by Kris Calvert
“But what if they service a politician who doesn’t have any secrets?” Ginny asked.
“The girl or boy—and I say that because most of them are barely of age—is beaten when they return. They withhold food and water—torture them.”
“And people in Washington are a part of this?” Win asked.
I nodded. “We had one senator on the hook, Jeremiah Storm.”
“He was murdered yesterday,” Ginny said.
“He was murdered right after I met with him and he agreed to confess, but there’s more.”
“Jesus,” Win said, sitting down. “What else?”
“A trained killer was sent to end me too. He got away.”
“No identifiable characteristics?” Ginny asked.
“No. Well,” I paused, thinking of the attack, “nothing that can help us.”
“What do you want us to do tonight, Mac?” Win asked, placing his hand in the small of Ginny’s back.
“Just be on pointe. If you see anything unusual, if someone pulls a gun,” I began.
“You’re expecting that kind of trouble?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t know what I’m expecting. Honestly, I want to make it through the evening without incident. I’ve informed the Secretary of Homeland Security, Molly Molloy of everything we have.”
“She’s good people,” Win said.
“But she’s not going to do or say anything until I have proof, and without the boy or Storm, all I have is email transmissions.”
“What about the girl? Your assistant’s sister?”
I nodded. “She never saw anyone. The one thing we did manage to get from Brady Kurtz other than identifying Senator Storm was the name of a motel in D.C.—Elizabeth Arms. I tipped off Metro to check it out. They found nothing but a bill paid in advance for the next six months and a request for the rooms not to be cleaned. They paid with cash.”
“Any surveillance cameras at the hotel?” Ginny asked.
I shook my head. “Probably one of the reasons they picked the place. Low tech, low profile, and lowlifes running the place.”
“DNA evidence?” Win asked.
“They bagged everything they found—which wasn’t much—and dusted the place for prints.”
The three of us stood silent for a moment. It was a hell of a gut-wrencher knowing horrible shit was going down and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do. When every lead turned into a dead end or a road block put up by someone on the inside, it was hard to stay sane—hard to feel as if what you did in the world made a difference.
“Ginny and I will keep an eye out,” Win said. “We’re both armed.”
I looked to his beautiful bride-to-be in her long and sleek black gown and popped my eyebrows. “Really?”
“C’mon now, Agent Callahan,” Ginny chided me. “Don’t piss me off and call me a skirt or something. I’m trained to fight, just like you. Even if I’m wearing a dress.”
I looked to Win and back to her. Ginny didn’t know me well enough to understand I wasn’t shocked, I was impressed. Strong women, in my book, were a turn on. Always had been—always would be. “I meant no disrespect, Agent Grace. Please accept my apology if I seemed anything other than fully impressed.”
“Apology accepted.”
I clapped my hands together. “All right then, let’s get to it. There are two other federal agents here at the party. Agent Jason Fuller—a redhead sitting with the hacking team, Micah and her sister. And Harlan Jackman. He’s been doing some follow up work here at Lone Oak with me after I was attacked and Sam and the kids were threatened. You’ll see him around. He’s been heading up security in my absence.”
“Got it,” Win said. “Agent Jackman.”
“I had him for Cyber Crime at the Academy,” Ginny said.
“I think we all did,” I replied. “I’m just glad we have him on our side.”
31
SAMANTHA
I led Cecil Winterbourne down the red carpet area that emptied into the main tent. A soft fall breeze floated in the air and for the first time I noticed that the weather was cooperating beautifully for the occasion. “Mr. Winterbourne,” I began. “I understand you make a fine bourbon, sir.”
“We do our best. And please call me Cecil. I feel old enough as it is.”
I liked Cecil Winterbourne. Spry and funny, he was a grand old southern gentleman through and through and I had an idea as to where to seat him—next to a grand old southern lady.
“The North Star organization truly appreciates your attendance tonight, Cecil. Thank you for contributing to our cause with your attendance. We are taking donations tonight if you’re so inclined.”
“That might be the nicest way anyone’s ever asked me for money, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Samantha.”
I spied Mimi at her table, already sitting and sipping on a glass of champagne. The table was empty save for Agent Fuller, who’d taken it upon himself to keep her company.
“Cecil, do you mind if I seat you at a table with someone closer to your age tonight?”
“I don’t know, darlin’. Is Methuselah a contributor to the cause of stopping human trafficking?”
I giggled, knowing whipping out Methuselah’s name was a favorite past time of Mimi’s. They were going to get along splendidly. “Actually, I wanted to seat you at the table with my grandmother. She’s one hundred and one.”
“Well I’m hot on her heels at ninety-seven—I just had a birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze.
Weaving in and out of the tables, I stopped at Mimi’s and gave Agent Fuller a wink.
“Cecil Winterbourne, may I present to you my grandmother—”
“Marilyn,” he said in a breathy gasp.
“Yes?” Mimi looked up from her glass of champagne and whatever joke she’d just told Fuller.
“Marilyn. It’s me.”
Mimi’s eyes widened as a wicked smile crept across her lips and she purred, “Cecil Winterbourne.”
I couldn’t hide the astonishment from my face. Even Agent Fuller looked surprised. “You know one another?” I asked.
Ignoring me completely, Cecil lifted my grandmother’s hand to his lips for a kiss. “As I live and breathe. Marilyn Richardson. You’re just as beautiful as you always were.”
I stood, flabbergasted. If he was using Mimi’s maiden name, I knew their relationship went further back than I could understand.
“Why Cecil, you do go on.”
Was Mimi blushing? I looked back to Fuller who shrugged his shoulders at me, clearly wanting to exit the table, but fully aware of what we were both witnessing—old friends reuniting.
“How do you know one another?”
“How are you?” Cecil asked, as he took the seat next to her, still holding onto her hand.
“Well, I’m old, Cecil. How are you?”
When neither of them answered my question, it was clear I wasn’t included in their conversation.
“I was sorry to hear of your wife’s passing.”
“And your husband’s,” he replied.
“Mimi?” I asked, now taking the seat next to her. “Mimi?”
“Oh. Cecil, this is my granddaughter, Samantha.”
“We’ve met,” Cecil said, giving me a fleeing glance. “Tell me what you’ve been keeping yourself busy with these days?”
“Okay,” I said standing again. “I need to get back to the party, but I’ll check in on you both in a bit.”
Fuller nodded toward the corner where Micah and the boys were mingling and drinking champagne. “I’m going to see about the others.”
“Great,” I replied. “Thanks. Okay you two,” I began again, but they didn’t hear a word I said—and it wasn’t because they were hard of hearing.
Boone stood in the center of the tent with Dr. Jeffrey Ward, the executive director of North Star, and I hurried to join the conversation, hoping they were discussing Jeffrey’s introduction of the president. I’
d looked everywhere for Agent Jackman to find out the president’s estimated time of arrival, but I hadn’t seen him all night. It was hard to find anyone in the tent among the three hundred or so people milling about and making their way to their assigned tables.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, gently placing my hand on Boone’s shoulder to get his attention. “Good evening, Dr. Ward.”
“Samantha,” Jeffrey’s face was positively beaming. “I was just telling Boone the two of you have outdone yourselves. And on such short notice. We can’t thank you enough for pulling it all together after the debacle in Atlanta.”
“It was all Samantha,” Boone said.
“No,” I quickly replied. “It was a team, including Senator Henry, Shelia and Agent Jackman.”
“Agent Jackman?” Dr. Ward asked.
“Yes,” I replied, looking to Boone. “He headed up security.”
“Really?” The puzzled look on Dr. Ward’s face was perplexing. “I was told by the president’s staff my contact was Agent Martelli. He’s supposed to keep me informed of their ETA. Oh,” he said, stopping midsentence to check his phone. “There it is. A text from Martelli. The president’s helicopter is landing in ten minutes. We should get everyone seated.”
With a pang of panic, I turned to Boone. “Will you ask everyone to find their seats, Boone?” I needed to find Mac.
“Of course.”
Hurrying through the tent and up the red carpet, I smiled at the people just making it to the party and urged them to make their way into the tent for dinner. Looking everywhere for Mac, I found Shelia in the front entrance of the house. There’d been a slight backup as a rush nearing the official dinner bell was making the trip through the metal detector the Secret Service had installed in the west room a slow process.
“Shelia,” I said, stopping her as we passed. “Have you seen my husband?”
“Copy that,” she said into her microphone. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’ve not seen him.”
“Have you seen Agent Jackman?”
“I’m sending them now,” she said to someone speaking to her frantically in her ear. “I’m so sorry, Sam. Who are you looking for? I haven’t seen Mac.”
“No, I was asking about Agent Jackman.”
“Who?”
This time I stood directly in front of her face to insure she was listening to me and only me. “Shelia, Agent Harlan Jackman. Late fifties, salt and pepper hair. He’s been in charge of the security detail—you know—FBI.”
Shelia gave me a confused face, shaking her head. “Agent Anthony Martelli has been lead on Secret Service detail, Sam. I’ve never met Agent Jackman.”
“What are you saying? Of course you know Agent Jackman. He’s been hanging around here all week—well, maybe only a couple of days. He even walked through my house checking for connectivity.”
Shelia was distracted by all the chattering in her ear and I knew she was listening to me, but not with a great deal of enthusiasm. “Samantha, all I can tell you is the Secret Service is in charge of the advance team.”
She pulled the iPad she had anchored to her side up and began feverishly swiping through. “Harlan Jackman?” she asked.
I sighed with relief. “Yes.”
“He’s on the guest list and he was cleared to be on the property during set up by…” She hesitated for a moment. “Senator Boone Henry.”
“If he wasn’t in charge of security, then what was he doing in my house?” I asked.
“You could ask him,” she said. “He’s been checked in on the guest list. He’s here—somewhere.”
I froze and a wave of icy fear overcame me. Deaf to the noisy scene around me, I could only hear my rapid and shallow intake of breath and the thrumming of my own heart.
The secret cameras—I’d allowed Harlan Jackman access to every part of my home and now he’d seen every part of me. What else did he have? Why? Rage and betrayal brewed inside me. And Boone. Boone with his aw shucks, I’m not who you think I am routine. I suddenly had no idea who anyone was.
“Trust no one,” I muttered under my breath.
“Samantha?” Shelia asked. “Is everything okay?”
A wave of panic coursed through my body and I managed one word, “No.”
“Samantha?” she repeated.
I lied. “No. Everything is fine.”
32
MAC
Scanning the tent, I found everyone but my wife. I walked to the table where Micah, Fuller, Frankie, Elias, Rory, Chops and Mimi were placed, knowing eventually she would show up in the vicinity. Win and Ginny were strategically placed across the room where they could see the entirety of the party. I wasn’t taking any chances.
“How’s it going over here?” I asked, looking at all their faces. For everything we’d been through this week—the lack of sleep, tension and anxiety, they all looked remarkably bright-eyed and happy. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. There was a sense of electricity in the air with the anticipation of the president’s arrival.
“We’re fine,” Micah droned, obviously not wanting to be fussed over.
“I’m not,” Frankie said.
“Why? What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Frankie has to pee.” Micah blurted it out. Frankie immediately blushed, keeping her gaze from Elias. Micah had a way of embarrassing the hell out of people. I’d fallen victim to it too many times to count.
“Me too,” I said, holding my hand for Frankie to take. “C’mon, I’ll show you to a tent where there are porta potties so beautiful, you won’t know you’re not in a real bathroom.”
“I’m going too.” Elias stood as Frankie came to her feet.
“Great,” I sighed. “It’s a party. Right this way.”
Frankie walked in front of me and I turned around to make sure Elias wasn’t far behind. “We need to be quick. Everything is about to start.”
A golden carpet marked the path into the bathroom tents. There was no women’s or men’s rooms—the porta potties were unisex and didn’t look like porta potties at all. Constructed around the trailers, fabric was draped between each door, creating the illusion of separate bathrooms. The sink was one long porcelain tub. Specially designed for hand washing, the water flowed continuously like a fountain and there were attendants waiting with cloth towels to dry your hands.
“Wow,” Elias said. “Who knew using a port-a-john could be so….”
“Elegant,” Frankie said, finishing his sentence.
I shrugged. I’d rather hustle back to the house and use my own john, but…when in Rome.
First to enter and exit from my unit, I washed my hands and tipped the attendant for the towel, waiting for the other two to emerge. Elias was first, as I’d imagined he would be. He looked at himself in the mirror. This was a young man who was nervous, unsure but horny as hell. I knew the look. I used to think I invented the look. It was a mixture of desperation, anticipation and pure testosterone.
I placed my hand firmly on his shoulder, speaking in a hushed tone. “Calm down. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Be yourself. Tell her how you feel and let the chips fall where they may.”
Elias nodded without looking up. Then I heard it—the unmistakable whistling of Boone Henry. Strolling onto the golden carpet, he possessed an air of confidence—the kind Elias didn’t have.
“Boone,” I said, giving him a nod.
“Agent Callahan,” he said stopping his rendition of Dixie. It was the same song Samantha told me he’d taught Dax.
“Looks like your party is going well.”
Boone nodded. “I think so. Your wife has done a spectacular job.”
“Samantha is spectacular,” I replied, blinking slowly and deliberately. Samantha was also mine and mine alone. No matter what kind of fantasy Boone Henry had cooked up in his head.
“She is at that,” he replied, excusing himself into the porta potty.
Looking to my watch, I shook my head. I didn’t have time to wait for Frankie, too. Surely Elias could esco
rt her back to the party. “Eli,” I began, trying not to seem annoyed. “I’m going to—”
“Mac. Wait,” he said fiddling with his cell phone.
“Look dude, you need to take her by the hand, tell her how beautiful she looks and sweep her off her feet on the dance floor tonight.”
“No. Mac. I’m getting a ping from the global positioning software.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Either the tracker I placed in my ex is showing up because my old girlfriend is in that tent somewhere,” he whispered pointing behind me. “Or your killer has arrived at your party.”
On cue, Boone exited the bathroom and walked to the sink to wash up. I tilted my head inconspicuously toward the man, hoping to get a read on Elias’s face as he stared at the app on his phone.
“See you out there.” Boone tossed his used towel into the basket and walked away whistling—without tipping the attendant.
“Him?” I asked.
Eli shook his head. “But whoever it is, they’re here—somewhere.”
“Mac?”
Her voice was soft, but I still heard it as I began to leave.
“What is it, Frankie? I need to find Samantha.”
“Is he gone?” she asked, her voice muffled from behind the temporary wall of fiberglass and fabric.
“Who?”
“The whistler.”
“The whistler?” I asked, thinking Frankie sounded like Katy when she spied the one thing that threw her into hysterical fright—a clown. Is he gone Daddy? Is the clown gone?
I gave Elias a puzzled look. “Yes.”
Frankie emerged, tears streaming down her face and shaking. “What is it?” Elias asked, hugging her tightly.
“That whistling. I’ve heard it before,” she said, taking a towel from the attendant who’d stepped up to assist her.
I looked out the door. Boone had disappeared into the mob of people waiting for the arrival of the president. “Heard it where?” I asked.
“It was when I was hanging from the ceiling—naked.” She wiped the tears from her face, her mascara now watering in the corners of her eyes. “I couldn’t see anyone, they put a bag over my head—but I could hear them. He was whistling. He was whistling that song while they talked in some language I’d never heard before. Then I felt a stick in my arm and I don’t remember anything after that.”