“Thank you.”
JW Marriott Hotel, New Orleans
Christopher Jones lay on his bed, eyes clothes, still in slacks and a dress shirt, though his tie was lying on the back of a nearby chair with his suit jacket. His wife Constance lay beside him, the only light in the bedroom of their suite from the alarm clock’s LCD display and a sliver from under the door, activity still happening on the other side.
“I want you to head home tomorrow morning. I’ll finish up here then join you.”
He felt his wife roll over beside him. “No, I’ll be fine. I should be there with you.”
He turned on his side and reached out to find her in the dark, gently squeezing her arm as he felt her hand touch his chin. He kissed her fingers. “No, you’ve overdone it this time. The doctors said it would take months for you to recover your strength. It’s only been weeks. This was a bad idea and you’re paying the price.”
“But I want to.”
He shuffled closer and pushed an arm under her neck, pulling her closer, her arms wrapping around him. “I know you want to, hon, but it’s more important that you get better.”
“But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. We can’t let this pass us by because I was sick. People want to see a husband and wife together on stage otherwise they begin to ask questions.”
Jones smiled, squeezing her a little tighter. “People only ask questions when there’s no explanation. Besides, if the public won’t choose me because my sick wife isn’t at my side, then they don’t deserve to have me as their President, and I wouldn’t want to lead them anyway. But I don’t think our fellow Americans are like that at all. I think they’ll understand as long as we always tell them the truth.”
She squeezed. “You’ll get the sympathy vote for sure.”
His eyes burned and he closed them, feeling a tear threatening to spill out. He held her tighter as the memories of almost losing her flooded back. It had been the worst year of their lives, the brave face he had to always wear exhausting, yet nothing compared to his wife’s exhaustion, the poor woman not only suffering chemotherapy, but enduring the press hounding them at every step of the way, despite his pleas for privacy. The mainstream media mostly respected their wishes, it was the paparazzi that seemed to revel in the misery of others, as if the consumers of their filth thrilled at the sight of a politician’s wife dying.
Sometimes freedom of the press goes too far.
He had seen a movie years ago called Paparazzi that he couldn’t remember being good or bad, though the premise seemed particularly satisfying now, the victim of greedy paparazzi dishing out some vigilante justice.
Maybe when you’re President you can have a few of them taken out.
He chuckled at the thought.
“What’s funny?”
He laughed a little harder as he pushed back from her, running his hands through her thin, short hair, the drugs to save it unfortunately not working on her. “Just thinking of what I’d like to do to some of the press.”
“You’re thinking of that movie again, aren’t you?”
“You know me so well.” He moved closer and gave her a peck, it missing slightly, catching only half her mouth.
There was a knock at the door.
“Sir, Mr. Quaid is here.”
“Give me a minute!”
He gave his wife another quick peck. “No rest for the wicked.”
His wife rolled over and turned on a lamp, flooding the room with a gentle yellow glow. “I don’t like him,” she whispered. “Sleazy.”
Jones rolled out of bed, slipping his feet into his shoes and tightening the laces. “I had him vetted. He’s clean but ruthless when it comes to business. Unfortunately we need him. His pockets run deep. Once we’re on the ticket, we won’t need people like him again.” He stood and debated putting on his tie. You better. He grabbed it and flipped his collar up, his wife coming up from behind, turning him around.
“Let me. You never tie it tight enough.”
He smiled then raised his chin, giving her space to work. “You spoil me.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
“Not a chance.” He felt the knot tighten then a pat on his chest.
“There you go.”
He turned and looked in the mirror. “Perfect as usual.”
She helped him into his suit jacket then gave him a peck on the cheek. “Go get ’em. I’ll be out in a minute.”
He returned the kiss, shaking his head. “No, you get your rest. This shouldn’t take long.”
She smiled her thanks, her face so haggard it broke his heart. She had aged at least ten years it seemed, the bright, vibrant woman he had celebrated twenty-five years of marriage with just a year ago, gone.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind as he drew a deep breath then opened the door, stepping out into the living area. “Pete, so good to see you.”
Peter Quaid turned from his position at the window, gazing out at the city streets below. He smiled, closing the distance between them with a few quick strides, his hand extended the entire way. “Mr. Jones, I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“No problem at all,” said Jones, motioning toward a nearby chair as he took a seat of his own. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Quaid looked at the others in the room. “What I need to discuss can only be said in private.”
Jones had learned long ago to hide any look of surprise, instead merely looking at Saunders. “Clear the room, please.”
Saunders wasn’t as practiced, the surprised look on his face almost one of hurt at being excluded. Within moments the few staff members had left, leaving him alone with Quaid. “Now what is so important my most trusted staff can’t hear it?”
Quaid chuckled. “I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger, trust me, it’s more for your protection than anything else. And by protection, I mean protection of your integrity.”
Jones already didn’t like where this was heading. He knew from past experience that he was about to be asked to compromise his ideals. In previous instances he had stood his ground, his principles remaining intact, yet never had so much been at stake. This was his moneyman. Yes, he was one of many, but he was his largest donor, and had brought several other deep pockets to the table, promising even more if the campaign grew.
And it had. He was now the clear front-runner, running away with it in the polls, voters on both sides of the political spectrum actually responsive to his message of rolling back the increased surveillance of Americans and instead focusing on the real enemies.
And polling had told him his own distrust of Russia was shared by a majority of his fellow citizens, resulting in his latest foreign policy speeches that apparently had pissed off Moscow.
Like I give a shit.
Russia was a joke now, to call itself a democracy was an insult to its people, yet unfortunately its people were as well informed now as they were under the Communist regime, the vast majority of their media once again state controlled, the rest too scared to print the truth. Opposition party leaders were jailed and murdered, and now the Kremlin had just signed a law allowing them to shut down any “undesirable foreign organization” to further silence the truth.
Jones draped his arm across the back of the couch. “Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
Quaid leaned forward. “I need you to tone down the rhetoric on Russia, specifically the sanctions.”
Jones’ eyebrows popped slightly, his practiced control failing him for a split second. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I beg your pardon?”
Quaid smiled slightly, the sleaze his wife had referred to oozing out. “I need you to stop talking about Russian sanctions.”
“But why? They’re a vote winner, and I happen to personally believe in them. Russia’s renewed aggression needs to be stopped, and next to military action, the next best option is economic.”
“I’m afraid your benefactors must insist.�
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Jones felt his blood pressure rising, his face flushing. “And I’m afraid I don’t care. If you choose to pull your financial support of my campaign, then so be it. I’d hate to lose you, but like I told you from the get go, I won’t compromise my ideals for your money. All it does is buy you access to my ear, not my pen. We’re going to win, Pete, and people want to back a winner. Replacing your money won’t be a problem.”
Quaid’s smile never wavered, it one he had used himself in the past—when dealing with a useful idiot, their naïveté so obvious it was painful to listen to.
And Jones was no idiot.
“I don’t think you understand the situation, Mr. Jones.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, removing a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and smoothed out the creases, pushing it across the table toward him. Jones glanced at it without picking it up, recognizing it as a list of his major campaign donors, all but a few highlighted in yellow. “Every single one of those highlighted are backing you because of me. If I pull out, they all pull out. And they will make certain their friends hold on to their wallets as well. Mr. Jones, you are burning through cash at an incredible rate. Running for President is a billion dollar proposition now. People with that kind of money talk to each other, and if so many names pull out now, publicly, your campaign will find itself out of money before the month’s end.”
Jones rose, his fists clenched.
Calm down!
He took a slow breath. “I refuse to believe that.” He motioned toward the door. “I’ll kindly ask you to leave.”
Quaid rose, his smile finally turning into a frown. “I see we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
Saunders looked at his watch. It had barely been five minutes, yet it felt like an eternity. He hated being out of the loop, though he was pretty sure that would be temporary, Jones always filling him in on everything.
If I can’t trust you, who can I trust?
The words had meant a lot to him when Jones had first said them, and he had done his best to deserve that trust, though sometimes it had proven difficult, politicians at times their own worst enemies. But he had run a good campaign—an excellent campaign—and they were most likely going to win the ticket, and he was confident, ultimately, the Presidency.
It was incredibly exciting to think about, and he found himself lying awake at night in his bed, usually in some overpriced hotel, fantasizing about what it would be like.
It was easy to forget that he wasn’t running.
Eventually.
He was young and had been made certain assurances. A life in politics was definitely in his future, and if he played the game right, with the right backers like Jones had now, the sky was the limit.
Just keep the backers happy.
The elevator chimed to his right, his pacing halted as two Secret Service agents positioned themselves at the doors to see who was arriving. The doors opened and several popping sounds were heard, the agents dropping in heaps. Somebody shouted, a scream, then six men exited the elevator, their weapons raised and firing.
Saunders stood frozen for a moment then ducked behind one of the volunteers, a young woman from Oklahoma named Kitty. She took a shot, falling backward into him, and he held her up as a human shield as the attackers eliminated the agents at the far end of the hall.
A loud crack of gunfire from behind erupted and he dropped to the ground, Kitty collapsing atop him. One of the attackers went down but the others responded with a hail of muted gunfire. He turned to look behind him and saw the two Secret Service agents down, all resistance eliminated within seconds of their arrival.
He struggled to get out from under the deadweight that was Kitty but before he could one of the attackers stood over him, his expressionless face more terrifying than any gangsta sneer.
He fired, a sharp pain radiating from Saunders’ chest as the door to Jones’ room opened, Mr. Quaid standing there calmly.
“Let’s get this over with, quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaid felt himself drifting away as somebody grabbed him by the pant leg, dragging him out of the hallway.
Tammy Clavin sipped her venti-sized Starbucks Iced Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino, a 600 calorie monstrosity responsible for her pants being a little too tight these past few weeks. They were terrible for her, but she was sucking down three or four of them a day when on the road, which seemed to be almost every day now. She had never had a sip of coffee before joining the campaign—actually, that wasn’t true. She had exactly a sip of coffee before joining. One sip. It was all she needed to know she hated coffee.
But she had to stay awake. She hated anything carbonated and energy drinks like Red Bull scared her.
Everyone drinks coffee, so it must be safe.
It was logic that worked, yet she couldn’t get over the taste, and knew she never could.
Until she had seen Kitty with one of these delicious iced creations from the barista gods.
She had become addicted almost immediately.
It wasn’t until she had to lie on her bed, battling to get her skirt done up, that she found out how many calories were in the darned things. It was Kitty who had mentioned the count.
It had stunned her.
Yet it hadn’t stopped her.
I’ll stop when I get home.
She looked at herself in the mirror, stifling a yawn.
Come on, do your magic!
She took another sip.
Then another.
She looked at her watch and jumped.
Where’s Kitty?
The lineup at the Starbucks across the street had been longer than expected, but Kitty was supposed to collect her when Mr. Jones was ready and she hadn’t yet. Which was odd, Kitty always very punctual, and it now about five minutes past when she had expected the final meeting of the day to start.
Maybe I’d better go up myself.
She took one last glance in the mirror, frowning at the slight midriff bulge, putting the hideous concoction on the dresser, resolving to lose the weight, starting now.
She frowned, eyeing the drink.
You’re so weak!
She grabbed it and her bag, heading for the door.
Tomorrow you go down one size on the coffee. Wean yourself off, girl, wean yourself off!
She never ceased to amaze herself at how she could rationalize bad habits.
Or bad boyfriends.
Ugh. Men!
She was in the wrong business for meeting nice men. It wasn’t that they were bad, it was just that almost everyone she met was so driven to succeed, that they were either entirely focused on their career, so had no time for a relationship, or entirely focused on their career, so looking for a wife that could make them look good to the public ten or twenty years down the road.
She wasn’t going to be arm candy.
She pressed the button for the elevator, looking at herself in the brushed chrome doors, the blurred image somehow slightly more satisfying than the real thing.
She eyed the coffee.
Caffeine pills?
She shook her head as the doors opened.
No way am I becoming a pill popper.
She saw it too often, especially among the younger staff like herself. The lifestyle was too alluring, too many wanting to work the long hours then take advantage of the social life as well, leaving little to no time for rest.
Pop a couple of pills, problem solved.
Not really.
The doors opened to Jones’ floor, Tammy stepping out.
That’s odd.
The usual Secret Service detail wasn’t at the doors, nor were they at the opposite ends of the hallway like normal. In fact, the hallway was completely empty.
She felt her chest tighten.
This isn’t right.
Her steps were tentative, unsure, as she slowly crept down the hall toward Jones’ suite, listening intently, hearing nothing but the rush of elevators and a dull drone of the HVAC system.
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No voices, no laughter, no snoring, no coughing.
She was about to knock on the door when she stopped, instead pulling out her cellphone.
She dialed Saunders’ number.
On the other side of the door she heard his America the Beautiful ringtone.
So they are here.
She knocked as she held the phone up to her ear.
Nothing.
She knocked again and tried the door as the call went to voicemail.
She killed it, knocking again, this time harder.
Something’s definitely wrong.
She stepped back from the door, suddenly afraid of what might be on the other side.
What do I do?
She inched down the hall, never taking her eyes off the bottom of the door, watching for some sort of shadow from the other side.
That was when she noticed the drag marks on the hallway carpet, coming from various directions, all leading into the room, all in sets of two.
Heel marks!
She ran.
Dawson looked at his cards. It was a shit hand. A pair of deuces and nothing else to build on.
“Three.” He tossed the cards on the pile, Niner dealing out three new ones from the well-worn deck, this particular set more travelled than most people, it having seen action in most of the world’s hellholes.
“Three for the Big Dog, looks like he has a shitty hand.”
Dawson picked up the cards, one at a time.
No help.
No help.
Ahh!
Another deuce. Three of a kind. Three of a shitty kind, but three of a kind nonetheless.
Why oh why are nines always wild when Niner deals?
Atlas took two and Spock sat pat with what he was dealt.
Bastard. Watch the eyebrow.
Spock’s tell when he was excited was the eyebrow creeping up just a hint.
It wasn’t creeping.
So he’s not excited.
Or he’s figured out his tell.
Dawson looked at Atlas, his muscular frame betraying him, his jugular pulsing a little quicker than normal.
He’s got something. Poor bastard should wear a turtleneck.
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 11
