He drops the cigarette, grinds it under his heel, then walks back inside, the service door slamming shut behind him. And then the spot where he had been standing is empty, and it seems almost like he was never there, like it was all a bad dream.
My mind is still struggling to process what I just saw, what it means, if it means anything at all. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s a coincidence. But in my experience, something like this, it means something. It’s part of something bigger. Everything’s part of something bigger.
I pull my attention back to the present, and I try to focus. Jackson. That’s why I’m here. Jackson is arriving any moment now. My gaze goes to the bank of glass doors.
There’s a figure standing there, one that’s such an expected sight, and at the same time not, because he shouldn’t be here, he doesn’t belong. But he’s here, looking around, awkward and out of place, in a heavy hooded sweatshirt and jeans, a backpack slung on one shoulder.
My whole body goes cold.
It’s Zachary.
Chapter 53
He’s standing still, looking around like he’s searching for someone. His hair falls across his forehead, skimming his left eye. He adjusts the backpack on his shoulder.
I don’t understand. My mind is struggling to connect the dots, or maybe protesting against the picture that’s beginning to emerge, insisting that it can’t be true.
Zachary, here.
Dylan Taylor, here.
I’m moving closer to my son; I didn’t even realize I’d stood, started walking. He pulls out his phone and frowns down at it.
I’m nearly to him when he looks up again, catches sight of me. I see recognition light his face, just for an instant. Then confusion flashes across it. “Mom?”
I take hold of his arm and move to the side of the lobby, toward the reception desk. I search his face, my hand still gripping his arm, not letting go. His eyes are round; his confusion has deepened. He looks worried. But is there anything more there? Is there guilt?
Zachary, in the same place as Dylan Taylor. What the hell is going on?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, too loudly. A woman in a frilly pink dress looks up and scowls. “Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“Meeting someone.” He’s instantly defensive. “Chill, Mom.”
“Who?”
My heart is pounding. He’s here, in the same place as Dylan, the same place Jackson’s supposed to be.
It’s not a coincidence.
And then, as I watch him check his phone again, realization hits.
Someone lured him here. Someone wants Zachary here, in this hotel, at this very moment.
I tear my eyes away from him, look around the lobby. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. My gaze skitters over random faces, ones that seem like maybe they’re watching us, even though I know they’re not. I look for Jackson. I don’t see him.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
Two women in sequined dresses and fur coats walk through the glass doors, laughing. Just behind them is a small cluster of people. Four of them, dark suits and flexible earpieces, surrounding a silver-haired man and woman in the center, matching their pace, walking in step, like a protective box. I catch sight of the silver-haired man’s profile; it’s CIA director Harrison Drake.
Director Drake is at the ballroom doors now. My eyes are locked on him, the back of his black jacket. The image of Director Lee walking through the lobby flashes through my mind.
And then I’m walking again, running, without even realizing it. Mom? I hear Zachary call after me. But I’m moving quickly through the lobby, toward the ballroom doors. Director Drake disappears into the ballroom. Same place as Director Lee.
I’m in front of the tuxedoed man now, the one with the tablet. “I need the guest list,” I say.
He nods, then hands the tablet to me. I scan the list of names on the screen, heart pounding. And then my eyes stop.
There it is.
He’s on the list. Senate majority leader Shields.
All three of the targets, here, in one place.
The fragments of information swirling around in my brain slam together in that very moment into a single, awful truth.
There’s going to be an attack, and they’re going to frame Zachary for it.
* * *
—
There’s a small square box in front of Shields’s name. Unchecked. The senator’s not here yet.
And if I can keep him from arriving, I might buy us time.
I thrust the tablet back at the tuxedoed man and pull out my phone, find the FBI operations center on speed dial, place the call, hold the phone to my ear.
“FBI Special Agent Steph Maddox,” I say, when the call connects. “I need the Senate majority leader’s security detail. It’s urgent.”
There’s a pause on the line, and I rush through the lobby, elbowing my way through the guests, back to Zachary, the phone still pressed against my ear. People are staring at me. I see him there, ahead of me, where I left him, watching me.
I need to get Zachary out of here. He’s in danger now, more danger than I ever thought possible.
“Leave,” I say, when I reach him.
“Mom—”
“You need to leave. Now.” I tighten my grip on his arm, start steering him toward the door. He braces himself at first, resisting, then he moves.
“Mom, I don’t understand—”
“Honey, just trust me on this one. You need to leave.” There’s desperation in my voice; I can hear it. I’m sure he can, too.
We push through the doors, out into the cold air, to the wide walkway in front of the hotel. Everything looks normal. Valets, a stray luggage cart, cars idling on the curb. It doesn’t look like the scene of an imminent attack.
But it is, isn’t it?
All three targets will be here.
“What’s going on?” Zachary asks again, and I realize he’s staring at me. And I feel tremendous guilt, because surely he can see my fear, the fear I’ve always tried so hard to mask, to let him think everything’s okay, even if it’s not, to protect him.
Emotion wells inside me. He’s too young to face this. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“For what? What is it, Mom?”
“Dammit, Zachary, just do what I say,” I snap.
At that, hurt crosses his face, a pain that looks all too familiar. How many times have I been short with him? How many times have I not taken the time to explain?
It’s not that I won’t, I think. I can’t.
“This is Shields’s detail,” comes a voice in my ear.
“Zachary, don’t argue with me this time. Just go.” I turn on my heel and stride back through the glass doors, saying a silent prayer that Zachary obeys me. “What’s your ETA?”
“We’re three minutes out.”
“Turn around.”
“Ma’am?”
“Turn around. Do not approach the premises. Repeat, do not approach the premises.”
I end the call and drop the phone back into my pocket. Fear is coursing through me. I can feel the eyes of bystanders on me as I elbow through the lobby, but I don’t see them. I don’t see anything except those double doors at the back of the room. The doors that lead to the ballroom where Director Lee is sitting, and Director Drake, and countless members of Congress and a host of innocent people who have no idea what’s about to happen.
I’m almost at the double doors. I see the tuxedoed man near the registration table. “Who’s in charge of security?” I snap.
“Who?” I bark, almost a shout now, when he doesn’t answer, and he starts to stammer as the color drains from his face, but I don’t have time to wait. The clock’s ticking. I turn abruptly and reach for the door handle. It doesn’t matter who’s in charge. We need to get those peo
ple out of there. I’ll make the announcement myself, for God’s sake.
I’m pulling the door open when I hear the first screams.
Chapter 54
I’m too late.
I try desperately to process what’s happening on the other side of the door, what’s causing those screams, what sort of danger there is. But I can’t tell; I don’t know.
I draw my gun. It doesn’t matter what’s going on inside. Whatever it is, I need to get in there. I need to help.
I swing the door open and see chaos. Women in gowns and men in tuxedos, panic on their faces, heading in my direction, toward the doors, the beginnings of a mass exodus.
I step forward, try to see around them, through them. I strain to hear any other sounds that can tell me what kind of danger lies ahead—gunshots, shrieks of pain—but all I hear are those screams, those panicked screams, coming from deep within the big room.
When the wave of people reaches me, I stand still and let it part around me. People are pushing, tripping over high heels and long gowns, desperate to get away. A woman in bright red sees my gun and yips in terror, spinning away from me.
The screams stop, and a wail takes their place. I start moving, pushing my way through the crowd, like a fish headed upstream, trying to see past the fleeing mass, the terrified faces, heading blindly in the direction of the thin, piercing wail that doesn’t stop.
I can make out two clusters toward the front of the ballroom, a few tables apart. Circles of people, crouched down, each surrounding something—or more likely, someone—on the floor. I know these circles; they’re the kind that surround victims.
Victims. Oh God, they’ve done it, haven’t they? CIA director, FBI director, Senate majority leader…those were really targets.
Shields isn’t here yet, but Drake is, and Lee—
I head for the nearer circle, stepping around an overturned Chiavari chair. There are two men standing on the edges of the group, jackets off, holsters exposed, guns trained in my direction. Instinct, and all my training, tells me they’re on my team. Members of a security detail.
“FBI!” I shout as I approach.
They hesitate, but don’t lower their weapons. I’m close enough now that I can see the fear on their faces, the uncertainty.
I move closer to the circle. There’s a man on the floor, in a tuxedo. Another man crouching over him, blocking my view of his face, pressing on his chest, doing CPR. Others staring with horrified looks, some with hands over their mouths. Someone is weeping inconsolably.
A woman lets out a wail. I can finally see the victim’s face. There’s blood smeared under his nose, trickling from the side of his mouth. His green eyes are vacant.
Director Lee.
The room feels suddenly like it’s spinning. I back away, one step, then two.
The director of the FBI is dead.
FBI director, CIA director, Senator majority leader. Director Drake’s in the middle of that other circle, isn’t he?
The woman’s wail intensifies. I run to the other cluster.
A man sprawls in the center of a throng of stunned people. Blood spatters the crisp white front of his tuxedo shirt. Over him, a woman bends, attempting CPR.
I’m dimly aware of a shout, nearby. “…intended victim…Get him the hell out of here!”
There’s a silver-haired man being rushed toward a service door at the far end of the room, agents on all sides. Director Drake.
Drake’s alive.
I turn. I look back at the cluster of people, confused.
Intended victim.
Someone else is in this circle. Someone who wasn’t meant to die.
I take a step forward, then another, and for the first time I see the face of the victim in the middle. Blood dribbles from his nose and mouth.
A face that I know well, because it has haunted me for years.
Halliday.
* * *
—
He’s dead; this monster is dead.
And he deserves it.
The thought is overpowering. I see him as a young senator, my boss, his hands on my arms, gripping tight….
I blink quickly, pull myself back to the present, to the victim in front of me, sprawled at my feet. Guilt tears through me. How could I even think that? No one deserves to die this way.
Halliday was murdered. It doesn’t matter if he deserved it or not. He was assassinated. Just like Lee. The director of the FBI is dead.
I taste bile in my throat.
This means Jackson’s in charge of the Bureau. He’s the acting director.
A Russian agent is now the head of the FBI.
I feel my legs buckle. I reach out a hand and steady myself on a table.
The Russians are in charge of the FBI.
And there’s a killer on the loose.
Sounds come roaring back, and movement. There’s commotion in the room, confusion, panic. Halliday’s pretty wife is hysterical. I focus on what I can see. A tablecloth that’s been ripped off a table, twisted on the floor. An overturned vase, its flowers trampled underfoot. Broken champagne glasses littering the carpeted floor.
Drake and his detail have disappeared through the service door, into the kitchen. The kitchen.
My mind flashes to Alina. I can see her small frame; I can see the terror in her eyes. You just never know. They have…ways. When it comes to food…you never know what is safe.
These men were poisoned.
My feet are moving. I’m running for the kitchen door. I reach it, shove it open, blindly. There’s more commotion on the other side, people shouting.
And there, sprawled on the tiles, near the ovens, is another body.
Dylan.
* * *
—
There’s an ominous ringing in my ears. I back out of the kitchen, grope for my phone, pull up the number with trembling fingers. I’ve never been more terrified in all my life.
Dylan was a server here tonight, wasn’t he? He was one of the people bringing around those trays of canapes, those flutes of champagne. And they killed him.
They’re eliminating all the loose ends.
They’re going to kill Zachary.
My son’s next.
“Mom?”
Relief washes over me at the sound of his voice. “Zachary, are you okay? Do you feel sick or anything?”
“No? Why?”
He’s fine.
They haven’t gotten to him yet.
“Where are you?”
“On my way home.”
“Lock the doors. Do not eat or drink a thing.”
“What’s going on?” I can hear the bewilderment in his voice.
In my mind, I see Mom, being pushed down those stairs. Scott, being run off the road.
A jolt of anger slams through me, and then all I can think about is Jackson. He did this.
“Just do as I say.”
There’s an agent approaching, long gun in hand. Part of Lee’s security detail, a guy I recognize from headquarters. “Where’s Jackson?” I shout.
“Jackson?”
“Where is he? He’s supposed to be here.”
“He wasn’t scheduled to be. Just Director Lee.”
I struggle to process this. The secretary lied to me.
Jackson lured me here, too.
I look back into the room, at the two clusters.
Zachary was here. At the scene of three homicides. How long before the authorities realize that?
The gun planted in his room. The FSM email, the extremist forum. Now this. It will look like my son is responsible. How long before he’s arrested?
The thought sickens me, but at the same time—miraculously—it centers me.
If he’s in jail, he’s vulnerable. I picture Alina again
, barely skin and bones, too frightened to eat. And then I see the writing on the bathroom mirror. Z’S NEXT.
I’m moving even before I realize it, this time out into the lobby. I see the bank of doors, the place where I caught sight of Zachary. I replay the scene in my mind. I can see myself rushing toward him, pulling him aside, talking to him. Calling Shields’s security detail. Pulling my son out of the hotel, out of harm’s way.
All before the first screams.
All before anyone knew there’d been an attack.
My eyes dart to the ceiling, to the corners that house the security cameras. Six, in here alone. Discreet, but I can see their shape, their lenses.
That footage would be enough to place Zachary here at the scene. To convince a jury that I had foreknowledge of the attack. To make us both look complicit.
I need to get to that footage before the rest of the Bureau does.
Chapter 55
The lobby is chaos. I scan the room, and finally I see the man with the tablet, over near the base of the clock tower, looking panicked. His hair is rumpled and his bow tie is gone. I wade through the swirling crowd in his direction. He notices me when I’m almost to him, and his eyes widen.
“I need the security footage,” I say.
“Footage,” he repeats. Then he nods quickly, assuredly, like he finally has a purpose, and he’s relieved to have it. “This way.”
He leads me up a shabby flight of stairs, down a corridor. Punches a code into a reader, pushes his way into a small room.
There’s a long desk, four screens arranged in a row, live footage from different security feeds. A laptop off to one side; a wall of recording equipment.
He drops down into a swivel chair, rolls close to the computer. Brings the screen to life, starts typing commands. As he does, I watch the screens. One’s showing the commotion in the lobby; another, the ballroom, now with paramedics present, and stretchers. A few uniformed police, too, but they’re milling about helplessly. The Bureau should be there in full force by now, establishing order, but I don’t see any familiar faces, don’t see anyone in charge of the situation.
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