Callie Faith did a catlike stretch, then walked to the wet bar and retrieved a bottle of Riesling. She poured herself a large glass and returned to the floor-to-ceiling window behind her desk. Her top-floor congressional office in the Lewis Avenue building looked southwest toward the dazzling lights of the Strip. Seeing the casino towers made her want to play. Craps was her game, but it had been ten years since she’d tossed the dice and felt that surge of adrenaline in her veins and the wetness between her legs. Gambling was in her blood, but she’d had to choose between her ambition and her addiction.
Ninety-six thousand dollars.
That was how much she’d owed when the senior vice president of a casino conglomerate had invited her to his suite for a midnight meeting. She’d overrun her line of credit that night. At the time, Callie had been a two-term Clark County commissioner, a rising star in Nevada politics who was easy on the eyes and had a knack for self-promotion. But rumors had begun to bubble to the surface about her gambling problem. The Ralston Reports, which was the go-to blog for Las Vegas political gossip, mentioned a certain Republican brunette who’d been spotted losing big at the tables in the middle of the night.
So the casino exec gave her a choice. Give up gambling. Let the casino wipe away her debt, and get the full support of the industry in a run for the open congressional seat in the next election. In return for favors on legislation in the future.
Or declare bankruptcy, see her addiction hit the headlines, and watch her career implode like the Sands.
Callie chose wisely. Since then, she’d won five elections, each one by larger margins than the time before. Now she had her eyes set on taking down the incumbent Democrat in the next Senate election. After that, anything was possible.
But damn, there were days when she missed the thrill of the tables.
Callie sipped her sweet wine. She yawned; it was three in the morning. Her staff was gone. She’d sent them home. The aides didn’t like to leave before the boss, but Callie was used to gambling all night, and she’d shifted her late-night obsession to work. Most nights when she was home in the district, she caught a couple of hours of sleep on the office sofa before getting up at seven and juicing her system with coffee. Somehow she never slowed down.
Behind her, she heard a muffled text tone from her bottom desk drawer.
Callie was surprised that anyone would be reaching out to her at this hour. She also grew nervous when she recognized the ringtone. This wasn’t her congressional phone. It wasn’t even her personal phone. This was the other one. The burner phone. Untraceable. The one she’d used to destroy Wilson Scott and pave her way up the congressional ladder. The one she’d used to expose Faisal al-Najjar and the president’s dirty laundry. The one she’d used right up until the moment of catastrophe.
No one had that number.
Well, one person did. Just one. But that person was dead.
Callie didn’t even know why she’d kept the phone. No good could come of having it in her possession. And yet she found she couldn’t throw it away, on the off chance that the day would come when it would ring again.
Like now.
Who was sending her a message?
Callie knelt behind her desk and punched in the combination code that unlocked the bottom drawer. She dug out the phone at the back, still powered on, still fully charged because she always kept it that way. Just in case.
Could it be?
Was her contact alive?
But if so, why had there been months of silence? Her messages had gone undelivered. Unread. It seemed impossible.
Callie opened the phone. The app showed one new message, but she didn’t recognize the number that had sent it. It wasn’t her contact. It was someone else. She wondered if maybe the message was a mistake, a slip of the finger by someone typing a number. But when she opened the app, she realized she was wrong. The message was just two words.
Hello, Callie.
The phone felt hot in her hands, as if she wanted to drop it. Sink it in water. Set it on fire. Throw it in the waters of Lake Mead. But she didn’t. Fingers trembling, she tapped out a reply. Who is this?
Callie waited. A bubble appeared, telling her that the person on the other end was typing a response. Seconds later, she saw the next message.
I have something you want.
Callie put the phone on her desk. She finished her wine in a single swallow and paced in her office. She thought about her days on the casino floors, where everything came down to a decision. Do you take your money and run? Or do you let it ride? She’d always been one to let it ride, to play out the game.
And too often, she’d lost.
Callie grabbed the phone. Don’t contact me again.
She should have powered down the phone at that moment and destroyed it, but she didn’t. She waited. She had to see what the person would say next. She had to push her finger closer and closer to the fire, even when she knew she would get burned.
Do you want the Files, Callie? Because I have them.
Shit! Fuck!
Callie thumped her fist against her pretty chin and tried not to panic. This was a trap. A setup. She knew who was using this phone. Shadow. Treadstone. They were luring her into a game, trying to get her to admit what she’d done. What she knew. They were trying to destroy her before she destroyed them.
But what if she was wrong?
She couldn’t stop herself. She had to play the cards she had.
If you have the Files, describe them.
The person wrote back immediately. Everything you need is on a laptop, Callie. But you know that. You tried to buy it once before. Don’t you remember?
Oh my God.
He knew! How could he know?
Callie breathed hard and loud. Her heart hammered in her chest. She told herself to stay calm. Be in control. Every threat is really a deal to be made. She grabbed the wine bottle, filled her glass to the rim, and sat back down at her desk. She made sure the office door was closed. No one was outside; no one could hear her.
How do I know you have the laptop?
A couple of minutes passed. There was no reply. Was this really just a Treadstone game? Then a message appeared, and she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming.
Ninety-six thousand dollars.
She felt as if she’d rolled a seven before the point and watched her bet get swept from the table. This was impossible. No one could know about that. Her debt had been wiped out years ago, the records erased.
If this came out . . . If people knew the truth . . .
Callie breathed into her hands until the tightness in her chest finally loosened. Then she typed: How much do you want for the laptop?
In her head, she could see a grin taking shape on the person’s face. Whoever it was knew they’d won. They’d beaten her.
Fifty million dollars.
Callie let out an audible gasp. You are fucking kidding me!
You’re in Congress, Callie. Just open up one of those black boxes where all the money gets hidden.
She shook her head. That’s not how it works.
You were prepared to pay twenty million last time. Inflation comes for us all.
Fuck, how could he possibly know that? Jesus!
Things have changed. Budgets are being watched.
Find a way.
It’s impossible! she began to write.
Because it was. There was no way to hide that kind of payoff or bury it in the intelligence slush funds. If she went after a pot of gold like that, Shadow would spot it instantly. Even the transfer of twenty million dollars had been a lie, a ruse to draw the Files into the open. She’d never had any intention of paying the money once she got the laptop.
But maybe what had worked before would work again.
Callie deleted what she’d written and typed a new message.
All right. I’ll get it. Give me some time.
Another long pause followed.
You have one week, Callie. After that, I talk to other buyers. And when they ask for a free sample of what secrets the Files can give them, I’ll start with yours.