Kedja Stirling rushed forward to open the doors for her boss. She knew he needed air. His face was flushed, his cheeks puffy, he messed with the collar of his shirt as he walked across the lobby. He didn’t acknowledge her assistance as he strode out of the Plaza Hotel into the brisk spring morning. He paused and squeezed a finger between his neck and his shirt collar as if trying to release pressure, then grumbled something before he marched down the stone steps toward the waiting black Mercedes.
‘Senator Charlton!’ came a shout from the right.
Charlton groaned and they glanced over to see a young female reporter scuttling across the steps toward them, phone in her hand held out in the hopes of getting a soundbite.
What Charlton wanted to do, Kedja knew, was to ignore the reporter, carry on down the steps, get into the car and away from there as fast as possible. Probably grab a Scotch or four.
‘Senator Charlton! I wanted to ask you a question about the trade bill!’
What he did instead – just as she’d been vehemently training him to do – was push every ounce of discomfort to the back of his mind and reach for his winning smile, before turning to face the journalist.
‘Elliott, make it quick,’ Kedja whispered to him. ‘Just enough to show you care.’
The question wasn’t really one of time. The point wasn’t even that they’d just come out of a grueling three-hour meeting with a band of idiots from the State Department – plus a bunch of overpaid technical ‘consultants’ – who didn’t understand the first thing about senatorial duties. The point was, through his own desire, Charlton was increasingly a national figurehead for this administration, and if he wanted to rise any further – hell, if he just wanted to stay where he was on the slippery pole of politics a few years – he had to make sure that the public continued to see the carefully crafted image they’d worked so hard to cement. And Kedja knew that meant limiting how much off-script time he gave to journalists, anyone, to a bare minimum.
The reporter, cheeks flushed and out of breath, came to a stop in front of them.
‘Sorry, Senator, I know you’re busy, but I’d really like to ask a question about the trade bill.’
‘That’s OK,’ Charlton said, his face and manner as welcoming as ever. Some people called it sickening, but mostly he was considered charming, at least by the nation’s right-wing press, who were already touting him as a future presidential candidate. With Kedja’s help, and some misfortune for others, she really believed she could get him there. ‘I really don’t have much time, but fire away.’
‘I realize the bill was fronted by your predecessor, Senator Narzary, but my understanding is that for the vast majority of companies, the changes you’ve instigated will substantially increase red tape for imports, and will ultimately benefit companies outside the US much more than our own.’
‘What we’re doing is positioning ourselves to take advantage of growing markets.’
‘But won’t these changes hamper trade with some of your closest partners if you—’
‘Sorry, Miss…?’ Kedja said, stepping forward, placing herself in between her boss and the reporter.
‘Leanne Jarvis.’
‘Mr Charlton really does have to go now. We have a horribly busy schedule.’
‘I promise you, Miss Jarvis, this bill will smooth external trade,’ Charlton went on, ‘not hamper it, but it will see a shift in terms of who we deal with. Thank you, but like my assistant said, I really do need to get going.’
Kedja smiled, satisfied with his final words, and she and Charlton turned away from Jarvis to bound down the remaining steps.
‘But Senator Charlton…’
‘Ignore her,’ Kedja said, and she reached forward and pulled open the back door of the Mercedes.
Charlton reached the door, but Jarvis shouted out again.
‘I’d really like to arrange a full interview with you, so you can properly explain,’ she said.
Charlton turned and pulled out his smile again.
‘Of course,’ he said, before getting into the car.
Kedja grabbed a business card from the reporter then ushered her away, and soon both she and Charlton were safely inside the car.
‘Just go,’ Kedja said to Marta, the impeccably dressed driver up front.
Marta pulled the car into the road. Kedja caught the reporter’s eye as they went past. She couldn’t read the look she gave. Scathing? Knowing?
Kedja handed Charlton the business card.
‘Evening Herald?’ he said, sounding disgusted.
‘You just need to remember to keep your public face on,’ Kedja said. ‘I know you did OK with that reporter, but in the meeting… You can’t let the bastards get you down, as the saying goes. You never know who’s watching, who’s recording these days. You have to be—’
‘I get it,’ Charlton interrupted.
Was his anger directed at her? She didn’t know. Maybe at his own performance earlier, as his mask had slipped more than once. Would that come back to bite them?
‘I’m not seeing much on social media yet,’ Kedja said, scrolling on her phone. ‘But it’ll probably take a few hours for things to properly filter through once people have given their version of events. What I can see so far is mostly positive. I think you’ll be fine.’
Charlton said nothing. Kedja knew that at twenty-eight years old, her more up-to-date view of the world was one of the very reasons why Charlton, in his fifties, relied so heavily on her to keep him on track with the younger generations. He, on the other hand, bullishly made as much use as he could of pen and paper and what others viewed as outdated communication methods because… Why not? Previous generations had got by doing so just fine, and he wouldn’t change if he could avoid it. That was fine by Kedja. It earned Charlton a lot of support from like-minded individuals, but she was there to make sure he appealed to the masses too.
Of course, Kedja was much more than just an eye into the modern world; she was a political intellectual too. Someone Charlton, who’d only turned to politics in the sixth decade of his life, still had a lot to learn from. Charlton knew how to handle the Chinese and Russians and Arabs in a boardroom, knew how to garner support from big businesses with promises of untold riches and lax regulation that had executives and shareholders drooling, but handling groups of left-wing zealots hankering for his blood was something different altogether. A challenge, although absolutely not an insurmountable one. Just look at how far they’d come already in his short career in politics.
‘Where are you going?’ Kedja asked, when Marta took a left turn rather than the expected right.
‘To the Capitol.’
‘Then why are we heading further away?’
‘There was an accident,’ she said. ‘This way will be quicker.’
Charlton didn’t say anything but folded his arms and sat back in his seat as he stared out of the window.
Within a couple of minutes, they were gridlocked. Kedja caught Marta’s eye in the mirror.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’
Neither Charlton nor Kedja responded, but Charlton looked out of his window, doing a lousy job of hiding his contempt.
It took longer than it should have, but they eventually made the turn onto Independence Avenue where traffic trudged slowly back and forth along the wide street. The Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial were among the many renowned sights behind them, and the Capitol Building loomed in the near distance in front.
They closed in on the Capitol, tourists dotted here and there outside, mostly taking selfies in front of the statues of famous Americans, past and present.
They reached the intersection with Washington Avenue and came to a stop once more. Their destination was so close. Kedja knew Charlton was getting increasingly antsy now, with yet another big meeting on the horizon. Although he seemed unusually distracted too. Something on his mind other than the daily rigors of being a senator she thought. Rather than try to reassure him, she looked away, out of her window, acting calm and collected, hoping it would rub off on him. She spotted two men on the sidewalk a few yards away. Not tourists. They moved with more purpose. They weren’t walking too quickly, nor too slowly. Yet somehow they didn’t belong, as though the aura around them marked them out as imposters.
Not unusual to see such types in a big city; every other street had someone who didn’t belong, for one reason or another.
Kedja kept an eye on them as they neared. Both men had their hands in the pockets of their thick jackets. The one on the left was jittery, and even though Kedja could see little of their faces under their hoods, he was definitely the youngest.
The men were only five steps from the Mercedes when the younger man nudged the other, as if he’d seen something that had grabbed his attention. With the nudge, the taller man lifted his head slightly too, his face fully visible now. Kedja’s gaze followed his across the road, where she spotted two other men who could have been mirror images of those closest to her.
All four moved in unison toward the Mercedes as they pulled their hands from their jacket pockets.
Guns.
Kedja’s heart jackhammered in her chest, while every other inch of her froze. A moment later, booming gunfire consumed every sense, stirring her to life.
‘Go, go, go!’ she screamed to the driver.
Marta didn’t hesitate. She hit the accelerator and the Mercedes shot forward, gunfire bursting everywhere. Flashes of light cut through the foreground like strobes. Kedja, wide-eyed, was pushed back in her seat. Glass shattered, then—
Smash.
Kedja was thrown forward, her face smacking into the seat-back in front of her. Her nose burst open, and blood poured out as pain erupted.
They’d hit something, and they were going nowhere.
‘Elliott!’ she shouted.
She spat blood and looked at Charlton. He was fumbling with his seat belt. From somewhere she found an inner strength and focus, or perhaps it was just survival instinct. She unclasped her belt and slid across to Charlton as bullets raked the metalwork of the car on her side. She managed to release his belt and heaved open the crumpled door leading away from the gunfire. She quickly checked on Marta. Blood and grisly flesh covered the dashboard. Kedja gasped in horror before pushing Charlton out of the car and to the ground. She slipped out beside him, staying as low as she could.
Pedestrians were running and screaming as the gunfire continued.
‘What’s happening?!’ Charlton shouted.
Kedja didn’t bother to answer.
She scanned the area. There’d been two men this side of the car moments before. Now? One lay on the ground, blood seeping from a hole in his chest. The other was in a frenzied attack with… Who? Not a police officer; she couldn’t see anyone in uniform.
Kedja jolted as the rapid-fire gun released a hail of bullets and their attacker scuttled away from the man he’d been tussling with, before dropping to the floor with a line of bullet holes rising up his torso.
Kedja stared toward the other man with the gun as distant sirens cut through a momentary ceasefire. She heard the shouts of police officers already closing in. The man who’d felled the two shooters turned to her. Made eye contact. Pointed the gun toward… them?
‘Get down!’
Kedja pushed herself and Charlton to the ground as gunfire burst once more. Not at them anymore, though – this time it was directed somewhere else.
‘Go, go!’ she screamed at Charlton, pulling on his collar. ‘We need to go!’
She got to her feet but stayed low and tugged him again; he complied and they scurried together toward the large concrete plinth of a statue, skidding around it to safety.
‘You’re hit?’ Charlton said.
She wiped at the blood pouring from her face, noticed the hole in the sleeve of her jacket.
‘Shit!’ she said.
She hadn’t even realized, but as the adrenaline started to wear off the pain arrived. She grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut.
‘We’re going to be OK,’ she said, trying to reassure them both.
A shout came from across the road. Police?
Kedja glanced around the concrete to see one of the attackers in cover behind a truck. But where was his companion, the fourth shooter?
Two police officers burst onto the scene, surrounding the gunman. They gave a quick shouted warning, or instruction of some kind, but a beat later they opened fire and the attacker’s body pulsed from the barrage of bullets.
A wave of nausea washed through Kedja and she had to swallow hard to keep her insides in. She scuttled the other way, peeking out from the other side of the statue.
That man, the one who’d tackled their attackers. He was there. Weapon in his hands still. The next moment the final attacker darted into view from the other side of the Mercedes. Bullets sprayed and cut into him and he went down in a heap of his own blood.
The gunfire stopped. Sirens came from all directions. Shouting from more police closing in too.
The good Samaritan turned in Kedja’s direction. He locked eyes with her for a split second. She froze.
Then he dropped his weapon, turned and sprinted away.