by Vicki Hinze
Three soft pops sounded at the front of the plane— gunshots. Jonathan stared at her but didn’t answer; he was too busy trying to think. He’d opted for mobility over the remote risk of a forced evacuation so he wasn’t wearing a chute, and there wasn’t time to get into one now. Giving her a quick once-over, he estimated their combined weights. Roughly three-twenty Her chute was certified to three-fifty Too damn close, but he had to risk it.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
More gunfire. He doubled over and shoved a shoulder to her chest, pinning her to the wall beside the emergency exit. “Grab hold.”
She glared at him. “What the hell for?”
“Just do it, Sybil!” he snapped.
Stunned by his using her first name as much as by his tone, she reacted automatically, grasping fistsfull of jacket and shirt at his waist. Working around the dangling briefcase, he popped the emergency hatch then tossed it aside.
The drone of the engines elevated to a deafening roar. Wind gushed into the plane, plastering her hair against his face, torturing his eyelids, burning his eyes. Straining to hold her against the wall, he clenched his jaw, held fast and firm to the grips. Pain tightened her mouth and she cocked her head, hiked her shoulder to block the whistle from her ears.
Finally the air stabilized.
She narrowed her gaze and, nose to nose, shouted at him. “I am not jumping out of this plane, Westford.”
Scuffling midcabin. Surprised cries. Confusion and chaos, and no time to argue. “No, ma’am,” he said. “You’re not jumping.”
Praying they could get coordinated enough in the air to get the chute opened, that it would hold their combined weight and not rip to shreds before they could get down, he latched onto her and nosedived out of the plane.
Chapter Four
Thursday, August 8 First-Strike Launch: 55:07:38
On Sam Sayelle’s first day of work covering the Hill for the Washington Herald, he had reported to Marcus Gilbert, the retiring Herald veteran he was replacing, full of dreams and high hopes. The kind of dreams and hopes only a kid fresh out of the Midwest, who had climbed his way up through the ranks to Chicago and finally had gotten a shot at the big-time, dared to dream or hope.
Marcus hadn’t bothered with a traditional welcome. Instead, he had issued Sam a warning—and strongly advised him never to forget it. “The Hill is hypnotic and as addictive as crack cocaine,” he had said. “Once it gets into your blood, you’re its victim for life.”
It was hard to believe that had happened five years ago.
Back then Sam hadn’t been able to imagine what Marcus meant. He had come to Washington with all the right credentials, the right attitude, and the right nose for hardhitting news. He also had come with a healthy dose of idealism that had quickly been snuffed out. Marcus, well respected on the Hill by the members, staffers, and his peers in the press, had applauded the speed with which Sam’s blinders had come off.
Now he knew exactly what Marcus had meant, and he swore daily he would give his eye teeth and his family jewels to once more be that idealist who believed in the dream of politicians who did the right thing for the right reason rather than to advance their own personal political agendas. But being an idealist was a lot like being a virgin. Once it was gone, it was gone for life. Familiarity indeed does breed contempt, and insider knowledge condemned him to cynicism and to intimacy with resentment.
The truth was, partisan politics reigned in all its glory as common practice on the Hill. Big business, lobbyists, and malleable politicians set policy, making deal on deal that lacked so much as a whiff of moral justification. Reelection was the main goal in town. The Hill was home to corruption and creative spin, and honest men and women who came to it with pure intentions and hearts, believing they could make a difference, learned quickly to wheel and deal and play the game as directed. Those who didn’t took it in the shorts. The Hill closed ranks, chewed them up, and spit them out in the next election. For all the public claims of progress, in actuality, the good-old-boy network—which included a respectable number of artfully chosen women these days—was alive and well and thriving in Washington, D.C.
Sam knew all of this firsthand, and he was a survivor. That required him to be a realist and accept it. Yet even after half a decade of being frustrated and stonewalled, deep down, in places he didn’t discuss at White House briefings, at social gatherings, or in his articles published by the Herald, he still harbored a hope of the idealist he had been when he had first come to the Hill as that fresh-faced kid. And despite his best efforts to kill that hope, he still believed that someone someday would appear on the Hill with pure intentions and the courage to do the right thing for the right reasons. That someone would prove to the cynic Sam—and to the now-retired cynic, Marcus Gilbert—that they had been wrong.
So far, it hadn’t happened. And on sober days Sam accepted it wasn’t likely to ever happen. But every now and then even the most hardened cynic runs out of steam and needs the fuel of dreams and that spark of hope to keep trudging along. Especially when lying politicians like Sybil Stone were enjoying success upon success by talking the talk but never walking the walk.
She was the worst kind of hypocrite, publicly embracing kids’ issues while lying to the American people, telling them she was unable to have children of her own due to a medical challenge. Since when did a husband’s vasectomy— an elective surgery—make a woman barren and medically challenged? Only by the grace of Senator Cap Marlowe had word of Austin Stone’s vasectomy remained out of the news.
Sam had managed to attack Sybil Stone publicly with monotonous regularity on various issues—and he would continue to attack her publicly as long as he remained on the Hill and had access to the inside information Cap Marlowe provided him. According to Marcus Gilbert, Cap was one of the good guys, who skillfully and strategically got things done without stomping on any toes to do them. Cap-didn’t use the public’s emotions against the press. Sybil Stone did. For that, Sam admired him and hated her.
He rocked back in his chair in the White House Press Room. The place was crowded with reporters and correspondents, all watching the clock hoping for something newsworthy after such a long delay. The briefing had been set for three, but it was now nearly five, and the press secretary, as well as the rest of the White House staff, was still avoiding the room as if it had been quarantined. Something serious was up. Sam sensed it in the staff’s frenzied activity, in the edgy expectation that hung like a pending execution over the press corps. Even Barber, who typically would sell his soul to give Sam a scoop—provided it showcased the White House and Lance in a good light or made the opposition look bad—was in squelch mode.
The cell phone vibrated against his hip. Sam yanked it from its case. “Sayelle.”
“We have assassinated your vice president. Other organizations claim credit, but they only seek recognition by your media. PUSH holds the honor of actually killing her.”
Sam’s throat went thick. “So why are you calling me?”
“Because you hate her.”
A click and the line went dead.
White House Chief of Staff Richard Barber clipped the corner and nearly smacked into Sam.
“Hey I just got a report that PUSH assassinated Vice President Stone.”
“Not now, Sam.” Barber spared him a rattled glance but didn’t even break his stride before disappearing behind closed doors.
Barber was a genuine piece of work: a cynic’s dream, a real American’s nightmare. He stayed on alert, always vying for position and looking for ways to cement his future and advance his career. For some reason, he wasn’t just making himself scarce right now, he was deliberately avoiding Sam. But there was one person Barber wouldn’t dare try to avoid—not if he still had serious aspirations of being appointed to a key position in the future leader’s administration: Senator Cap Marlowe.
Sam left the press room and headed to the senator’s office. Odds were that he had already left for the day, though it depe
nded on what had everyone in such an uproar. Could Sybil Stone really be dead?
As chairman of the Armed Services Committee, the senator kept a permanent finger on the Hill’s pulse. Cap had been on the Hill as long as Sam had been alive. Fortunately, he had been a Marcus Gilbert fan, and Marcus had introduced Sam, suggesting he keep an eye on the senator. The introduction had given Sam a key contact.
Why Marcus had bothered, Sam had no idea. Maybe it was out of loyalty to the Herald, or maybe he’d just awakened feeling gregarious that morning. Hell, Sam didn’t know. Gilbert was a crotchety old man who firmly believed women shouldn’t hold public office. Until the day he retired, he refused to meet, interview, or write one word about any of them. None wasted her breath to complain. Marcus had a lot of friends on the Hill and a very long memory. It was highly unlikely he ever in his life had done anything out of the kindness of his heart. After thirty years on the Hill, he no longer had a heart.
Whatever the reason, Sam wasn’t one to kick a gift horse in the mouth. He had nurtured the relationship since the beginning, and it had been beneficial to him and the Herald, and to Cap Marlowe.
Cap looked out for Sam, opened doors for him, and, on more than one occasion, leaked information he wanted the public to know—information the people had the right to know. The two men used each other for their mutual benefit and never had pretended otherwise. On their opinions of Sybil Stone, they were kindred spirits. They both felt Cap should have been offered the job as vice president and that he had been bypassed for the politically correct choice of the times: a woman. Yet Lance had said he would serve only one term, so unless Cap screwed up big time between now and then, he would snag the Republican Party’s nomination for President. If and when that happened, Sam felt confident the first order of business on Cap Marlowe’s agenda would be to send Sybil Stone packing back to her native Pennsylvania for good—as a private citizen. Provided, of course, the PUSH call had been a hoax and she was still alive.
Sam rounded the corner and entered Cap’s office. Jean, his personal assistant, was seated at her desk, keying in something at her computer terminal.
Forty, bright-eyed, conservative, and razor-sharp, she glanced up and smiled. “Hi, Sam.”
“Good to see you, Jean.” She looked too cool and collected to know the veep was dead. The call had to have been bogus. He nodded toward the senator’s private office. “Is he still in?”
“For the moment.” She lifted the phone receiver and cradled it between her ear and hunched shoulder. The overhead light glinted on her red hair, twinkled on her gold earring. “Sam’s here, Senator.” She listened and then cradled the receiver. “Go on back. He’s due at a fundraiser, but he can give you ten minutes.”
“I won’t make him late.” Sam breezed past Jean’s desk and opened the door to Cap’s inner sanctum. The smells of old money, lemon oil, and rubbing alcohol surrounded him. Cap sat at his desk with his sleeve rolled up and his arm braced elbow down on the desktop. Holding a syringe in position, he injected himself. Sam swallowed a sharp breath. “What are you doing?”
Pushing sixty, white-haired, and still gifted with distinguished looks the camera loved, Cap laughed, crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Not what you’re thinking, that’s for sure. It’s insulin.”
Sam shoved his hands in his pockets to cover his surprise. “You’re a diabetic?”
“Twenty-two years now.”
How could Sam not have known that? And what did he say now? He couldn’t deny that he’d thought Cap had been shooting up. “I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Didn’t most diabetics inject themselves in the abdomen or thigh?
“No problem.” Cap blew off the apology. “I don’t advertise it. People are ignorant and biased as hell. They perceive anything like this as a weakness.” He rolled down his sleeve and slid the syringe into a red biohazard sharps waste box. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me what’s going on at the White House. Staffers are burning high octane, but none is talking. We’re still waiting for the three o’clock briefing.”
“It’s been rescheduled for nine in the morning. Word came out about five minutes ago, with profound apologies for the delay.”
“What’s going on over there, Cap?” Should he mention the PUSH call? Probably not, until he had some kind of credible verification. If she were dead, Cap would know it.
“I haven’t been briefed on anything. If I am, you’ll be the first to know”
“Thanks.” Still stinging and embarrassed about his reaction to seeing the senator inject himself, Sam made small talk for a few minutes and then left the office.
Cap had lied to him, of course. He knew exactly what was going on, he just hadn’t wanted to share it at that moment. If running true to form, that translated to his having uncovered something interesting about Sybil Stone, though not her death. Cap wouldn’t be able to contain himself on that. He guarded “deniability” with a vengeance that bordered on religion. He never relayed negative information on the veep or anyone else directly to Sam. He filtered it through Jean. So if Jean stopped Sam on his way out, then he could be sure that whatever was happening had Sybil Stone front and center in it.
She was on the phone in the outer office. Sam smiled and waved, then moved on. He was about to step into the elevator when she called out from her office door. “Sam, wait.”
Ah, a message from Cap. Pleased with himself, Sam walked back to her. “Did you need something?”
Jean dropped her voice. “There’s an unconfirmed rumor going around you might want to check out.” Fear burned in her eyes. “They’re saying Ballast has jeopardized Sybil Stone’s peace-seeking mission in Geneva.”
Oh, man. The PUSH rumor wouldn’t be far behind. If Sam sat on it, which he had to do until he’d checked it out, the terrorists would just phone other reporters until one ran with the story. PUSH was bad, but Ballast was a hundred times worse. Gregor Faust and his hired thugs just kept stacking up crises. No UN member could target him for assassination without committing an agreement violation, and, frankly, he greased too many political palms and financed too many campaigns for anyone legitimate to take him out. But why hadn’t some zealot spared the world and killed the twisted bastard?
Jean lowered her voice to a whisper. “If what I’m hearing is right, Ballast is doing a lot more than making vicious threats this time, Sam. They think Faust himself has contacted the White House and blamed PUSH. He’s predicted casualties.”
That phone call was significant. No one knew exactly what Faust looked or sounded like, though several months ago PUSH had released an artist’s sketch of a man purported to be he.
“How many casualties?” No wonder they had been frenzied, canceled the briefing, and Barber had been in squelch mode. Sam didn’t like the sound of any of this. Faust had no scruples. He was loyal only to money and power; capable of doing anything to anyone, anywhere.
“Some say a handful,” Jean hedged.
The White House wouldn’t be in an uproar over a few casualties. Not even if the few were highly placed officials or one of them was Sybil Stone. There would be upset, but not like this. “What do others say?”
She blinked hard and whispered. “Millions.”
The word ricocheted through his brain and echoed. His blood drained from his face, the heat seeped out of him, and he swallowed hard. “Damn, Jean. I need to talk to Cap.”
“But his fundraiser—”
“Jean.” Sam clasped her arm. “PUSH called me. They said they killed her.”
“Killed whom?”
“Sybil Stone.”
Chapter Five
Thursday, August 8 First-Strike Launch: 55:05:21
She couldn’t be dead; every bone in her body ached.
Unsure whether to curse or rejoice, Sybil lay sprawled atop Agent Westford in a patch of rain-soaked muddy ground. He lay motionless, his eyes closed, his breathing labored.
“Westford?”
Startled conscious, he gas
ped in a deep breath that rocked her and raised a hand that brushed against her breast. She instinctively slapped at it. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Probably. Jumping out of a plane without a parachute doesn’t seem sane to me.” Mud splotched his rugged face; clods clung in his hair. He flexed his fingers, then his wrists, testing them for sprains or breaks. “But I don’t think I’ve lost anything else.”
Assessing her own condition, Sybil saw a flash and flinched. A lightning bolt streaked a jagged path across the twilight sky. Windblown rain beat through the leafy trees and thunder rolled, echoing vibrations across the earth that jarred her to the marrow of her bones. The briefcase.
Panic ripped through her chest and she looked down. Mud-splashed and wet but intact, and still attached to her arm. Thank heaven.
Jonathan grunted, claiming her attention. “Are you hurt, Agent Westford?” When they had hit the ground, he had cushioned her with his body and taken the brunt of the impact. He’d known how to position himself and had instructed her in falling with minimal injury. She had expected their every bone would crunch or snap. Instead, she was sore and scraped and bruised but nothing felt broken.
He shielded his eyes with a cupped hand at his brow. “No, I’m fine.” He reached down between them, trying to get a hand into his pocket. “You okay?”
“I think so.” Between the aches from the jerk of the chute opening and the bruises from their rough landing, she couldn’t be sure. Not yet. “Exactly why did you do that?”
He slid her a blank look.
She tried again. “Why did you jump out of the plane without a parachute?”
He stared at her a long second, as if her not knowing seemed incomprehensible to him, then scanned her face. “You’re shaking. Are you really all right?”
“Yes,” she insisted, his breath warming her face. “I’m furious with you, actually, but fine.” She tried to slide off of him, but what looked like miles of twisted parachute cords held their bodies together. She couldn’t move, and that infuriated her more. “Would you please get me out of this damn thing?”
