by P. R. Adams
“Where’s Stefan?” Chan sounded almost hurt not to see me.
“I’m right here.” I walked back to the table. “What’s up?”
Chan smiled, and those magenta eyes tracked down my chest. “Update. Weaver’s office. Check it.”
The display filled with another announced public meet-and-greet, this one with agriculture leaders in Maryland. Another early-evening assembly.
Ichi shook her head. “So soon? Do they want her dead?”
The meeting place was listed as the Rosaryville Assembly Hall, a newer building resting on land recently reclaimed from the sea level rise. Plenty of images were online, including a virtual tour. “Her security detail has probably advised against this. Strongly. Either this is an important group, or the senator just likes to live dangerously. Chan, can you research the hosting organization and members for ties to international trade agreements?”
“Looking.” Chan hung up.
Ichi followed me into my room. “International trade agreements?”
“The U.S. Chamber of Commerce. If they’re really behind this—and they might be—they have an agenda. I read up on them when I got back. They were founded by an anti-labor president, and they’ve been the largest proponents for expansion of corporate power for decades. If Weaver has signaled she’s going to stand against some pet project of theirs as part of her platform…” It seemed absurd, even though the organization had a strong history of violence and callous disregard for the common worker’s interests.
“You do not believe they are the ones who hired us?”
I grabbed a change of clothes and almost pulled my trunks off before realizing Ichi wasn’t leaving my room. “They’re footing the bill, sure. I just don’t think they could be behind something this big. Did you get a chance to look into some of the poisons or chemicals you mentioned?” I paused just beyond the bathroom doorway and held up a hand.
“There are a few. The best is derived from spider venom—” Ichi finally saw my raised hand. She stepped back. “Sorry.”
“Maybe you could get a vial?” I nodded toward her room. “This is going to require the whole team. Why don’t you go get ready?”
She blushed and danced out of sight, closing my bedroom door behind her. I liked that she was getting absorbed in figuring out what was going on but hoped she would learn to stay more aware of her surroundings.
Something told me we would all have to watch our backs in this operation.
We crossed into Maryland in three vehicles, just ahead of the sunset, Ichi with me in a hired car, Danny on his motorcycle, and Nitin in his 750. As before, I dropped Ichi off to perform reconnaissance of the area, and Danny headed out to a remote destination to run his drones. Nitin prowled the streets around the building that would host the meeting, checking on road conditions and traffic, while I waited in the parking lot. The building was low and wide, fronted with glass and white concrete columns. The roof had gently swooping curves and extended far beyond the walls, an appropriation of older Asian architecture.
A heavy wind had blown through earlier in the day, bringing with it unseasonable warmth and scattered rain. I flipped through what Chan had dug up earlier as drops spattered against my windshield. Lights kicked on, golden and dull through the streaked glass.
Trucks and SUVs started to trickle in. Scraped and battered, coated in dirt, sporting muddy tires—these were laborers, agricultural workers, ranchers. They headed up the steps to the glass-walled lobby.
Atlantic Coast Agricultural Enterprises was the biggest of the hosting organizations, an umbrella that included farmers and ranchers. The organization had been in a pitched battle against ongoing trade negotiations that would allow easier access to American markets from Europe, Central and South America, and Africa until the World Trade Organization began applying penalties consistently for dumping product and other illegal practices. It was dull stuff, but it reinforced the idea that Weaver was pitching her tent on the wrong side of the divide as far as the Chamber of Commerce was concerned.
A small car—new and shiny despite the rain—parked a few spots over. It was the sort of blocky, angular starter vehicle a college grad might have, not a farmer. The driver’s side door opened, and Gillian McFarland climbed out. She wore a light jacket, black and slick, that whipped around while she tied the belt. I spotted designer jeans and a brown-and-blue checkered blouse. She pulled a data device from a pocket and stared at the display.
I got out of the car, still working on a plan as I waved at her. The poison vial Ichi had given me felt like a lead weight against my ribs. “Well, hello!”
She didn’t acknowledge me at first, then glanced around before turning to me. She flinched in surprise when I passed into the glow of one of the lamps. “I’m sorry. I—I feel like I should know you, but…”
“Stefan Mendoza.” I held out a hand and approached. “I apologize. We never had a chance to talk. I was at the restaurant when that terrible attack took place on Senator Weaver. The Ming Dynasty?”
She flinched again and pulled her hand back before making contact with mine. Her emerald eyes darted around; she seemed ready to run.
“Is everything okay? I’ve been following the news ever since that happened, and I saw she was coming here tonight to speak.”
She seemed to relax just a little.
“I was hoping to get a chance to tell her how brave I thought she was. I’m not much on politics, but seeing that happen and staying around for the police…” I shook my head. “That was just so terrible. Did you know her? The victim?”
She nodded and brushed hair back from her face. “Aubrey. She was my mother’s bodyguard.”
“Your…mother?”
She looked down and laughed, embarrassed. “I guess I’m the one who should be apologizing, Mr. Mendoza.”
“Stefan.”
“That’s not a combination you hear often.”
It was my turn to look away. “It’s complicated.”
“I can relate.” She held her hand out again. It was soft and delicate. “Gillian McFarland. For now. I’m getting my last name changed to Weaver.” Her eyes were an even brighter green than her mother’s, and the lips were similar, fuller, like the senator in her wedding photo.
Dangerous for a child.
“I don’t think I could be more surprised,” I said, still trying to rebuild my understanding of Weaver’s entourage. Did that mean she wasn’t running for president? She had to be. Did she not understand what was at stake? “Pleasantly, I guess.”
She looked down for a moment. “Ravi says you probably saved my mother’s life.”
“Ravi was the man who jumped on top of her?”
“Yeah. He’s former Secret Service. He runs the security detail.”
“Well, he’s the one who should be getting the credit. I wasn’t thinking when it all happened. I just saw that woman running at the senator and reacted. I didn’t even realize she had a weapon.”
“It was still very brave.” She shivered and looked up toward the entry, where little clumps of cap-wearing men in denim jackets were starting to gather.
I rubbed my hands together. “Mind if we head inside? It’s getting a little chilly out.”
We took the steps, passed by curious stares, and waited at the entry for a security guard to let us in. Gillian showed credentials and vouched for me, then took me through a few doors until we were looking out onto a stage where a middle-aged couple was conducting a sound check on a podium that seemed to be a single, molded piece of clear plastic.
I watched for a few heartbeats, then said, “What’s a senator from Pennsylvania doing giving a speech to Maryland farmers?”
Gillian let a knowing smirk linger long enough for me to see it. “They’re not just farmers. Transportation representatives, people who’d like to see some of the reclaimed land turned back into parks instead of retail space...” The smirk became almost defensive. “It’s a diverse mix, and they don’t all have the same agenda.”
&
nbsp; “Except they’re not from Pennsylvania.”
“Are you in the media, Mr. Mendoza?”
“I thought we agreed on Stefan. And, no, I’m a private citizen, but I have to admit, I’m a very uninformed private citizen. Is this a common practice?”
Feedback echoed through the hall, drawing a wince from Gillian. She glanced up at me, the smirk now mischievous. “No, it’s not common practice.”
She closed the door onto the stage, and I followed her through another door into a kitchen, where two young men were preparing after-dinner treats. One scooped coffee into industrial-sized urns while the other arranged pastries on star-spangled plastic trays. Red-white-and-blue napkins, paper plates, and cups were stacked on countertops. They greeted Gillian, talked about placement and head count, and then we headed up stairs that took us to a balcony that looked down onto the stage.
Gillian leaned against the wooden rail and stared out into the hall. Lights came on, and I spotted two of the security detail hustling through rows of empty folding chairs. Their heads were on swivels, looking at nothing and watching for everything.
“She’s running for president.” She turned, leaned against the railing, and crossed her arms, head tilted up, inspecting me. “Unofficially. Officially, she’s forming an exploratory team to evaluate the potential for such a run. My mother’s a wealthy person, but it takes a billion and a half dollars to run a modest-sized campaign. She needs backers and allies.”
“Like these farmers.”
“Don’t be so cynical. There are more than half a billion people in this country, and nearly a third can vote. Ten dollars from each of them will fund the campaign.”
“That’s food for a day for a family of six. Is she offering something that will get a parent to give up that much money?”
Gillian glanced over her shoulder at the people filtering in. “That’s why I was brought on. To help her craft a message to reach people. Real people, not just the media and talking heads and other politicians.”
“And what message is that?”
“I thought you weren’t much on politics?”
“Doesn’t that make me real people?”
She looked down. “Ravi says you don’t show up in pictures or in registrations for the triathlon.”
“He’s looking too far up in the pack, probably. I barely finished.” I rapped a fist against my thigh. “I was still recovering from surgery.”
“Prosthetic leg?”
“Legs. Plural.” I spotted Ravi and Weaver on the stage below. He had assumed the bodyguard role. “The risks of the trade. I’m a security consultant.”
“Security consultant?” Her emerald eyes seemed to size me up. “Is that a euphemism of some sort? Bodyguard? Spy?”
“Everything’s a euphemism of some sort.”
“That’s evasive.” She smiled, staggering me with the memory of Razor Fingers grinding against me.
Heat. Intensity. Desire. I looked around. “Twenty minutes to the big show. Your mother ready?”
Gillian looked down, then pushed off the rail and brushed past me. The contact was warm and soft; it sent tingles down my spine. I followed her back to the kitchen, which was empty now. The coffee was brewing, the pastry trays set out. I breathed in the aroma—rich, earthy. I filled one of the patriotic cups and tasted the coffee, letting the heat and bitterness sink in. I concentrated until my fingers were free of prints, then took another cup and filled it. I slipped Ichi’s vial out and poured it into the cup. Just to be safe, I rubbed the vial down and tossed it into the garbage.
My heart raced. Five million dollars. So easy. So quick.
I headed out onto the stage, sipping, nodding as Ravi turned toward me. Weaver turned from her conversation with Gillian, smiled, came toward me; Ravi hovered a few feet back. Scrutinizing. Seething.
Weaver extended a hand, smiling—sincere, not a polished politician’s grin. She glanced at the cup in my right hand. “Mr. Mendoza. I never had a chance to thank you for what you did. Gillian was just telling me you wanted to hear the campaign’s messaging.”
“I did. I do.”
Weaver leaned in closer. Very close. “Is that fresh coffee?”
I shivered, suddenly uncertain. “I thought Gillian might…”
She reached for the cup. “She doesn’t drink coffee unless it’s done up in one of those crazy drinks. Would it be all right—?”
I pulled the cup back. “Actually, it’s pretty terrible. I just took a sip and realized it’s too strong.”
She wrapped her hands around mine. “I like strong, Stefan.” She looked at me with a sort of curious hunger that took me off-guard. “Can I call you that?”
I crushed the bottom of the cup, sending super-heated liquid over the rim and onto the stage. “Oh!”
Weaver gasped and pulled her hand away. Ravi closed, tensed to strike.
I backed away. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
She looked around. “Yes—”
I headed for the kitchen. “Let me get you a towel.”
She laughed and followed me. “It’s all right. That was rude of me. Is there a sink in there?”
My head was spinning. I’d had a chance to complete the job, and I’d blown it. And now she was following me, brazenly pursuing me in front of her own daughter and security chief. Maybe she sensed my need to feel desired. It was strangely intoxicating and—
Movement caught my eye.
In the balcony above, where Gillian and I had been minutes before. A uniformed guard I hadn’t seen previously.
Tall. Slender. Bronze-skinned. Reflective lenses. Female.
She leapt, clearing the rail and landing on the stage without losing momentum. Ravi changed course, ran at her, and jumped. She jumped, flipped over him, and accelerated toward Weaver.
I threw Weaver to the ground and dropped into a basic aikido defensive stance, ready to throw a kick once I could see where that clear knife was. It sparkled suddenly, this time in her left hand. I kicked out, aiming for where I figured her hip would be based off the sort of speed and agility she’d just exhibited. I barely caught a knee.
It was enough. The assassin tumbled, off-balance, and slid off the edge of the stage. I went after her, nearly landing a kick to her throat. She spun on her hip and swept my legs out from under me. I crashed to the floor, and the wind shot out of me.
She was up, knife back, ready to slash. I got my right arm up.
A gun roared.
She staggered, then leapt over me and came up into a crouch.
There was something in her right hand now. A small gun, silvery and sleek. She swept it in an arc, and death whispered out into the hall. Screams—high-pitched, agonized—filled the air.
I rolled and charged at her, reaching her just as Ravi landed on top of her. We took her to the ground together. I was vaguely aware of him raining blows against her head while I kept her hands pinned down. Her entire body felt like a tensed spring, compressing deeper and deeper as we struggled.
Something crashed into the stage, followed by more screaming.
Female voices. Gillian and Weaver.
Ravi jumped up and out of sight.
My vision was focused on the assassin, who steadily brought her arms up from the floor. She was stronger, faster.
I shifted, drove my right shoulder into her sternum, and slammed my forehead into her face, nearly knocking myself out. Her arms went limp for a moment, and I managed to knock her weapons away—the gun under the stage, the knife farther out onto the floor.
More gunfire came from above. I got to my feet, woozy and weak. Ravi had another uniformed guard pinned in an arm lock on the stage. Male. Dark hair. Bronze skin. Weaver lay a few feet away in a spreading pool of blood, protected by Gillian’s hunched form.
I got onto the stage just as the uniformed security guard’s arm snapped out of joint. He brought a knee up into Ravi’s chest, knocking him several feet away. I caught the huff of air being blasted from Ravi’s chest, heard him cra
sh to the stage.
Gunfire came again, rocking the uniformed security guard.
He retrieved a plastic-looking blade like the one the female assassin had been using and jumped onto the balcony above before I could get to him.
The rest of the security detail—bloodied and limping—charged toward the stage, still firing.
I looked down at the sound of a door being knocked open. The female assassin was gone, leaving only the sound of retreating footsteps.
Gillian looked up from her mother, tears in her eyes. “She’s not breathing.”
“Someone call an ambulance,” I shouted, then ran to check on Ravi. He got to his feet with a gasp and stumbled toward Weaver.
I ran to the kitchen, found one of the caterers on the floor, gutted, bleeding out.
The assassin was gone.
Chapter 13
I couldn’t sit, not with Heidi’s eyes boring into me like lasers from the outer wall of Chan’s room. Once again, Heidi’s hands clutched an empty glass like it was her only anchor to sanity. The only difference from the last time she’d chewed me out was her outfit—a gray casual workout top and pants with black sneakers. It stood out compared to everyone else’s jeans and shirts. With her wispy hair almost floating ghost-like above her, she could have been insubstantial, especially compared to the agitated vigor and heat coming off the rest of the team. Danny and Nitin’s eyes jumped between Heidi and me, while Chan stared at the glowing display wall on the coffee table and Ichi leaned against the corner of the outer wall to Heidi’s right.
I fought to hold myself still, focusing on the reaction of the team—my team—to Heidi’s demand for another meeting.
There was a subtle reek coming off Chan. It could have been whatever drugs coursed through the body hidden beneath baggy hoodies and denim jackets. It seemed more likely it was a byproduct of excessive drug consumption: neglected hygiene. Along with the nervous typing and swiping, the smell was getting on my nerves.
Heidi finally leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and seemed to gather herself, then said, “Tell me the news reports aren’t true.”