Chapter 50

Washington

11:57 pm GMT, 5:57 pm Local

Angela Wilde didn’t flinch, didn’t miss a step, didn’t look back. She just kept walking as if nothing had happened, a seamless flow of movement that she knew the forensic analysts would note when they repeatedly viewed the time-stamped frames from the surveillance video.

But that was hours, if not days, in the future. Right now, she had about sixty seconds before the full force of the Metro Police, FBI, and Secret Service descended on the hotel and cordoned off every exit. As the extent and import of the carnage inside the ballroom became clear, they would extend that perimeter to a five-block radius; then ten. Within minutes the city would be shut down, flights and trains would be canceled, and every one of the bridges and highways would be hit with roadblocks.

The city would become paralyzed, the nation would be in mourning, and the entire world would be stunned by the loss of the American president. Not a very good one, she was more than certain, but very few of them were.

As she slipped through the polished brass doors that led outside to Connecticut Avenue, Angela allowed herself a quick breath of relief. That’s when she heard someone behind her yell, “Stop, you bitch.”

No way was she going to do that. In fact, she did just the opposite. Without even looking back she began to run.

“Stop,” Logan yelled again. Louder this time, and a little closer. “Giselle—”

Screw you, she thought as she picked up speed. Whoever it was, he was using one of the many names she’d employed through the years—not since Dublin over a decade ago, in fact—not until last night.

No fucking way.

Angela kept moving, focused on reaching the car she’d parked earlier on St. Matthews Court, an alley that cut from Rhode Island Avenue to N Street, just four blocks away, no more than two minutes as she’d timed it on foot just yesterday. Although that time would be cut in half tonight, since whoever had yelled at her to stop had forced her to hoof it.

Even though she kept herself in prime shape—a requirement in her line of work if you planned to live long and prosper—she could hear him behind her. She didn’t know how far away he was but now, as she racked her brain, she realized who it was.

The Goddamned sonofabitch who had punched her in the eye last night.

What the hell was he doing here?

Angela ran. Logan ran. There was no doubt in his mind she’d been there for some nefarious reason, and the resounding boom he’d just heard coming from the ballroom only reinforced his reasoning. He didn’t care to think what had just happened in there, but the muted screams he’d heard suggested it couldn’t be any good.

She still had a good twenty yards on him, and made good use of every one of them. She launched into a sprint up the sidewalk that was radiating heat from earlier in the day, then raced through the crosswalk at Desales Street. She was fast and well-toned, and seemed to have the stamina of a marathon runner. Whereas Logan had the initial push of a short-distance sprinter but eventually would run out of steam.

The twenty-yard gap had shortened to fifteen, then ten. By now she had reached the busy intersection at Rhode Island Avenue and M Street. The cross traffic had a green light and a bunch of pedestrians had clumped up at the crosswalk, waiting for the “don’t walk” sign to change. Angela was forced to slow as she veered around them, then darted into the middle of the intersection. She dodged a cab and a delivery van as she made a sharp right and navigated the opposite curb effortlessly.

Anticipating her next move, Logan cut an even sharper right and darted behind the two lanes of cars that were beginning to slow as the green changed to yellow. She didn’t see him coming at her on his dogleg route, but she could hear his shoes on the pavement. She dared not look back; even the slightest hesitation would throw her off her pace. It was going to be tight when she finally got to her car, since he would be on her long before she was even able to unlock the door.

She did what any respectable woman running from a man—self-preservation on her mind—would do. Without yielding even a fragment of her speed she yelled, “Help me. Please help me. My husband’s trying to kill me!”

Logan was right on her heels now, and he followed her around the corner into the narrow alley he knew connected through to N Street. Almost right to the front door of the Tabard Inn, a boutique hotel and restaurant where he’d enjoyed a delicious four-course dinner with Katya just a few months before she’d died—and later, a lovely guest room on the third floor, tucked away from the street, with a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Reserve on ice.

He was almost on top of her now, and he could see where she was going: the sea-green Jetta tucked into a space beside a dumpster. If he made a diving lunge, he might be able to tackle her. Then again, if he missed, he’d go face-first into the asphalt and she’d be gone.

Behind him he heard—much closer than he liked—the words “Leave her alone, motherfucker.” A second later it seemed as if a Mack truck hit him in the back, and he was slammed forward with what felt like five hundred horses of pure diesel power.

The blow caused him to collide with the woman he knew as Giselle, who careened into the door of the Jetta. She struck it hard with a vicious crunch, just as Logan was driven down on top her. A flurry of punches connected with his spine and kidneys, exacting all the pain of a medieval torture chamber. Then he saw a galaxy of stars, as his entire world sank into an excruciating chasm of darkness.