I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.
I make a quick detour into the master bedroom to grab the satellite phone that had been on the bedside table. There’s a faintly acrid smell from the flash-bang grenade they’d used to incapacitate us when they’d entered, but the room is otherwise unscathed. I grab a pair of shorts out of a dresser drawer and slip them on, groaning from the pain it causes in my shoulder.
I don’t bother with a towel for the wound. To temporarily staunch the flow, I’d need to lean up against something for pressure to the back while I held it to the front with my hand. I just don’t have time for that.
Instead, I head to the kitchen and press the speed-dial button for Kynan on the phone. He answers on the second ring.
I don’t waste time on formalities. “They have Barrett. It was a blitz attack. I need you to get Bebe on the line and into Barrett’s computer, so we can figure out what happened. Barrett did something to compromise our location.”
“Are you okay?” Kynan asks.
“I’ve been shot, and they have Barrett,” I snap as I open cabinets in the kitchen in search of one thing in particular. “No, I’m not okay. It would help if you can get a chopper headed this way to pick me up, though.”
“Call you back in five minutes with chopper details and Bebe on the line,” he replies before he disconnects. I’m glad he didn’t want to waste time talking about my wounds or what happened.
“Aha,” I mutter with profound joy when I find what I’m looking for.
I grab the heavy cast iron skillet from a shelf, a hand towel off the counter, and head into the living room. Shoving the satellite phone into the waistband of my shorts, I set the skillet face down on the stone ledge of the fire pit, placing the handle directly into the flame.
While that’s cooking, I pull Barrett’s computer onto my lap, lift the top, and press the power button. I know I’m going to be perturbed over what Bebe will find on here, but that’s going to be far outweighed by the sickening anxiety I feel over the fact Barrett is now in extreme danger. I absolutely cannot lose her.
Not because she’s a client, but because she and I have something together.
Something real and something that will last far beyond all of this.
So, I need to get her back.
Once at her login screen, I easily fill in her credentials. I made her give them to us before we left Jameson, so we could have access to it in case something happened to her. It was a smart move—one I fucking hate I had the foresight for.
When the satellite phone shrills a ring, I nab it, pressing the button to put it on speakerphone so I can keep my hands free. Setting it on the ledge beside me, I glance at the skillet, deciding to give it a few more moments.
“Got the laptop,” I say by way of greeting as I move it to the stone ledge beside the phone. “Booting it up now.”
“Got Bebe here,” Kynan replies. “And a chopper headed your way.”
Bebe doesn’t spare any pleasantries. “Connect to the Wi-Fi.”
It takes just a few seconds to complete. “Done.”
“Okay, give me just a few minutes,” she mutters, and I can hear her tapping away on her own keyboard through the speaker.
“What’s your physical situation?” Kynan asks.
“Bullet through and through just below my clavicle,” I say as I pick up the hand towel and use it to grab the edge of the skillet. “Taking care of that now.”
Pulling the handle from the flame, I take a deep breath and decide to address the wound on my back first. It’s going to be the hardest to reach, and I’m going to be fucking addled with pain after this first attempt.
“How’s that?” Kynan asks, but I don’t answer.
Instead, I take another breath, grit my teeth, and raise the skillet over my shoulder. I bring it down, twisting my neck as far as I can to get as good a view as possible, then press the red-hot end to where I approximate the wound to be. Luckily, the handle is probably twice as wide as the bullet hole, which increases my odds of getting it right. However, I can’t help but scream as the wound starts to burn and sizzle.
“F-u-u-u-c-k,” I bellow at the top of my lungs, forcing myself to hold the cast iron to the wound so it can cauterize it closed.
I manage to pull the skillet back up and over my shoulder, feeling as weak as a baby now—not only from the blood loss, but also from the smell of burning flesh and the realization of what I just did to myself. I manage to drop the skillet onto the ledge, placing the end back in the flame to get it hot again.
“Sounds like that hurt,” Kynan mutters sympathetically.
Pressing my hand onto the ledge to hold me upright, I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my heart rate. I can still feel blood leaking from the front wound, already dreading going through that process again.
“It looks like Barrett sent out two emails yesterday,” Bebe says brusquely, and that helps to distract me a bit. “One to her research assistant asking him to check something she needed to finalize her theory. She only logged on for an extremely brief time before she logged right back off. I can see on his end that he read it, but he didn’t forward it to anyone else. Instead, he replied directly to her about ten minutes later. Barrett logged back on about an hour later, read the answer, then sent a second email to her uncle telling him she’d finished the formula. Her total time online was incredibly short.”
“Then how the fuck did they find us?” I ask.
“It would be almost impossible given the minimal amount of time she was online,” Bebe muses, still tapping away on a keyboard on her end. “But let me check something… hold on.”
I glance back at the skillet. Might as well knock that out.
While Bebe works her magic, I grab the hot iron once again. After taking a few seconds to psych myself up, I cauterize the front wound with the hot metal. I manage to keep my teeth clamped down, but there’s no stopping the pained groan I emit as I fight the nausea brought on by the smell of burning flesh.
“Sounds like that one hurt like a mother,” Kynan comments as I pant through the pain.
“I’m fine,” I grit out, but I’m on the verge of passing out. I toss the skillet onto the floor, then press my palm down again onto the stone ledge so I don’t topple over.
“This is interesting,” Bebe says, and I blink hard a few times. It helps to reorient me.
“What’s that?” I ask as I look down at the wound on my chest and it’s blackened with red blisters around the edge. At least it’s not bleeding.
“I checked the server at her lab,” she replies succinctly. “It wasn’t compromised in any way.”
“But the one to her uncle?” Kynan prompts.
“Again, I can’t find any indication it’s compromised,” she says. “And I imagine hacking the president’s email is impossible, although it would be a challenge I would certainly find interesting.”
“Bebe,” I snap, a little cranky right now… given everything going on. Barrett being kidnapped, me being shot, and everything else.
“Sorry,” she mutters under her breath. “At any rate, there is something very suspicious.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Well, shortly after the president received the email, a phone call went out of the West Wing. By reverse scanning the staff directory, it looks like it was one of his senior aides, Deputy Chief of Staff of Operations, Winston Carnes.”
“So?” I push. That could easily be coincidental.
“Then, not long after the call ended, some type of code was deployed on the servers that sent out a ping.”
“A ping?”
“A beacon… one that can reverse crawl the same pathway the email to the president had taken.”
“Back to the source,” Kynan mutters.
“Right to Marjorie Island,” I add, shaking my head in bewilderment. It doesn’t make sense. “I don’t believe President Alexander is involved in this. He’d never do anything to harm Barrett.”
“You migh
t be right,” Kynan says, obviously choosing his words carefully. “But we can’t discount it.”
“No,” I say adamantly. “It’s not him. It’s Winston Carnes. That’s who’s responsible.”
A choppy vibration rumbles overhead. With a long-suffering sigh, I rise to a standing position. “The chopper’s here,” I say.
“We’ve got a private jet on the runway in Virgin Gorda to bring you here,” Kynan replies.
“Not to Pittsburgh,” I say. “Straight to D.C. You can meet me there.”
Kynan curses under his breath before saying, “I’m not sure you’re in the best position—”
“Just fucking meet me in D.C.,” I snap. “And bring me some clothes.”
“You were shot, for fuck’s sake,” Kynan growls. “You’ve been under extreme duress. I can handle—”
“Not up for debate,” I bark over him. “Meet me in D.C.”
I don’t give him a chance to reply before I disconnect the satellite phone. Picking up Barrett’s laptop and notepad, I head out the front door and maneuver down the path to the beach where the chopper will land to pick me up. I don’t bother with our belongings or any of my equipment. Kynan can send someone back for that.
I don’t believe President Alexander is involved in this in any way. I know the man as well as most people close to him do, even better yet since spending time with Barrett over the last few days. I’ve heard enough about how he stepped in after her parents died to be a surrogate father and mentor to her. The man loves her unconditionally, and she feels the same.
He’s not involved.
But Winston Carnes must know something. And because time is of the essence—because every precious minute that ticks by means Barrett could be a minute closer to death—I’m going to make sure I get the truth from him as quickly as I can.
CHAPTER 20
Cruce
If there is any other proof I’d need that President Alexander isn’t connected in any way to the kidnapping of his niece, him cancelling his afternoon meetings—including one with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff about current operations going on in northern Syria that have been dominating the news lately—assures me of his innocence.
“You need to keep your cool,” Kynan advises me as we follow an aide down a corridor in the West Wing.
“I’m fine,” I mutter as I roll my left shoulder, which feels like it has been pounded with a wrecking ball.
Kynan met me at Dulles where my charter flight landed after a quick refuel in Miami. He not only had a change of clothes for me, but he also had Dr. Corinne Ellery—our resident psychiatrist—in tow.
While I was anxious to get changed and head to the White House, Kynan insisted I let her treat my wounds.
I grumbled about it the entire time, as did Dr. Ellery.
“This was not part of the job I was hired to do for Jameson,” she had complained. “I’m a psychiatrist. I treat the mind, not the body.”
“But you went to medical school,” Kynan had replied, “and until such time as I can hire someone else, you’re just going to have to step up. And besides… I don’t get what the problem is.”
She had grimaced as she checked my wounds, applying some betadine and clean gauze to them front and back. “Because you’ll start me off with cauterized gunshot wounds. Then, next thing I know, it’ll snowball and you’ll want me to perform an emergency amputation or something.”
“I just need you to give him some antibiotics, so it doesn’t get infected,” Kynan muttered in response. “And make sure he won’t bleed to death until we can get Barrett back.”
Which is exactly what she did, administering a shot of Levaquin with a Prednisone booster in the top part of my ass cheek. She also handed me a bottle of oral antibiotics to take. I’d shoved them in the pocket of my cargo pants and promised I would take them, but, frankly, it wasn’t my main priority.
The aide reaches the Oval Office and gives a sharp rap on the door, entering without waiting for an answer. It’s clear we’re expected and with all haste.
President Alexander rises from his chair behind his desk as Kynan and I walk in. He moves around it, approaching me with an angst-filled expression. Holding his hand out to me, he asks, “How are you doing? Kynan said you were shot.”
I shake his hand, trying not to wince as his free hand comes to my left shoulder for a light clap. I ignore his question about my state of health. “I’m sorry I let you down, sir.”
The president doesn’t seem to like me saying that. He squeezes my shoulder once more, and I can’t help but flinch before pulling away. Immediately understanding it’s my wounded side, he utters a curse I know is actually quite uncharacteristic of the man.
“Christ… I’m sorry, Cruce,” he says as he motions us toward the couches. “I’m just so worried about Barrett.”
He then pins me with a harsh glare. “And don’t you dare apologize again. Kynan filled me in on what happened, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. The fact you put yourself in such danger to try to save her has me once again in your debt.”
I wave him off. Instead, I move to the heart of why I wanted to come to D.C. in the first place. I don’t bother with taking a seat as was politely suggested. Pacing, I ask, “What can you tell us about Winston Carnes?”
Kynan and I had decided not to fill the president in on what we knew over the phone as we wanted to be there in person to see his reaction. The only thing he knows is Barrett was located and taken by some unknown force after she sent the email to him.
“Winston? Why do you want to know about Winston?” he asks, brows furrowed.
“Just answer the question, sir,” I reply tersely.
The president’s eyebrows shoot upward. I expect had this been any other situation, I’d receive a severe dressing down for my temerity. But he gets the urgency. “Winston’s been with me since I took office. He’s one of my senior aides… currently Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations.”
“You didn’t bring him over from when you were VP,” I point out, meaning I don’t know the man at all.
Alexander shakes his head. “No. Actually, he was recommended to me by Chief of Staff Lydia Forrester.”
“And does he have access to your email?” Kynan asks.
The president swings his head Kynan’s way. “Not my official government email. But he does my personal email. He’s sort of like a social secretary in a way. He checks my personal email for me as I don’t have time some days. Forwards me the important stuff and has the authority to respond to some things without me.”
“And he read the email from Barrett?” I hazard a guess.
Alexander nods. “Yes. In fact, he brought it right to my attention. Printed me off a copy.”
Kynan and I exchange a look, prompting the president to ask, “Do you think he’s responsible for Barrett’s kidnapping?”
“We don’t know,” I say truthfully, but it sure looks that way. “After the email was read, he called out on his extension to a number registered to a flower shop.”
“And what could that possibly mean?” the president asks, frowning with confusion.
“Might mean nothing, except that a few moments later, some type of spyware was deployed from the servers here in the Oval Office to trace backward to the source of the email. It’s how Barrett and I were located.”
“Son of a bitch,” President Alexander mutters as he drags his hand through his hair. He glances between me and Kynan before settling on me. “Should I get Lydia Forrester in here? He worked for her in the private sector before I brought her on as chief of staff.”
“No,” Kynan replies with a shake of his head. “Given their ties before coming to work for you, they could be in collusion.”
“I just can’t believe this,” Alexander says in a voice that sounds as lost as he looks. He walks to the couch, sits down heavily, and sighs. “People in my own office?”
“We want to talk to Winston Carnes,” I say. “Can you call him in he
re?”
“Of course,” the president replies. He pops right back off the couch, eager to do something that will progress this all forward.
Kynan and I stand by silently as Alexander hurries to his desk phone and pushes a button that rings through to Carnes’ extension. It comes through on the speaker.
“Yes, sir,” Carnes answers crisply.
“Can you come into my office?” Alexander asks, his voice a mask of calm perfection despite the fact he must be bristling on the inside.
“Of course, sir. Be right there.”
Alexander disconnects. In no more than thirty seconds, there’s a knock on the door before it opens.
Winston Carnes is thirty-four years old, but he looks about twenty. Kynan and I had his basic resume, including info on where he was born, education, and family ties through a social media search, all thanks to Bebe’s quick skills. He shares the same political leanings as his president, as expected, so it’s a little hard to accept Barrett has been in danger from someone this close to the Oval Office.
Still… I shot a Secret Service agent who was supposed to protect Alexander, so traitors do indeed exist.
Regardless, Carnes is single, lives with four cats, and doesn’t appear to have much of a social life. He’s skinny, pale, and doesn’t appear overly confident, but he’ll use his brain to try to outsmart us. My guess is if he’s working against Barrett, it’s at someone’s behest. If so, I’d rather know that information sooner rather than later.
Carnes’ eyes go to the president first, then to me, and finally to Kynan, where he gives us a polite nod. He holds an iPad with a digital pen poised. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
I don’t have time for polite conversation, nor do I think it would be effective. Instead, I choose brute force.
Stalking up to Carnes, I slap the iPad out of his hand. The tablet crashes to the floor. While it doesn’t break into a million pieces because Apple makes structurally sound products, I’m quite sure it’s broken.
There’s a moment of stunned silence where I take the opportunity to grab Carnes by the lapels of his suit and swing him around. Shoving him backward toward the wall, I slam his body into it. His head snaps backward, and the painting on the wall shudders. He grunts from the force of the impact against his kidneys.
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