TUESDAY, 4:45 P.M.
Senator Frank Hoffman leaned back in his leather chair and looked at the guns hanging on his wall. Each one had a story behind it. Some stories were more interesting than others.
His eyes focused in on the antique revolvers. His collection. His pride and joy. Guns like the 1894 Colt Bisley. Or the .44 caliber Wild Bill Hickok’s “Dead Man’s Hand” 1851 “Aces & Eights” Black Powder Revolver. Thirty-four different weapons in all. He’d invested a small fortune in them.
He looked at his desk, clear of everything except the piece of paper with the words.
IT’S NOT OVER.
“Sir?”
Frank jumped and looked up to find Ian, a faithful employee of two decades, standing in the door. “What is it, Ian?”
“You asked for the car. It’s ready.”
“Oh, right. Thank you.”
“Do you wish me to drive you somewhere?”
Ian, always ready, always available. “No thank you, not today.”
Ian inclined his head in acknowledgment, turned on his heel, and left.
Frank reached out and picked up the note one more time. Simple block letters. A simple message that he more than understood.
Time was of the essence as the election crept closer.
As he slipped the note into his drawer, he stood and grabbed his suit coat from the back of his chair. When his phone rang, he paused, debated whether to answer it or not, then sat back down and grabbed the handset. “Well?”
“The plan is in motion.”
Frank paused. “What is the plan, exactly?”
A low chuckle reached his ear. “I don’t think I’ll share that. I’m not sure you would approve.”
“Will this plan find Jillian?”
“Of course. That’s the goal, is it not?”
“Then I approve.”