If she’d read the Marine correctly, she wouldn’t tell her friends she’d entered an empty bathroom. Disappointment and confusion would keep her hidden there long enough to convince the others Marisol had given her the night of her life. That was all the alibi Marisol needed.
Chapter Two
Tires hummed as they sped down the highway, their whine accompanied by the click of Governor Sabrina Sloane’s fingernails over her keyboard. The man and woman across from her focused on their cell phones, their eyes flicking up to the windows each time a set of headlights flashed by. The third officer, seated beside her with his beefy arm drawn as far from her as possible, didn’t even muster that much enthusiasm. They never looked at her and she rarely looked at them. She tried to be personable, but she hadn’t grown accustomed to travelling with bodyguards in the two years since her election and she doubted she ever would.
When her phone rang, Sloane ignored it until she finished typing. The police officers exchanged an unreadable look and Sloane finally picked up the call.
“Sloane.”
“It’s more becoming to answer a call with your full name and title, Madame Governor.”
Forcing her lips into a smile, she replied, “It’s my personal line, Lily. I assume my friends and family know who I am.”
“This is your state-issued cell, Governor.”
Scrunching her eyebrows together, Sloane took the phone from her ear to examine it. Sure enough, the plain black case bore a tag denoting it “Property of the State of Illinois”.
“Right you are, Lily. Give me a moment to switch to my headset.”
Sloane caught the tail end of Lily’s snicker through her earpiece and chose to let it go. Now that her hands were free, she went back to her laptop.
Lily didn’t wait for confirmation that Sloane was listening. “I’ve rescheduled your call with the Ethics Committee.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you scheduled it for tomorrow.”
“And?”
“And tomorrow is Saturday.”
“Is that supposed to answer my question? Who’s unavailable?”
“You are unavailable.” Age had given Lily’s voice the crackle of dried leaves but had not lessened its authoritative ring. “I’ve scheduled your massage for tomorrow afternoon at twelve. Your manicurist will arrive at ten and should be done in time.”
“I don’t need a massage or a manicure,” Sloane said, pausing her typing long enough to note that, strictly speaking, she was wrong. “I need to ensure my administration…”
“Your administration is beyond reproach. Your cuticles, however…”
“Lily…”
Her assistant plowed on, “I’ve rescheduled your dentist appointment. Again. I had to assure Dr. Holmes that you’re flossing. Please don’t make a liar of me.”
Sloane slammed the lid of her laptop closed. “That’s enough nagging, Lily.”
“Not quite,” she replied. “The Ethics Committee will meet with you in Springfield Monday at eight a.m. You have an interview with Channel Three at nine in your office. I’ve allowed them two hours and sent along the standard list of restricted questions.”
“I have no restricted questions.”
“They always ask for a list and they’re annoying when I tell them there isn’t one. I appease them with a memo full of mumbo jumbo.”
The car slowed and the click of the turn signal joined the white noise. The officers put away their phones, their eyes scanning the downtown Chicago skyline. Sloane slipped her laptop into her bag and turned her full attention to her assistant.
“What about my schedule for Sunday?”
“I recommend a visit to Holy Name Cathedral. It’s never too early to think about reelection.”
“I’m focused on governing at the moment. What’s on my schedule?”
“Miss Ford is coming by for lunch at eleven thirty. I’ve blocked off two hours.”
“I doubt she’ll stay two hours.”
“So just lunch this time.”
Sloane turned her head, attempting to hide her blush from the three officers. She suspected they knew the arrangements she had with certain friends just as Lily did, but she didn’t want to discuss her romantic liaisons in front of them. “What else?”
“Call with Governor Hill of Indiana at two. The Attorney General at three.”
“Is something wrong?”
“He’s concerned about a bill under consideration in the Senate. I’ve emailed a memo.”
Fighting the urge to grab her laptop, she said, “I’ll check it when I get settled. What else?”
“Nothing if you intend to make it back to Springfield at a reasonable hour, but the Democratic Party would like to consult on the next election.”
The State Senate was up for grabs again in November and there was every chance they’d earn the largest majority since the 1930s. Her resumé as State’s Attorney and a campaign focused on law and order made her popular enough to bring in swing voters. Her record on social issues and her own sexuality made her beloved among the party faithful. Sloane regarded campaigning as a waste of time that should be spent legislating, but if she could help some of the first-time candidates on the ticket, she’d hand over a few hours.
“Schedule a call at four.”
The limo pulled to a stop in front of her building and Officer Bates jumped out of the passenger’s seat to head inside. Sloane ground her teeth as she waited to be allowed out. It irked her that Bates would be searching her condo while she waited helplessly at the curb, but it was a concession her security team had insisted upon since they weren’t allowed in her home after the initial search. Considering that she had forced them to occupy an apartment three floors below her own when she was in town, they wouldn’t budge on this one precaution.
“So you’ll be leaving Chicago at five?”
“I should eat before I leave so I can work when I get back. Make it six.”
“That’s an excellent idea. Shall I have Mario’s send dinner over?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Terroir?”
“Too fancy. Just get me a salad from somewhere?”
“Of course. Enjoy your weekend, Governor Sloane.”
Bates reappeared and opened her door as Sloane replied, “You too, Lily. Thank you.”
Sloane’s blue dress was form-fitting to mid-calf, forcing her to twist awkwardly to exit the limo. An officer collected her blazer and laptop bag, carrying them with one hand while keeping the other on her back. His eyes never stopped moving while they were in public, so she waited until they were safely in the elevator before asking for her blazer. The evening chill pimpled her bare arms, making her regret the sleeveless, high neck dress.
“I forgot my luggage.” Sloane tried to turn back, but the officers flanking her kept her moving forward.
“Rogers will bring it after he parks,” one of them said.
She looked at his face, trying to remember his name. He was relatively new, but she made it a point to know everyone on her team. She wanted to reprimand him for treating her like a child, but she was sure he had the best intentions. It wasn’t worth yet another fight with the State Police.
“Thank him for me, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The engine behind them roared to life as the guards hustled Sloane inside. She watched the limo pull away from the curb as the four of them crowded into the elevator. A hot bath and her own bed were waiting a short ride away.
Chapter Three
The matte-black Ducati 1299 roared up to the curb and Marisol scanned the street and surrounding windows before killing the engine. Chicago’s upper crust occupied this stretch of high-rise condos and none of them would care what happened in this deserted alley. They were the type that never looked down to notice those they stepped on. Still, Marisol was only alive because she was cautious.
When she was sure the street was clear, she swung her leg over the bike. It cut her to lea
ve it here, her pride and joy, but crime on the Gold Coast was white-collar, not car theft.
Like the bike, Marisol’s clothing rendered her invisible. The supple black leather pants hugged her muscular legs but gave her range of motion. The same was true of the simple, dark gray V-neck T-shirt and leather motorcycle jacket. She wore her black hair cropped close at the back and sides but with long bangs that covered one eye. Vanity had made her color her hair when gray started to appear, but the shade was her natural one. Her eyes were a rich, earthy brown and sunk deep in her long, thin face. Her skin was a similar shade, but with a redder hue. Her features were an asset on a night like this, allowing her to blend with liquid ease into the shadows.
Slipping along the wall to avoid the glow of a nearby street lamp, Marisol made her way to the rear service entrance for number 1115. Pulling up an app on her phone, she keyed in her password and cycled through camera feeds.
“Come on. Come on,” she whispered, checking the streets again.
Finally, the image switched to the one she wanted—the other side of this door and hallway beyond. Finding it empty, she keyed in the security code from memory. It chirped approval and the door clicked open. The roar of an engine hurried her, and she caught a glimpse of a very familiar limousine rolling down the street as she slipped inside.
She ran down the hall, her heavy boots thudding on the tile floor, her eyes on her phone. Occasionally she saw herself streak across the screen, but she knew she was the only one monitoring the feeds right now. If she was too late, she could always wipe the cameras’ memory.
Two doors loomed into her vision, forcing her into a quick decision. The service elevator doors were open, so she wouldn’t have to wait, but the elevator was an old, lumbering model. The other door led to the maintenance staircase. Marisol was fit, in fact she was almost obsessive about working out, but thirty flights of stairs was a lot for anyone.
In the end the open elevator doors won. She slammed her palm into the button for the twenty-ninth floor before she was fully inside the car. As the doors closed with surprising speed she returned her focus to her phone, leaving the ground level cameras in favor of those for the thirtieth floor. When she’d hacked the building’s security system several years ago its disorganization had appalled her. She’d had to build this app to make sense of the different feeds. It wasn’t hard, but it was irritating, and she was shocked no one had found her yet.
The thirtieth-floor feeds were as deserted as all the others, so she switched back to the twenty-ninth floor, her destination. The elevators required key fob recognition to access the top floor. The risk in stealing or spoofing a fob had been too great, so she needed a different route to Sloane’s floor. Fortunately, the air ducts in this old building were huge.
The cameras went through three cycles of empty halls and closed doors before Marisol left the elevator. Confident that her path to the utility room was clear, she switched back to the cameras for thirty. Movement at last. She saw the elevator lights come to life on her phone before she swapped her phone for the lock-pick set. The tumblers creaked as the door groaned open.
“You should oil your locks,” Marisol whispered into the darkened utility room.
She crossed the room without turning on the lights. The elevator’s gears rattled, covering the sound of her removing the grate from the air duct. She’d just slipped inside the metal tube when the elevator stopped.
“Shit,” she growled, picking up her pace as she army-crawled through the duct.
She shimmied up, bracing herself on the seams with elbows and knees. Sweat popped out on her forehead as she climbed the vertical section. Muffled shouting filtered through the grates ahead. Marisol crawled faster, her feet banging the metal surface, creating too much noise. She heard the bark of authoritative male voices.
With fifty feet to go, she heard the first gunshot. Marisol forgot caution and dragged her body through the duct. The first shot was followed by a flurry of others. A stray bullet tore a hole in the grate ahead, throwing a spotlight into the dusty air. The shots popped like firecrackers, but there were fewer and fewer as the seconds passed.
Marisol reached the grate and slammed her joined wrists into the flimsy metal. It buckled, tumbling to the thick, royal blue carpet below. Marisol pulled herself after it, landing on top and rolling forward, coming to a rest on one knee, her outstretched hands cradling her chrome-plated Colt M1911.
Her eyes darted around the hall, assessing the scene. Two men in the trademark nondescript black suits of bodyguards lay face down on the floor, their pooling blood ruining the carpet. A woman in a similar, if better-tailored, suit sat against the wall, her wrist twisted at her side and her vacant eyes staring through Marisol.
Governor Sabrina Sloane knelt in the corner, one hand thrown up to block her view of the pistol pointed at her left eye. The woman holding the gun wore all black, her face smeared with black grease and a stocking cap covering her hair. A sneer twisted her features as she spun, turning her weapon on the new threat.
Marisol squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession, painting the wall behind the assassin’s ruined head in a macabre design. Before the body fell, Marisol was up and running. Her chest clenched at how close she had come to being too late. She packed away that emotion with all her others and hauled Sloane roughly to her feet. Her eyes were dull with shock. A tinny, distant chatter came from the device jammed into the dead assassin’s ear.
“Move!” hissed Marisol.
She pushed Sloane past the bodies of her guards toward the elevator. It dinged open the moment Marisol hit the button and she shoved Sloane inside. To her credit, the Governor recovered from her near-death experience quickly.
She glared with naked suspicion at Marisol. “What are you doing here?”
Before Marisol had a chance to answer, two men appeared in front of the elevator doors. Their clothes were black and their faces smeared with black like the assassin’s. The one on the right smirked, his lip curling up to reveal a chipped incisor, and raised a strange looking gun. Her first instinct was to slide her body sideways, blocking Sloane from his view and aim, and that instinct was her downfall. The gun emitted a quiet pop and a blur of red. Rather than the explosive agony of the bullet she’d been expecting, there was a stabbing pain and a burning sensation under her skin. She cried out in shock and pain, looking down to see a dart the length of her palm lodged in her chest. Wrenching the dart out, she doubled over as the burning sensation spread.
“Two? What the fuck?”
“I don’t fucking know just shoot her!”
There was another pop and hiss followed by a pained shriek from Sloane. The sound seared through Marisol’s mind and she whipped her head up in time to see the elevator doors sliding into motion and the two men facing off at each other.
“Not the dart, dumbass, shoo…”
Marisol’s Colt stopped him midsentence. She turned her gun on the other man, though the movement sent another searing wave of pain under her skin. She fired two bullets into his chest and had time to watch his mouth form a perfect circle and his body tip backward before the doors slid shut and the elevator zipped down toward the lobby.
Sloane’s cry was dying down, but she scrabbled at the dart in her shoulder. Marisol wrenched it free and pressed her hand over the spot of blood it had left on her dress. The dart was a simple metal tube with a feathery end on one side and a large barb on the other, beneath which was a short hypodermic needle.
“Let go of me,” Sloane roared, pushing Marisol’s arm off her and backing into the farthest corner. “What is going on?”
Marisol ejected the Colt’s magazine and replaced it with a fresh one. She didn’t know what was waiting for them in the lobby, but she wanted to be fully loaded for whatever it was.
“People were sent to kill you. I killed them. You’re welcome.”
“I need a little more explanation than that, Marisol Soltero. Stop this elevator immediately. I’m not going anywhere with a c
riminal.”
She spoke with well-bred contempt and Marisol cringed at the tone. “Back off and shut up if you’re interested in living, Governor.”
“You won’t get away with this. What did you inject me with?”
Marisol was wondering the same thing herself, but her mind chose that moment to lurch. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but it only became more muddled. She looked down at the pair of darts on the floor, but the floor wobbled and so did her knees.
“Whatever you think you…”
Marisol held up her hand and Sloane’s teeth snapped shut. Whatever had been in the dart was making her left arm tingle. She flexed her hand but the simple motion took all her concentration.
Beside her, Sloane stumbled and uttered a soft “Oh.”
Marisol’s body ached all over and cold spread through her muscles. Unbidden, images from nature documentaries flashed through her mind. Tigers with their tongues lolling out as zookeepers ran tests. Polar bears stumbling across frozen landscapes while scientists trailed slowly behind, waiting for their tranquilizers to take effect. Tranquilizer darts.
“Fuck.”
Marisol yanked her jacket off as sweat popped out on her brow. She grabbed Sloane by the shoulder as she stumbled again, holding her body close and upright.
“Don’t move,” Marisol growled. “Hold still and the drug will take longer to move through your system.”
Sloane’s fingers scratched at her once, but then she fell to her knees. Marisol fell too and, while she would’ve preferred to think it was to keep Sloane from falling on her face, she knew it was the drug. It was working fast, and the elevator felt like it was spinning.
Forcing her eyes to focus, Marisol saw the number seven pop up in glowing red slashes on the floor display. Her limbs were getting heavy and she fought to keep her breathing shallow.
“Keep your eyes open.” Marisol could hear the slur in her words and knew there wasn’t much time left. “The minute the doors open, you run.”
Marisol fell forward, but her shoulder hit hard into the metal wall. Sloane’s body followed.
Queen of Humbolt Page 3
