He’d run from the apartment that night, taking just seconds to throw on his shirt, pants, and shoes before grabbing his boxers, T-shirt, and socks and racing away. The bullet must have come through the lone bedroom window, but he hadn’t checked. He’d just wanted to get out of the apartment so badly, in the moment simply terrified for his own life.
Fortunately, he’d checked himself in the rearview mirror of his car just before coming into the house that night, and spotted her blood on his face. What would Camilla have done if she’d seen the blood? How could he possibly have explained it?
The young woman’s murder had been only narrowly reported in the news. Espinosa had been careful not to click on the Yahoo story about it so no one would have any chance to identify his interest, reading just the lead lines on the main page instead. He’d been certain for days that law enforcement would knock on his door at some point — either at home or at the court — and he would be led away in chains and shame.
But the knock had never come.
The story had faded quickly, and he’d been forced to admit to himself after a few weeks that maybe he was in the clear.
Then Stewart Baxter had launched that missile the other evening here in this room.
Espinosa took a deep breath as his tears began to fall. He was about to realize his lifelong dream and become chief justice of the Supreme Court — but he was just a puppet.
The world slowly came into focus for Shannon. At first her vision was too blurry to make out anything specific, and she could feel nothing but the throbbing pain in her head. A reaction, she assumed, to whatever concoction had been injected into her while she was clamped to the wall.
She moaned and tried to lift her hand to her forehead. But then she realized that her wrists were cuffed together and chained to her ankles, which were also cuffed together as she sat in the wide, plush leather seat. Of a small jet, she saw as her vision finally began to clear.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” a man spoke up as he ambled down the aisle toward her. He was holding a syringe.
“Please don’t,” she murmured. But she had no strength to resist when he grabbed her wrist, held her arm out straight, impaled her in the same spot as before, and injected the liquid into her body. “Where are we going?” she mumbled as it began taking effect. “Where are you taking me?”
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” the man muttered, smiling down as her eyes fluttered shut. “We wouldn’t want the president’s daughter deprived of her beauty sleep on her way to Africa.”
CHAPTER 31
“Go to the other side of the truck,” Troy ordered angrily as he pressed the barrel of the gun hard to Griffin’s head. “I mean it, Jack, go.”
“Don’t do this, Troy.”
“Go!”
“Troy, I—”
“Don’t make me think you don’t want to do everything in your power to find Little Jack and Karen.”
“You know I do.”
“Then get away if you don’t want to see this.”
The man on the other side of the truck was whining pathetically now, terrified by what he’d heard. But Wayne Griffin remained defiant even as Troy slipped his finger behind the trigger.
Maybe Griffin wanted to die, Jack figured. Maybe he’d had enough of this life, and he was glad to have it over. Maybe that was how he could stay so indifferent about his fate.
“Go!” Troy yelled. “Now!”
Jack bowed his head as he moved around the front of the pickup. There was no way to stop Troy at this point, and he didn’t want to see the bullet blast Griffin’s skull apart.
He glanced down at the man on the ground as he came around the truck, grimacing as he anticipated the gunshot. The man was terrified, Jack thought to himself. And why wouldn’t he be? He figured he was next.
Even though Jack knew it was coming, the sound of the shot jolted him, causing his body to jerk violently.
The man on the ground began to scream hysterically.
Troy hustled around the front of the truck, knelt beside the man at Jack’s feet, and pressed the gun to his head. “Who’s your contact?” he demanded.
“Jennifer Perez,” he answered immediately through his tears, terror shaking his voice. “Jennie Perez,” he repeated. “That’s all I know. I swear to God. Please don’t kill me.”
Never act on emotion, only facts.
Trust few, suspect many — even the ones you trust.
Never be tempted by anything.
And the best revenge is living well.
These were Liam Sterling’s life rules — the first of which he’d nearly violated in Peru with Sophia. Fortunately, he’d come to his senses after coming to his orgasm.
He’d never had to worry about the last one. Living well, it seemed, had never been a problem. It was he who was always the object of revenge, though no one had caught up to him yet.
What worried him more at this point: His contacts in the financial world were still unable to identify the sender of the money wire to the brother of the truck driver who’d killed Chief Justice Bolger. So far, they’d failed to unearth that crucial piece of data, which could have major implications for Operation Anarchy. It was a piece of data that might cause him to call off the mission, depending upon who the sender was.
Bolger’s death seemed too coincidental to Sterling. Authorities were still calling it an accident, and the truck driver seemed sincerely overcome by grief in all interviews, on suicide watch, according to some. But Sterling’s gut was telling him that not all was right with the scenario. Perhaps not all the authorities were being honorable in their intent with respect to the issue.
Still, he was moving forward with the mission. The three-hundred-million-dollar payday was simply too tempting.
And that was what bothered him most of all. It was a clear violation of Rule 3.
Operation Anarchy was less than seventy-two hours away. He’d made that decision fifteen minutes ago and communicated it in code to everyone.
Maybe when it was done and he had all that money in the bank, he’d worry less about his life rules.
Jack stared at Troy as the man lying on the ground continued to beg for his life. He wondered if it was remotely possible that he’d correctly heard the name the man had just uttered. Jennie Perez?
When Jack heard that Jennie hadn’t been willing to help Cheryl with the trip into Greenwich, it had raised a tiny red flag, but that was all. Even now that the man on the ground had uttered her name, he still couldn’t believe it was possible.
“What did you say?” Troy asked in a hollow whisper.
Jack heard the shock in Troy’s voice — and the sadness.
“Jennie Perez,” the man repeated. “She lives in the city, in Manhattan somewhere. I don’t know where,” he added quickly. “I don’t even know what kind of car she drives. We always met her in a strip mall out here in Connecticut. Maybe Jennie Perez isn’t even her real name.”
“You ever talk to her on the phone?” Jack asked. “To set up the meeting place.”
“Yeah. My phone’s on the dash in the truck. It’s a 202 area code. I never gave her a contact name,” he said as Jack opened the pickup’s passenger door and grabbed the phone off the dashboard. “She’s the one who arranged for that deposit you were asking Wayne about a minute ago, too. Please don’t kill me. I swear to God I’ll do anything you want if you’ll just—”
“Shut up,” Troy ordered as Jack tossed him the phone and he scrolled through the recent calls. “That’s her number,” he said dejectedly when he spotted the familiar digits.
“What the hell?” Jack muttered. “Why would she do that?”