Holly was still on the phone and gave them a one-minute gesture with a forefinger.
After Benson and Ford went inside, Nathan took a moment to look around and soak all of this in. It wasn’t every day you got to be inside the White House grounds. With neutral expressions, the Secret Service agents stood guard on the curb, watching their every move. Never mind they’d already been cleared through security and thoroughly searched—including a meticulous pat down that made the TSA body searches pale in comparison. These guys didn’t use the backs of their hands.
She finished her call and joined them near the Lincoln.
“That was quite a meeting,” she said.
“I’m just really glad Jin’s okay. Did you hear it, Harv? The tone of her voice?”
“Yeah, she sounded a little . . . distracted.”
“Distracted?” Holly asked incredulously.
It would be best to drop it because he couldn’t easily explain what he’d heard in Jin’s voice.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that.”
“Forget it, Holly. We’re all feeling it. I keep seeing my dad’s face.”
“Me too,” she said.
“It’s definitely too late to visit Lauren, so let’s head over to the Willard and check into our suites.”
She leaned her head back and unclipped her hair bun. “Sounds good. I’d love to put my feet up.”
When Nathan looked at Harv, she punched his arm.
“What?” he asked.
CHAPTER 20
Two Days Ago
El Lobo loved the open sea, especially in a high-performance boat like this one. Sleek and streamlined, this amazing Mercedes-Benz Arrow 460-GT was fourteen meters of comfort and power. Rumor had it Mr. A paid $1.5 million for it. Whatever the price tag, it made the two-hour round trip out to the Yoonsuh and back not only tolerable, but fun.
After returning to Puerto Los Cabos Marina, the next leg of their journey back to Rancho Del Seco would be much less enjoyable. Long helicopter rides had never appealed to him. And this one was colossal. Two legs. Cabo San Lucas to Chihuahua, then Chihuahua to Rancho Del Seco. Six hundred miles total.
With most fixed-wing aircraft, if you took your hands off the controls, the things flew themselves for a while. No so with helicopters. They became unstable almost immediately. He’d actually flown one a few times—straight and level—but he had neither the time nor the desire to become a helicopter pilot. He supposed there was a certain exhilaration associated with vertical takeoff and landings, but he preferred cruising at forty thousand feet in Mr. A’s private jet, sipping a glass of fine wine.
Quattro was an excellent navigator and had them on an exact course to rendezvous with the Yoonsuh’s coordinates, some thirty miles offshore. The swell was moderate, around two meters, so the Arrow had no trouble maintaining a fast cruising speed.
El Lobo began to feel a little uneasy when they hadn’t yet spotted Mr. A’s luxury yacht. According to the nav screen, they were still a good fifteen nautical miles away, so there was no need to panic. Yet.
Captain Santino watched the navigation screen closely. The readout now showed 22˚56’43” N 110˚25’57” W. He cut his engines to make minimal headway into the swell and keep the Yoonsuh close to the rendezvous point.
His first officer reported an intermittent radar contact due east. Santino hoped it was Mr. A’s Arrow. He couldn’t get his creepy passengers and their cargo off his ship soon enough.
They’d come out of their staterooms last night to sit on the upper sundeck, but they’d summarily ignored the Yoonsuh’s cabin attendant when he asked if they wanted something to eat or drink, an incredibly rude and arrogant thing to do.
Rude and arrogant? Those two men were assholes.
Even if they didn’t speak Spanish, they could’ve acknowledged the attendant’s presence. They’d pretended like he didn’t exist. Santino had watched from the diving platform, where he’d been enjoying an evening cigar, something he did when feeling troubled.
Five minutes after spotting the radar contact, it became clear the blip was heading straight for his ship. No words needed, he exchanged a glance with his first officer.
A few minutes later, as the Arrow approached the stern, the stark contrast wasn’t lost on him: such a beautiful vessel carrying such ugly people.
Santino never judged people by their color, religion, or nationality—only by their actions. El Lobo and Quattro were as ugly as men came. Without conscience, they did whatever they wanted and never faced consequences. He hoped that would change someday. For now, he just wanted to get this transfer over with.
His first officer threw two lines across to Quattro, who secured them to the bow and stern of the Arrow with simple layman’s knots.
“Welcome aboard,” Santino said.
El Lobo hopped across, but Quattro stayed put.
“How was your journey?”
El Lobo looked back at the luxury speedboat. “She handles like a champ. I understand you chose this boat for Mr. A.”
“Indeed I did.”
“Where are our couriers?” El Lobo asked.
“They’re still in their staterooms.”
“Well, go get them.”
“Certainly. Would you like something to—”
“We’re a little pressed for time. We have a long helicopter flight back to Rancho Del Seco.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
Below, he knocked on the stateroom doors of his guests and told them in Spanish they’d arrived.
The two men appeared, didn’t say a word, and brushed past him on their way topside. Rude as ever. Santino noticed the backpack right away; they’d obviously transferred the goods from the hard cases into the pack.
He followed his passengers to the sundeck and stayed behind while they stepped down to the diving platform. Without saying a word, the lead courier handed the backpack across to Quattro. El Lobo thanked them for making the voyage, then joined them on the diving platform—
In a quick move, El Lobo pulled a tiny automatic pistol from his front pocket.
What the hell? The move stunned Santino and he held perfectly still. Anything else might spell death.
The two Asian men reacted quickly but not in time.
They tried to lunge forward and grab the coyote, but El Lobo shot both of them four times in quick succession. Their brains and chest cavities destroyed, the two men collapsed to the platform and lay still.
It seemed surreal, like something out of a movie. Had he really just witnessed a double murder? Was he complicit? The answer sickened him. Of course he was complicit.
He realized he was squinting and relaxed his eyes.
El Lobo looked up and waved a hand. “Don’t worry, Captain. I have full authority to do that. I trust you’ll dispose of the bodies and clean up the mess?”
He put on his best “everything’s normal” face, but his voice nearly cracked. “We’ll take care of it.” Captain Santino suddenly realized he’d never seen men murdered, and it surprised him how vile it was. Vomit rose in his throat, but he fought it off. Losing control in front of these men wasn’t an option.
“Captain?”
“Yes, I, ah, was just wondering if you and Mr. Quattro would like to take some fresh yellowtail with you. I caught it a few hours ago. We can easily pack it in ice.” He cringed inwardly, hoping his offer hadn’t been as lame as it sounded.
El Lobo smiled. “Thank you, but no. We’re looking forward to our cruise next month. I hear your crew’s hospitality is second to none.”
“Thank you,” Santino said. “We’re happy to host you.”
El Lobo stepped onto the Arrow’s stern, then slowly turned.
“The only people in the world who know about this . . . transfer . . . are you, your crew, us, and Mr. A.”
“We don’t know about any transfer,” Santino said. “We’re here to refuel at Puerto Los Cabos and be on our way.”
The madman’s smile retur
ned. “Smooth sailing, Captain.”
With that, Quattro untied the mooring lines, tossed them onto the Yoonsuh’s diving platform, and offered a friendly wave goodbye.
Santino waved back, then had to steady himself as a swell rocked the ship. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such raw fear.
When the Arrow was several hundred meters away, he hustled up to the bridge and found his first officer—looking pale. Seasickness didn’t begin to describe his friend’s expression.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Santino said. “We’ll deal with the mess later.”
CHAPTER 21
Nathan turned off the TV at just after 3:00 a.m. Half an hour ago, Holly had returned to her office. Despite the concern he’d voiced, she intended to pull an all-nighter. So much for her spending the night with him . . .
Sitting alone in a constricting darkness, he felt emotionally torn in half. He and Holly had made love, an unbelievably warm and restorative experience, but the death of his father felt equally cold and crippling. Was this the human condition? A constant dichotomy of contentment versus wanting? How do people ever find true happiness? He knew there was no metaphorical pot of gold, but good grief . . .
It seemed like an alternate reality; he couldn’t believe his dad was dead, especially the way it had gone down. Publicly murdered in cold blood. The last time he felt this level of emptiness, he’d been close to death. Part of him wanted to destroy the hotel suite around him, while another part wanted to weep in silence. So which was it? Uncontrollable rage or hopeless despair? Maybe it didn’t matter. The result was the same.
Detachment.
He didn’t feel human, and that scared him. The dark fantasies he’d been visualizing were beyond what a normal human being should think about, let alone ever do, but if he got his hands on the person or persons who’d ordered his father’s murder, they would experience new heights of anguish and pain.
He should’ve heeded Harv’s advice and not watched the news, but he’d turned it on anyway.
Including his father and Vincent Beaumont’s youngest son, eighteen people had been slaughtered. Eleven in Mabel’s and seven at the UTC mall. Twenty-one people were wounded, with five still critical, Charlene included. She’d fallen into a coma. Vincent’s oldest son, Brian, had escaped death by running away, but it seemed like little consolation.
At least the coverage wasn’t wall to wall anymore. The networks were cramming commercials into their broadcasts. One second he was watching gurneys being loaded into ambulances; the next he was being coaxed by a cheesy advertisement into buying a pillow. What a wonderful combo: murder and pillows.
The massacre at Mabel’s remained the lead story, with the UTC shooting and Charlene Beaumont coming in a close second. The networks made it abundantly clear that the family of the nation’s largest private military contractor had been targeted. Speculation and innuendo among the endless parade of talking heads ran rampant. The Beaumont family had been attacked because of BSI’s alleged war crimes in the Gulf region. The Beaumont family had been attacked because BSI’s personnel made three times what their US military counterparts made. The Beaumont family had been attacked because the moon was made of green cheese. Blah, blah, blah. On and on it went, hour after hour after hour . . . The coverage was unwatchable.
He’d never realized the true nature of the cable news networks until now. He’d watched coverage of high-profile terrorist events, but never in this state of mind. His father was being used as a tool to drive higher ratings. The harsh truth? People were making money from his family’s tragedy.
Murder and pillows.
It came on suddenly, an overwhelming desire to belt down a few drinks. And why the hell not?
He walked over to the minibar and stared. Maybe he should’ve asked for the booze to be removed. Useless, he knew. Temptation wasn’t distance sensitive. Five steps or five miles. What difference did it make? He found himself wondering why he’d quit drinking in the first place.
You know why.
Next came the lies, excuses, and justifications. All of them painfully familiar. What would it hurt to have just one drink? He didn’t have to drive anywhere tonight, and he didn’t have to be 100 percent alert. It’s not like he and Harv were targets of whoever had killed his father. Having one drink didn’t mean he’d automatically become an alcoholic again, did it? Just one drink to take the edge off . . . Who could it hurt?
You know who it will hurt.
He reached out.
Pulled the cabinet door open.
Well, there they were.
Right in front of him.
Shiny and clean. Small and colorful. They looked like secret elixirs. Like magic bullets.
Was he really going to dismiss twenty-five years of sobriety because a bunch of pathetic losers had murdered his father? Wouldn’t that make him a casualty as well?
He pulled his phone and hit the calculator icon.
Twenty-five years multiplied by 365 equaled 9,125 days—not including leap year adjustments. He multiplied the days by twenty-four. Incredible. He’d been sober for 219,000 hours. So where was the harm in one drink, just one, and no more than one?
You know the harm.
That’s always how it started—with just one. One today, maybe one next week. Once a week turns into twice a week. Before long, it’s three a week. Three a week quickly morphs into once a day. Then once a day turns into twice a day. Twice a day turns into three. Four. Five. Six. Ten. Bottom line? Hitting the bottle just once leads to becoming a full-blown drunk again.
So what?
Who gave a damn?
And more importantly, who would know?
The answer slammed him.
You’ll know.
There’s no escaping the truth. It can’t be hidden, denied, or delayed. It is what it is. The truth.
Shit. This really sucked. The urge seemed to be intensifying with each passing second. The longer he stood here, the more inviting those enchanted little bottles of amber liquid looked.
When he realized his hands were balled in fists, he tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and prayed for strength and courage.
And the face that descended upon his soul was Holly’s. He felt her touch, warmth, and kindness. Her unconditional acceptance of who he was and always would be.
You need to call her right now.
As if controlled by an unknown force, his hand reached down and tapped her number.
The voice on the other end held beauty and grace. “Can’t sleep?”
“I’m standing in front of the minibar.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“What’s wrong with me, Holly? I feel like I’m losing it. Nothing seems real right now.”
“I’m real, and I love you.”
He closed his eyes and steadied himself against the wall.
“I know why you called me.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You called because you knew how deeply it would hurt me if you destroyed yourself.”
“I saw your face when I closed my eyes and prayed.”
“I’ll always be here for you, Nathan. Do you want me to come over?”
“I’ll be okay. I just have to work through this.”
“We have to work through it.”
His phone vibrated. “Harv’s calling. This isn’t a coincidence.”
“I just sent him a text. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”
“Hang on.” He brought Harv on to the call. “Holly’s on the line with us.”
They said hello to each other.
“How’re you doing, old friend?”
“I’m okay. I had a weak moment in front of the minibar.”
“So why didn’t you do it?” Harv asked.
“Holly said it was selflessness on my part.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I didn’t want to hurt the people I love.”
“You knew that becoming a drunk again
would do that.”
“I’m not very good at sharing my feelings, but you and Harv are more than family. You’re part of me. Without you guys, I’d feel . . . I don’t know . . . empty.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say,” Holly said. “I feel the same way about you.”
“The three of us are a team, Nate. We’ll never betray each other.”
“I’d die first.” And he would, no questions asked.
“You asked me something,” Holly said, “during our drive up to the cabin, when we were pursuing the Bridgestone brothers. I’ll never forget it. You asked, ‘Am I really that transparent?’ I also remember my answer like it was yesterday. I said, ‘Not at all. Just truthful.’”
He gripped the phone tighter and didn’t say anything.
Harv took command of the call. “You are not going to drink alcohol under any circumstances. Are we clear on that, Marine?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I’m coming over. You aren’t the only one who can’t sleep. I’ll be there in two minutes. There will be no booze on your breath.”
“Thanks, Harv. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”
“Get a pot of coffee going. I’m on my way.”
“Okay. Holly, would you stay on the line?”
“I will.”
There was no sound when Harv hung up, but he felt it. “Thanks for asking Harv to call.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I’m an alcoholic, and I always will be. It doesn’t hurt admitting it anymore.”
“You’ve accepted it about yourself.”
He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes. It’ll never go away. Tonight’s urge just felt really intense.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Honestly, I saw your face. You looked like a descending angel. Holly, we’re not married by law, but in the eyes of God, I feel we have a covenant with one another.”
“I feel the same way.”
“I love you, Holly.” There’d been a time in his life when he never said those words to anyone.
“I love you too.”
He ended the call, walked away from the minibar, and used the security latch to block the room’s door from closing. He felt short of breath and couldn’t believe what he’d been about to do. Was he really that vulnerable, after all these decades? Did other alcoholics go through this? Were they all just a bad moment away from becoming drunks again?
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