Deadly Holidays
Double Down book 4
Lisa Phillips
Copyright 2018 Lisa Phillips
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher Lisa Phillips
Cover design Lisa Phillips
Edited by www.jenwieber.com
Chapter 1
Rachel slipped the cell phone into her purse. A phone that didn’t belong to her. She walked through the first floor of the West Wing, headed for the correct office. Smiled to a couple of staffers. Ducked her head and kept going.
Just another day, another senator visiting a colleague in the government. Nothing abnormal about that. Though that depended on why he’d summoned her. And it had been a summons—no way to get out of it. He wanted to talk to her.
She nodded to the intern, then tapped on the door and waited.
“Come in.”
Rachel took a breath and twisted the handle. She pasted a pleasant smile on her face and went inside. The blackmailer sat at his desk, an equally pleasant smile on his face. Both of them faking politeness in order to get this done. Have this meeting—whatever it was going to be about—and then get on with their individual plans.
Did he know that she knew who he really was?
Did he know she was going to destroy him?
“Please, have a seat.”
Senator Rachel Harris left the door open and settled into a luxurious chair. Everything in the White House was like a museum. It was different here in the West Wing, looking a little more like a regular office. But not this office. All the furniture had been specifically selected to make a statement.
Power resided here.
Rachel slipped her hand into her purse and swiped the screen of the phone to initiate the program. If discovered, it would act like a regular phone. No trace of its true purpose in the operating system. The reason why she was here.
She placed her purse on the floor, and looked up at the VP. “I have to admit, I was curious as to what you wanted to talk to me about.”
Truth was, if he hadn’t called her, she’d have fabricated a reason to meet with him in his office. Did he have some nefarious purpose for asking her here? Or was it a God-thing, like Alexis would’ve said? Her best friend was vocal about her beliefs. Rachel was inclined to agree but, with everything that had happened to her, could she really believe in a loving God? She’d been violated. Drugged. Sexually assaulted. Videoed.
The digital file had been used to try and blackmail her. But instead of rolling over, she and Alexis—her assistant at the time—had decided to leak the video themselves and tell everyone it was Alexis. Thanks to matching tattoos, the world had accepted that as the truth.
Until Rachel had been kidnapped by men working for the same blackmailer.
To say it had been an overwhelming last couple of months would be a serious understatement.
The VP’s smile softened. “We’ll get to that soon enough. First, I’d like to know how you’re doing, Rachel. How are things?”
He seriously wanted to know how she was. This man had been in Venezuela as a young child, the son of missionaries in the village where an attack by US troops took place. He’d been eleven years old when his parents were killed as part of an operation involving a joint task force of military and federal agencies.
Now? They were almost certain he was the one who’d systematically ruined the lives of the adult offspring of everyone who had been a part of the operation—those on the team and those on the planning committee. And he’d had all those who had been present back then killed.
Blackmail and murder.
But they had no proof.
Now that Rachel had the wherewithal not to leap over the desk and claw his eyes out, she said, “I’m doing better.” Knowing he wasn’t going to accept “fine” as a good answer.
He employed his politician smile and said, “I’m so glad.”
Yeah. She was sure. “Thank you. I know it’s going to be a long road, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to get to the end already.” She shot him a sardonic smile.
At the end, this man would be either dead or in jail.
All of her friends would be safe.
Happy.
Rachel would be able to move on with her life.
He nodded slowly. “Trust the process.”
She didn’t even know what to say to that, so she just nodded. Thankfully there was another tap on the open door, and someone came in. The VP’s wife shut the door behind her, and swept over to Rachel on her four-inch pumps. Her blouse was silk. The suit she wore probably cost twice Rachel’s, and hers had been an insane amount.
“My dear.” She held out her hands and smiled.
“Mrs. Anderson.” She returned the woman’s smile and held her chilled hands. The woman needed a cup of tea.
“How are you, dear?”
It grated that everyone knew what had happened to her. It hadn’t been much better back when the world thought it was Alexis, considering they all thought—and posted—horrible things about her best friend. She had been disgraced. Ruined and left destitute. Like this was olden times when they had to wear that scarlet letter. Rachel had helped as much as she could. She had been Alexis’s employer as well as her best friend since grade school. Best assistant she’d ever had.
Now that it was Rachel who’d been the victim, she was pitied. Coddled. Treated like glass. She wanted to smash that glass with her fist and then scream so everyone could hear her.
She did not want to be treated like a victim.
“I’m good.” Rachel slipped her hands out, ready to get on with an actual conversation. She sat and glanced once at the phone in her purse.
50% complete.
Mrs. Anderson sat in the chair beside her. Did she know? Did she have any idea the pain, destruction, and death that her husband had caused? Rachel wasn’t sure. She wanted to say Mrs. Anderson had no clue. But Rachel had been given a hefty dose of what people hid beneath the surface of civility. Now, as much as she wanted to believe otherwise, she just didn’t trust anyone.
Everyone had secrets. After all, she was only sitting here because that phone was being used to covertly access the VP’s computer. Otherwise, she had nothing to say to these people. Unless they wanted to confess to multiple murders, coercion, blackmail, terrorism and everything else they’d done.
FBI special agent Adrian Walker and former agent Megan Perkins were busy listing out all the charges. Compiling what evidence they had. Taking statements.
There was nothing solid that tied everything that had happened back to this man across the desk, shuffling papers like he was looking for a specific one. If the phone got Remy into his computer, then their friend-of-a-friend genius hacker could get the proof.
The only reason she was here.
“Rachel, darling.” Mrs. Anderson tried to take her hand, but Rachel didn’t let her. The woman continued, “We have a project in mind, a ‘mission’ as it were. We think you just might be the perfect person to spearhead it. Given your…recent experience, I believe with all my heart you’re going to see this meeting as a turning point in your life and in your healing.”
Washington sincerity. That was what Alexis had called it. Altruism, but for a person’s own gain. Where they looked lily-white, like they were the poster child for both humanitarianism and the little guy. All the while, underneath the press-release, was a different story altogether.
Maybe it was experience talking, or the distrust she couldn’t seem to shake, but these days all Rachel saw was that “W
ashington sincerity.” And she didn’t believe one bit of it.
She smiled, not wanting to betray her true feelings. Everything was far closer to the surface. She’d been an expert at playing the game for years. Now was a different story. Experience had forced her to see the truth of wasting time with subterfuge. She hated fake. It made her want to vomit.
“William and I would like to start an organization. A charity, if you will. One that seeks to help women who have been exploited using social media. To aid victims in their recovery, and to educate teens on responsible internet use.”
The VP nodded. “We would like you to be the face of the campaign.”
Mrs. Anderson said, “To show people that strength and grace can come even in the darkest of circumstances.”
Her husband took up the mantle. “That good can come from the pain you no doubt went through.”
Rachel glanced between them, overwhelmed by the seamlessness in which they spoke. Either they were completely in sync—as married couples sometimes were. Or they had rehearsed this little speech. She didn’t know which it was, but there was a reason it seemed like they were practically finishing each other’s sentences.
“Well...” Rachel let the word hang while she compiled her thoughts.
Mrs. Anderson said, “Of course you don’t have to answer now. Please take some time to think about it. We would be asking you to be more vocal about what happened to you. To share your experience with others in order to turn the tide of how social media is utilized. Hopefully we can expose even one person attempting to victimize someone online. Maybe even stop it before it happens.” She smiled and her lip gloss glinted in the light.
Rachel nodded, like she was deep in thought. “It is a noble cause. A lot of good could come from it.” She spoke slowly while she measured her words, mostly just drawing out the meeting so the phone could complete its remote hack of the VP’s computer. “I’ll have to think comprehensively about this. I agree it could do a lot of good in the world and in today’s culture.”
“As a member of the younger generation—” Mrs. Anderson’s smile was brittle. “You’re certainly the one that kids will listen to. An example they can relate to.”
Rachel nodded. “I’m not sure I’m quite ready to be the main character in a cautionary tale,” she said honestly. “I still have a long road to travel. But I will certainly think about what you’ve said.”
She was ready to leave now. Ready enough she reached down for her purse to check the phone.
78% complete.
She’d asked Remy for that feature. Otherwise she’d never have known how close to completion the program was. Only a few minutes more and she’d be able to—
The door flung open. Mrs. Anderson let out a squeak. Rachel nearly jumped out of her chair. She dropped the phone back into her purse.
“Goodness me, Miles.” Mrs. Anderson placed a hand high on her chest, displaying her perfect manicure. “Do you have to barge in? This is a private conversation.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Miles, an intern in his 20s, said. “But the president is on the line.” He didn’t even acknowledge her or the VP’s wife. “He says it’s urgent.”
She heard the rustle as Miles strode back to the door. Rachel’s gaze was pointed toward the VP in time to catch the look on his face upon hearing the president was demanding his attention. For a second, a look of pure malice flitted across his face.
Then it was gone like it was never there, and he said, “Thank you, Miles. I’ll take a coffee, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
That was Rachel’s cue to leave. But the phone wasn’t done.
She didn’t move.
Mrs. Anderson lifted from her chair and trotted after the intern. “Miles, I don’t want to hear you ever do that…” Her voice trailed off as she swept from the room in order to berate the intern.
Rachel wanted to roll her eyes. She would never speak to an intern like she was so far above them. Yes, that made her an anomaly in Washington DC. So sue her. She treated people with respect. It was the way she’d been raised.
After what had happened to her, she was more aware than ever of those secret scars. Ones everyone carried. You never knew what someone had been through—the pain they hid.
“Senator.” The VP’s voice was sharp.
She lifted her purse and glanced at the phone screen before she swung the strap over her shoulder and stood to face the vice president of the United States.
83% complete.
Why was it taking so long? She stood in front of the VP’s desk. His hand was halfway to the phone, ready to take the president’s “urgent” call. How was she supposed to delay this when he needed to get the phone?
She should reach over and touch his hand. Thank him for thinking of her as the face of this new opportunity.
It made her skin crawl just considering touching him. Bile rose in her throat, but she willed it to go back down. She wanted to lift her hand and slap him across his smug face. Scream to the world all the horrible things he’d done. But what would that get her? She needed proof.
Irrefutable, inarguable proof.
He lifted the phone, those assessing eyes on her. “Yes, Mr. President?”
She shut the door and left. Forced a polite expression as she walked out. Slightly vacant was good. She’d found that if people thought they were smarter than her, then they almost always gave away more than they’d intended, just to prove their superiority.
Rachel strode to the closest door and went outside. The December air was crisp, and she sucked in a deep lungful of it. Pushed it out as she waved to a security guard. Strode to the sidewalk, every step shoving off the feeling of being inside. Trapped. Locked in the mire of everything she had experienced. She’d explained the sensation to her psychologist, and the woman suggested Rachel get a dog so she could take it for walks.
Maybe a rescue dog. She needed something she could take care of and support. She also needed something capable of defending her.
Until then, she had to walk alone to the nearest coffee shop. Air and caffeine would do. For now.
She slipped out the phone.
Operation incomplete.
It grated that she’d failed in her mission. Unable to stomach doing what needed to be done in order to get them a result. She hadn’t been strong enough. Not cut out for that kind of life, the way her friends and family were.
Bradley. Steve. Megan. Mint. Even Emma and Alexis. All of them had faced danger. They would have made sure the phone completed the hack.
Rachel hugged her suit jacket to her body. She clutched her purse under her arm, wishing she’d worn pants. Not that thin suit pants would be much warmer. The sidewalks had been salted. Air left her mouth in white puffs. Rachel wanted an extra hot mocha. Or maybe she should just Uber home and work in her jammies the rest of the day. Eat soup. Or hot noodles. Or noodle soup.
Something to take the bitter taste of failure from her mouth.
She ducked under scaffolding, and sidestepped a couple of suited men coming back from lunch probably. One sent her a sideways glance. A look she was familiar with now. One that meant he’d seen the video. He knew what she’d done under the influence of Rohypnol.
Everyone knew.
There was nowhere to run. Nowhere she could go where there wouldn’t be someone who knew exactly what she’d been through. The add-on came on occasion. Instead of pity she would see the sideways glance that inquired whether she’d be interested in being that girl again.
Rachel lifted her chin and strode on. She headed for another chain coffee shop selling mediocre drinks at ridiculous prices. Maybe she should start a campaign for reasonably priced caffeine. Talk about an idea Americans could get behind. With the added bonus that everyone would be talking about her for a good reason this time.
She turned the corner onto a side street. Fear walked with quiet steps up her spine, but she pushed the sensation off. The man who’d victimized her was dead. Megan had killed him, making he
r Rachel’s second best friend. Unofficially, of course.
The blackmailer could number the days that remained for him to walk free. She couldn’t get scared every time—
Arms banded around her. Lifted her feet from the ground.
Hot breath against her neck.
She sucked in a breath to scream. He shifted his arm to her diaphragm. She choked on the exhale.
His voice was low. Gravel. “No screaming.”
Chapter 2
Steve was on her tail. It was the last place in the world he should be right now, considering he was a fugitive. Not to mention wearing a knit cap to disguise his face and keep security cameras from seeing him was a dead giveaway in an ocean of suited government workers and tourists.
He’d been lying low, trying to figure all this out. Then Remy had contacted him. Rachel was going to the VP’s office with a phone that would allow their hacker friend access to his computer.
Steve had hit the roof. He was so mad he stomped at a patch of ice on the sidewalk and nearly went flying. Caught himself. The motion of stopping jarred every muscle in his back and made him wince. Sleeping on a couch at his age was not helping. Still, fugitives could hardly be picky. It wasn’t like he could get a hotel room.
As soon as he cleared his name and gave the FBI what they needed to convict this blackmailer, Steve was going on a beach vacation.
He rounded the corner and saw movement. Then nothing. He picked up his pace. Heard a muffled moan. Rachel.
Another corner, and they were in an alley. Steve saw the darkly dressed man, a knit cap pulled low over his ears. Heavy coat. Gloves. No visible weapon. Rachel was in his arms, her legs swinging back trying to kick him.
Ire rose, heating him from the inside out. He raced for them. Adrenaline energized his muscles as he pumped his arms and legs and prayed he didn’t hit another patch of ice. The last thing he needed was to skid right past them.
At the last second he yelled, “Hey!”
The man swung around, and Steve spotted it—a knife, pointed at Rachel’s midsection.
Deadly Holidays Page 1