“What’s happening with your tracer program?”
He shrugged. “Hard to say. It’s doing something, so I guess I can assume that’s a good sign. It’s a slog, though. According to the developer, it has to analyze algorithms or something and that takes time. I don’t claim to understand the process, but until I get a notification that the tracer has failed, I’m going to assume it’s working.”
Edie removed Jack’s hand from her shoulder, giving it a barely perceptible squeeze as she let go, then she sat up. Her head was pounding from stress and the disorientation of a thirty-minute nap when she needed so much more. But she wasn’t complaining; she would have bet a week’s Three Squares Diner receipts that she couldn’t fall asleep under the circumstances.
“What can I do to help?” she said. She perched on the edge of the couch and looked up at Jack expectantly.
“Nothing at the moment. All we can do is wait.” Jack grabbed a second pillow from the other end of the couch and slipped it behind her.
He tried to ease her back down and said, “You might as well get some more sleep. You’re going to need your strength.”
“No,” she answered, stiffening against his touch. “I can’t sleep anymore. I don’t want to sleep anymore. I want my baby back. That’s all I want in the world. I would gladly give anything to get her back, including myself.”
“I know.”
“I can’t live without her, Jack. Get my little girl back. Please.”
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
18
Bradley Chilcott sipped scotch from a too-large tumbler as he sat behind the desk in his home office. Across the room a fire crackled in the gas fireplace and he watched, entranced, as the flames danced and leapt.
It was really too late in the year for a fire, even a small one regulated by the remote-control rheostat he kept on the corner of the desk. The temperature inside the office was rising uncomfortably, but Bradley didn’t care. He’d always been fascinated by fire, by its ability to consume virtually anything, and he found watching the flames to be more relaxing than anything else he’d ever tried, including alcohol and drugs.
Although he had to admit alcohol came in a close second.
He really needed that relaxation right now. The plan he and Hargus had spent so long developing was finally in motion, transforming from idle chatter into real—and felonious—action. And now that events were underway, Bradley wanted them over and done with, the sooner the better.
He glanced at his watch without absorbing the time. What did it matter? He’d been checking the damned thing roughly every three minutes for the last several hours, and the whole exercise was pointless anyway. The end result of the strategy he and Mike had executed would not become clear for several days at least.
Assuming Jack Sheridan did as he was told—and he would have no choice, since Bradley and Mike had trapped him so securely in their web—it wasn’t like Jim Studds would suddenly turn up dead overnight. Even a top-flight professional assassin wasn’t a miracle worker.
And based on what Bradley had read in the CIA’s supposedly Top Secret Jack Sheridan file, the man defined the phrase “top flight.” He was one of the most effective and efficient operators the Central Intelligence Agency had ever seen.
He was the best of the best.
Which was exactly why Bradley had insisted on utilizing Sheridan, overruling that pussy Hargus’s strongly worded objections. Hargus’s argument had gone something like, “We want someone good, obviously, but Sheridan is too good. He’s too smart. Too clever. If we use this guy and anything goes wrong, anything at all, we’ll end up roasting on the end of a stick in Jack Sheridan’s campfire.”
It was a ridiculous argument and Bradley had let Hargus know it, in no uncertain terms. Bradley Chilcott deserved the best, in all areas of his life. If Sheridan was the cream of the crop it was all the more reason to force him to carry out the mission, not an excuse for passing him over.
Everything was going to work out just fine. He knew it would because everything always worked out fine for Bradley Chilcott. It was good breeding, or outstanding preparation, or just plain dumb luck, but things had been working out just fine for Bradley as long as he could remember.
This little adventure would be no exception.
But if that were the case, why did he feel so uneasy? Why was he sitting next to his phone like a twelve-year-old girl waiting for a call from her crush?
He took another sip of his drink, then muttered, “Ah, what the hell,” and turned it into a gulp. He wanted—needed—something to take his mind off the impending end of Jim Studds’s political career. And life.
He wondered what Mike Hargus was doing right now.
Wondered what Jack Sheridan was doing right now.
The tension was killing him. He wondered if this was how Machiavelli had felt as he manipulated people, bending them to his will and forcing events to fit his agenda.
The sensation wasn’t just nerve-wracking; it was exhilarating.
It was intoxicating.
It was arousing.
Bradley realized he was hard as a rock. Throbbing and as horny as he’d probably ever been since he was seventeen years old. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be naked and inside the little “conference room” located down the hall from his office at the State House.
Technically it was a large service closet, or at least it had been prior to the Studds/Chilcott administration. But shortly after taking office, Bradley had had all of the janitor’s supplies hauled out of the closet. He’d refurbished it—using taxpayer funds, of course, but what was the point of having power if you couldn’t wield it for yourself every once in a while?—with a small but comfortable bed and brand new mattress, a small but high-quality television with a DVD player suitable for watching porn, even a small but well-stocked bar.
In the years since taking office, Bradley had utilized his little love nest more times than he could count. Occasionally he relaxed in it alone but most often entertained young, star-struck political groupies, interns, or even staff members.
He always got a rush thinking about the legendary tunnel JFK had supposedly used to sneak Marilyn Monroe into and out of the White House. When all the skullduggery was over and he’d ascended to the presidency, he vowed to reopen Kennedy’s tunnel.
Over the years, Bradley had learned to be extremely cautious, his State House love nest notwithstanding. Sex with underage girls—and especially sex that involved hitting underage girls—was generally frowned upon, even inside the cosmopolitan, progressive D.C. Beltway. Bradley knew that if his unusual sexual appetites were to become public knowledge, voters would run screaming to any other candidate on Election Day.
His lifelong dream of becoming president of the United States would be rendered moot. So would his freedom, most likely. He would never win another election and would spend a good portion of the rest of his life in prison.
God knew he had spent enough money paying off families to ensure that did not happen.
He sipped/gulped his drink again and thought about Kim. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for his wife. Of course he did, although calling what he felt for her love would probably not be accurate. Bradley doubted he was capable of actually loving anyone other than himself.
But the notion of a man like Bradley Chilcott, with his oversized appetites and grand plans, limiting himself to just one woman for the rest of his life, even if she was beautiful and accomplished and loyal, was just ridiculous.
It was unrealistic.
It wasn’t going to happen.
The marriage had been a sham right from the start. The first time Kim caught him with another woman was barely six weeks after they’d taken their vows. Hell, it happened so quickly, he hadn’t even hit her yet for the first time.
But it wasn’t my fault, goddammit.
His face flushed with anger and humiliation, even now, years later, as he recalled the circumstances surrounding that moment
.
Kim was supposed to be working. She’d left in the morning just like she always did, after making Bradley his breakfast and coffee and kissing him goodbye.
He’d told her he was going to work from home, which had surprised her. Both of them held roughly the same lowly staff positions in the D.C. offices of the Democrat from Massachusetts and the Republican from Georgia, and working from home was certainly not any kind of option for Kim. But she had accepted his story on the blind faith of the newly married and gone off to work.
Bradley, of course, did not have the option of working from home any more than Kim did. He’d called in sick because one of the cute little secretaries in the senator’s office had made quite clear the sorts of things she wanted to do to Bradley, and he’d easily convinced her to call in sick as well.
Two hours later Kim returned home, supposedly because she felt ill. The traitorous bitch walked in on Bradley and the little secretary performing duties in the bedroom that were most definitely not related to official Senate business.
The situation had been difficult for Bradley at the time, but looking back on it now, he realized everything had worked out for the best. There would have been no point in stringing Kim along, in making her believe their relationship was anything more than a fiction to be maintained for the sake of Bradley’s career.
In a way, he’d done her a favor.
After an initial period of…adjustment…Kim had dutifully maintained that fiction. Whether for the sake of the career she still at that point envisioned having, or out of love for Bradley, or perhaps because in her own way she enjoyed the perks that came with being one of the Chosen Few in a country where millions of people actually believed that “all men are created equal” drivel written into the Declaration of Independence, Kim Chilcott stayed by her husband’s side.
Through serial affairs, serial beatings, and the humiliation of knowing her husband viewed her as nothing more than a prop designed to attract voters, Kim Chilcott stayed.
Bradley snickered at the thought. He wasn’t sure whether he admired or despised his wife for the choices she’d made. Ultimately, of course, it was irrelevant, a distinction without a difference. Because the pretty wife and fresh-faced children served his purposes exactly as he’d always known they would.
And nothing else mattered.
He lifted the tumbler to his lips and grimaced when he discovered he’d drained the glass and four mostly melted ice cubes were all that remained.
Time for more scotch.
He stretched and sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. Without thinking he rechecked his watch.
He wondered yet again what Jack Sheridan was doing, whether the assassin they’d lured into their trap had finalized his plan for killing Jim Studds.
Doing so wouldn’t get him the little girl back, of course. Nothing would. It was unfortunate but necessary that she disappear forever the moment Studds was dead.
Sheridan wouldn’t have any way of knowing that, of course.
So Bradley had no doubt the supposedly brilliant assassin was even now working feverishly to complete his mission. And that thought made him happy, despite his growing suspicion that this time he may have bitten off more than he could chew.
19
Edie had fallen asleep again. For a while Jack replaced the blanket each time she kicked it off, but eventually he decided he was fighting a losing battle and gave up trying.
Her sleep was restless and tortured, but at least she wasn’t screaming again.
For now.
Every few seconds he glanced at his computer monitor, willing Mole to work faster. His wishes were having no effect on the program, though, and he found himself spending most of his time watching his girlfriend—his now ex-girlfriend, he supposed—try to sleep.
There could be no doubt their relationship was over. He had lied to her about his profession, had been responsible for her only child being kidnapped and threatened with violent death, and had admitted to her that he was ready to go outside the law—way outside, in fact—to effect her return.
He couldn’t imagine any woman getting past all that, much less one with as strong a sense of personal morality as Edie Tolliver.
There was even the possibility she would turn him in to the authorities. Jack wouldn’t blame her if she did. He didn’t even care at this point, as long as she didn’t drop the dime until after he’d gotten Janie back.
Behind him the computer beeped twice. The sound was unexpected and jarring against the otherwise unbroken silence inside the house.
After what felt like hours of staring at his mostly unchanging monitor, Jack was suddenly reluctant to check on the significance of what was obviously an internal program alarm. If Mole was unsuccessful in tracing the kidnappers’ threatening email, he had no idea what he was going to do next.
Everything was riding on the tech genius of Ron Earl.
Jack sighed deeply and swiveled in his chair to face the music.
***
Mole’s report was longer and more detailed than Jack had expected. It included reams of statistics, most of which were meaningless to him.
But one thing became immediately obvious: the kidnappers had gone to extraordinary lengths to hide their identities. The email in question had been routed through nine separate secure servers located in six different countries around the globe. It had been encrypted using some of the latest and most sophisticated encryption techniques.
The overall level of sophistication suggested that at least one of the kidnappers had at some point been involved—and, like Jack, still maintained connections inside—the intelligence community. Ordinary citizens, even computer experts capable of carrying out complex hacking attacks, could not typically manage what the kidnappers had accomplished.
But as sophisticated as the encryption and routing had been, it was still no match for Mole. Jack skimmed over the statistical analysis, looking for the only thing he really cared about: the identity of email’s originator.
He found it toward the end of the report.
The owner of the account that had sent the email regarding Janie Tolliver’s kidnapping, and demanding the murder of Maryland Governor Jim Studds, was someone so unsurprising and obvious Jack was angry he hadn’t thought of it immediately: Maryland Lieutenant Governor, Bradley Chilcott.
It made sense in a sick, twisted way. Who would be more invested in bumping off the Number One Guy than his understudy? It was a tale as old as time: the head man gets rubbed out by the person next in line.
But there had to be more to the story. Politicians might be bloodthirsty and ruthless—were usually bloodthirsty and ruthless, in Jack’s opinion—but lieutenant governors generally did not possess the means to manage a scenario like this one without the assistance of someone with extensive experience in areas even more rough-and-tumble than politics.
He sat quietly, pondering the connections between human nature and power and murder. He considered the type of person who would be capable of devising a plan so ruthless it involved the cold-blooded execution of not just a politician, but an innocent little girl.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts he didn’t notice Edie had awakened. She stood directly behind him and gazed intently over his shoulder at the computer screen. He jumped in surprise at her light touch on his back, and then reached out instinctively to hold her around her waist before realizing that contact in such a familiar way was no longer his right.
He withdrew his arm, wondering if she noticed. If she did, she didn’t mention it.
She didn’t say anything for a while.
Neither of them did.
Eventually she nodded at the screen and said, “Who the hell is Bradley Chilcott?”
20
A couple of hours online revealed all that was publically available regarding Maryland Lieutenant Governor Bradley Chilcott.
He’d been raised in a well-to-do D.C. family.
Georgetown University grad.
Pretty wife.
Two young children.
Everything in Chilcott’s background pointed to a man with big ambitions who’d spent every waking moment of his life preparing for a political career on the Big Stage. A man who’d likely teamed up as the understudy on a gubernatorial ticket with wildly popular Jim Studds with the expectation that the aging Studds would serve no more than a single term, allowing Chilcott to slide into the governor’s office.
But that same two hours on the Internet revealed that Studds had shocked everyone involved in Maryland politics just weeks ago by announcing his intention to run for a second term in the fall, thus dooming the upwardly mobile Bradley Chilcott to four more years languishing in obscurity.
The scenario provided plenty of motivation for a ruthless man to contemplate murder. Jack had seen people killed for much less.
He’d started his search operation under the premise that Bradley Chilcott might be a dupe, that the same people who’d kidnapped Janie in order to blackmail Jack into committing murder could be setting up Chilcott to take the fall if their plan went south.
But twenty minutes into his search, Jack abandoned that premise for two reasons. First, the kidnappers had done such a thorough job of covering their tracks by routing the email through so many secure servers that they had to assume the message would never be traced back to its point of origination. And it was a valid assumption. If not for Mole, the CIA/NSA’s Top Secret program, they would have been safe.
Second, the more details regarding Bradley Chilcott the Internet search revealed, the more they seemed to fit with a man willing to go to extraordinary lengths to get ahead. There had been persistent rumors of dalliances between the lieutenant governor and underage girls, reported only in less-than-reputable newspapers and sketchy blogs, but on enough occasions to convince Jack that there had to be something to the story.
Where there’s smoke, there’s fire wasn’t a cliché for nothing.
The same less-than-reputable news sources had hinted at Chilcott possibly enjoying violent encounters with his partners. They whispered about payoffs, and intimidation of the girls and their families, and painted a chilling picture of Bradley Chilcott, not just as a politician but as a man and a human being.
Trigger Warning Page 9