed pension and respectability to go work for a young dreamer was not the sort of choice responsible family men made.
Mike made it anyway, and divorce followed, like night after day. He wasn’t happy about the way his marriage turned out, but couldn’t claim to be heartbroken, either. He loved his wife—he supposed—but he loved adventure and risk-taking even more.
And an adventure it had been, with Bradley Chilcott the telegenic symbol of respectability and solid leadership, and Mike Hargus the behind-the-scenes enforcer, ready and willing to intimidate whenever possible, and to utilize physical force whenever necessary to pave the way for Chilcott’s political ascent.
But while Bradley Chilcott may have been a symbol of respectability, the man’s actual persona was anything but. His foibles kept Mike busy constantly, right from the beginning of their partnership. Much of Mike’s duties involved cleaning up the messes left over from Chilcott’s unusual sexual interests and the excesses derived from exercising those interests.
The lieutenant governor liked young girls.
Moreover, he liked hitting young girls. He got off on it.
Mike thought Chilcott was a disgusting pig who would have found himself dangling by the ankles from the roof of the tallest building in D.C. had he tried any of that sick shit on one of his kids, or even one of his nieces or nephews. Since he never had, however, a paycheck was a paycheck, and Mike was more than willing to take whatever action deemed necessary to facilitate Chilcott’s career progression.
The girls Bradley chose for his little “rough sex” scenarios were almost always unaware of Bradley’s sexual proclivities before climbing into bed with him. This led to a seemingly unending succession of families to bribe and occasionally fingers to break, all to ensure silence from the women and their families as Chilcott positioned himself for the White House.
What they’d planned this time, however, went above and beyond even the dirty tricks everyone—including the American public—had learned to expect in the rough-and-tumble world of politics and governance at the highest level.
Assuming the plan came together as outlined, two people would die.
At least two.
And if the plan didn’t come together, th
e potential existed for public disgrace and life behind bars—or even the death sentence—for one scheming politician and his trusty henchman.
And that was an unacceptable outcome as far as Mike Hargus was concerned.
For his part, the damned fool Chilcott never seemed to recognize the possibility of anything less than total success. During every strategy session, Mike tried to open Chilcott’s eyes, to make him see the myriad ways even a perfectly planned op could go sideways. It didn’t have to be the fault of the operators at all. Random chance could knock everything apart; it happened to CIA field operatives all the fucking time.
No matter how hard he tried to open Chilcott’s eyes, though, Mike’s boss would simply smile his stupid serene smile and say something like, “I believe in you, Mike. You just have to believe in yourself.”
Damned fool. Maybe that positivity horseshit worked in the insular domain of politics, but Mike knew it was nothing more than whistling past the graveyard in the real world. Chilcott could take his hippy-dippy crap and shove it right up his ass. Protecting oneself was all about being prepared to do whatever was necessary, not being lulled into a false sense of security with a bunch of optimistic bullshit completely unmoored from reality.
And one thing Mike had learned during his CIA days kicking around shitholes like Iraq and Afghanistan was to always protect himself.
The moment he’d sensed which way the wind was blowing with Chilcott’s plan, he’d known instinctively it was time to develop his own plan.
A backup plan.
A plan that would safeguard Mike Hargus’s ass should everything go to hell. Lieutenant Governor Bradley Chilcott wasn’t out on the front lines getting his hands dirty, which meant Chilcott could claim plausible deniability: “Your honor, I certainly had no idea the lengths Mr. Hargus would go to advance my political career. Why, I was perfectly happy being lieutenant governor. I never suspected the man would run afoul of the law in my name. I’m as shocked by Mr. Hargus’s actions as you are, your honor.”
Trigger Warning Page 3
