“Jesus,” Camilla moaned with aggravation when he didn’t move. She went to where the remote lay on the coffee table, grabbed it, pushed the power button, and jockeyed the screen to CNN. “There,” she said with a satisfied tone, dropping the remote so it clattered on the table. “See for yourself.”
He grimaced as the remote struck wood. The table was a genuine seventeenth-century antique from Boston, and it had probably just lost ten percent of its value.
But he quickly forgot about the antique and zeroed in on the flat-screen when he heard the anchor using the terms “Supreme Court,” “Chief Justice Bolger,” and “dead in an apparent traffic accident on Constitution Avenue.”
“My God,” he whispered.
“I told you,” Camilla said triumphantly. “Maybe now you’ll put the TV on in the morning.”
As she turned away and headed out of the study, one of Espinosa’s cell phones began to ring. A chill crawled up his spine when he looked at the tiny screen lying on his desk beside the briefcase. Stewart Baxter was already calling.
“Hello.”
“How are you this morning, Henry?”
“Fine, Stewart.”
“Have you gotten the terrible news about Chief Justice Bolger?” Baxter asked.
“I just did.”
“Awful stuff, but the business of running this country must go on. Don’t you agree?”
Espinosa took a shallow breath. He didn’t want Baxter to hear the nerves that were having their way with him. “Yes.”
“I thought you would. Look, President Dorn wanted me to call and let you know that he’ll be nominating you to replace Bolger as chief justice in the next few days, if not sooner.” Baxter hesitated. “I’m assuming you will accept that nomination.” He paused again. “Henry? Henry?”
A few moments later Espinosa ended the call with Baxter. He’d just accepted the nomination from his president to be the most important jurist in the world. He should have been overjoyed and overwhelmed. But he wasn’t. He was scared.
Scared like he was standing on a dark beach with a massive tsunami racing at him and his feet were stuck in the sand with no way of running.
Sterling sat in a comfortable chair of his Four Seasons Hotel suite overlooking the east end of Georgetown, supremely satisfied with how things were going. It had been just thirty-six hours since he’d left the jungles of Peru, but already, nine of his assassins had made it to Washington. Another four would arrive by noon, and the rest would be here by mid-afternoon. They would all meet tonight as a team to begin planning the most challenging and profitable mission he’d ever directed. By tomorrow morning the mission would be well under way.
Success of this mission would be so damn satisfying. The incredible amount of money was undeniably the most important incentive in all of this. But knowing he’d pulled off the most incredible attack ever on the United States would end up running a very close second to banking three hundred million-plus — less, of course, what he’d owe his people. This attack would ultimately be exponentially more shocking to the world than 9/11. Vulnerable civilians were one thing. But to kill so many of America’s highest-ranking officials in one day?
Years later, on his deathbed maybe, he’d finally admit to leading the attacks by providing a level of detail and insider knowledge of the operation that would prove he was in charge. He would be famous — or infamous. He didn’t care which it turned out to be, as long as everyone knew his name, because that was the goal these days. It was all that mattered to the new generation, which he desperately wanted to be part of. Being “in the news” was the ultimate. And it didn’t matter how you did it as long as you did. You could be a sports hero or a rock star. You could even be a serial killer, or idiot sisters who displayed their personal lives for all to see just for fame and fortune. It didn’t matter as long as you were famous. The Kardashians proved that.
Sterling moaned loudly, grabbed a fistful of the prostitute’s long, soft, dark hair, and tilted his head back in bliss. She was kneeling in front of him on the floor, kissing and licking him gently one moment, then taking him deep down her throat the next.
“Holy shit!”
The woman shrieked as Sterling rose up from the chair and pushed her roughly away. He’d been half-listening to the television, as he always half-listened to and half-watched everything going on around him.
“Holy shit,” he repeated as he stared at the anchorwoman, this time in a whisper. “Chief Justice Bolger is dead.” His cell phone rang seconds later. “Hello.”
“Did you do this?” Gadanz demanded from the other end of the line.
“No, I did not. And settle down.”
“Will it impact what we’re trying to do?”
“I’m not sure,” Sterling answered calmly. Gadanz was worried as hell, and Sterling loved it, because that panic spelled opportunity, as any panic always did — as long as it wasn’t yours. Maybe now was the time to demand even more money. “But I’ll let you know.”
Jack held on to Karen tightly as they moved slowly down the jetway. She could have used a wheelchair, but that wasn’t her way. It wasn’t that she would have felt self-conscious because everyone was watching her, he knew. It was that using a wheelchair would have been, in a small way, giving in. And Karen never gave in. She always fought as hard as she possibly could. She never retreated in anything she did.
Finally, he eased her into the wide seat 1B of the huge Airbus, which would be taking off for Paris in twenty-seven minutes. Then he moved past her and sat down beside her in 1A.
“May I get you something to drink?” the flight attendant asked.
“Grey Goose on the rocks,” Karen answered.
“Nice,” the young man said with an approving nod. “You, sir?”
“Same,” Jack answered. “It’s our honeymoon. A little delayed in coming, but we’re going to have a great time.”
“Awesome. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Jack reached over for Karen’s hand. Two weeks in France. This was going to be wonderful. It would be a time for them to get away from everything, with just each other. “You okay?”
“I couldn’t be better, sweetheart.”
“Great, I—” As he reached for his cell phone, which had just started to ring, Karen rolled her eyes. “Sorry, honey.”
“You told me you were going to turn that off.”
“I will,” he whispered just before he answered. “Hey, Troy, what’s up?”
“Little Jack’s been kidnapped.”
A burst of fear-adrenaline rushed through Jack’s body. “What?” It quickly turned to rage.
“It happened about thirty minutes ago,” Troy explained. “Mom took him with her into Greenwich this morning to run some errands. They were walking back to her car to go home, and a van pulled up out of nowhere, two guys jumped out, they grabbed L.J., and that was it. It was over that fast.”
Jack glanced over at Karen as the flight attendant leaned in and put their drinks down on the wide armrest between the seats. Karen was staring back at him. “Any word from the kidnappers?” he asked.
“Nothing. And did you hear about Chief Justice Bolger?” Troy went on quickly.
“No. What happened?”
“A truck slammed into his car early this morning as he was driving through DC. He’s dead. It’s being called an accident, and the driver checks out.” Troy hesitated. “But I don’t know. I’ve got a strange feeling about all this.”
“I hear you.”
“I need you, Jack. I’ve gotta get my son back.” Troy took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about everything that happened last night,” he said quietly. “I mean it.”