THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE NERVE center is crackling—reporters, producers, technicians are all huddled around television screens, live feeds, and the large control board. Greg is glued to the airport feed. Everyone is in that place beyond exhaustion, running on sheer adrenaline. This is the civilian equivalent of war, and Erica feels a wave of respect for Greg’s courage, for his years as a war photographer. Studying the screen, he looks so vital, so engaged.
“Isn’t it obvious? Erica, he’s in love with you.”
Greg sees Erica, and they instinctively move to a quiet alcove. They stand close to each other, lower their voices to near whispers.
“Are you holding up okay?” he asks. Erica nods. “The vice president’s plane is due to land in less than forty minutes. We have to head up to the airport.”
“I’m ready . . . and, Greg?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for calling Moira.” She reaches up and touches his cheek. For a moment there’s no storm raging outside, no anxious colleagues across the room, just the two of them, alone in a hotel in Miami. And then they kiss and a wave of desire sweeps over Erica’s body, her skin, her soul.
They reluctantly part. Greg says, “Tonight.”
Tonight? Erica wonders. And then she understands. Not even a hurricane can keep them apart. “Yes,” Erica whispers. “Yes.”
Then her prepaid rings and the world is back.
“I just got into Nylan’s current project,” Mark says, his voice taut. “He has an operative at the Miami Airport Industrial Park, just west of the airport. He’s going to fire a shoulder-launched missile and bring down the vice president’s plane.”
An icy vise clamps Erica’s spine. Nylan is going to shoot Air Force Two out of the sky. It will traumatize and destabilize the nation. Which is exactly what he wants. She remembers his desperation to get her to the airport for another Erica Sparks exclusive. Now it all makes sense. “Mark, we have to do something. Is Samuels there?”
There’s a quick pause and then the detective comes on. “I’m here. The FBI knows. I’m about to call the Secret Service.”
“I’m only fifteen minutes away from the industrial park. We’re going to head up there,” Erica says.
“That’s a dangerous move.”
“I’ve got to try and stop this.” She hangs up.
“What is it?” Greg asks.
Time to come clean. “I’ve been working with Mark Benton since the ferry crash to uncover the hacker. He’s inside Dave Mullen’s computer right now—Nylan plans to blow Air Force Two out of the sky. He has a mercenary with a shoulder rocket at an industrial park next to the airport.”
Greg goes white. Erica can see his mind racing behind his eyes.
“He could be wrong.”
“Greg, he’s in. He’s in the brain of the beast. In real time. This is happening.”
Greg takes a step back, as if he’s absorbing a blow. “Has he contacted the FBI? The Secret Service?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, it’s in their hands.”
“We’re a lot closer. We have to try and stop this.”
Greg rubs his forehead, looks down, a man at a loss.
“Greg, why are you hesitating? What is wrong with you? What is going on?”
“Oh, Erica . . .”
“Oh, Erica what?” she demands. Then she has a moment of terrible clarity. When she speaks, it’s softly. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all along what Nylan and Wilmot have been doing.”
“No! I did not know. I suspected. I had no proof.”
“So you kept your mouth shut.”
Greg can’t look her in the eye. Erica feels like the ground has gone soft beneath her feet. A cosmic hurt sweeps over her, a terrible betrayal. Oh, Greg, how could you?
“No. I didn’t keep my mouth shut. I went to Nylan and told him my suspicions. His reaction was blanket denial, and then he got ugly. He made some threats. I backed off because I thought I was protecting you.”
“Protecting me? What the hell does that mean? How were you protecting me?”
“Nylan said—” Greg begins.
Suddenly there’s a terrible crash as an uprooted palm tree slams into one of the room’s tall windows, smashing it, spraying glass across the floor. Rain lashes in.
“I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve got to get up to that industrial park,” Erica says. “Are you with me?”
“Of course I’m with you. I want to always be with you.”
They race down to the lobby, where Manny and Derek are waiting.
“Listen, we’re not going to the airport. We’re heading into a very dangerous situation. Worse than the hurricane. Are you up for it?” Erica asks.
The men jump to their feet. Manny asks, “What’s up?” as they all rush out and pile into the van, which is rocking ominously.
“I’ll explain on the way,” Erica says.
Greg takes the wheel, Erica is shotgun, Manny and Derek in the back. Erica punches Miami Airport Industrial Park into the GPS.
They take off, heading up Route 959. Greg dodges lawn chairs and grills, and debris that flies through the air and skitters across the road. He fights to stay in control as the wind pushes the van back and forth. Erica looks at him, his focus is fierce, he’s sweating, and she wants to grab him and demand the truth. Protect her? From what? From him?
They pass under the Dolphin Expressway and turn west on Perimeter Road. The van is rocking like a toy, the roar of the wind is deafening, a big chunk of roof flies by. The abandoned airport is right in front of them—and then Air Force Two appears like a ghost ship through the clouds. Erica imagines the vice president on board, surrounded by cabinet members and aides, not suspecting that these may be the final moments of their lives.
They turn right on Milam Dairy Road, which turns into NW Seventy-Second Avenue. They reach the industrial park and turn into the parking lot. There’s no sign of the shooter. Could Mark be wrong? Could Dave Mullen have purposely sent them to the wrong address? Greg speeds around a long, low building—and there, up ahead, in an empty expanse of parking lot, they see the assassin, a rocket launcher on his shoulder, aimed and ready. Greg drives straight toward him. The shooter turns and sees the van. He pulls out a pistol but Greg doesn’t waver; the assassin raises the gun and shoots. The left front tire blows out, the van lurches violently. The next bullet pierces the windshield. Greg is hit, thrown back in his seat, losing control of the van, which careens on three tires. Erica grabs the wheel.
“Run him down,” Greg cries, his teeth clenched in pain. As Erica struggles to get control of the vehicle, Greg also grabs the wheel, and the two of them aim the van at the shooter, who gets off another shot before the van bears down on him. He jumps out of its path but they manage to graze him, knocking the rocket launcher from his hands, sending him to the ground.
Greg floors the brakes. Blood is seeping from the hole in his poncho. The van careens wildly before stopping about twenty feet past the assassin. Erica leaps out. The shooter is rattled and dazed, but he’s young and strong. He stands and picks up the launcher and aims it at Air Force Two, which is moments from touchdown.
Erica races toward him, and he swings the rocket launcher at her—it smacks into her right shoulder and she’s knocked to the asphalt. Searing pain shoots through her right side. He aims the pistol at her head and Erica looks down its barrel and thinks she’s about to die. Jenny. Then she rolls lightning fast just as he pulls the trigger, and the bullet hits the asphalt. Erica leaps up and aims a kick to the killer’s head with all her force—the force of her childhood, her hard work, her drinking, her daughter—and she connects with his jaw and his head flies back and he drops to the ground, knocked out. Bruised and gulping for air, she picks up the gun.
She turns to see Air Force Two touch down. The vice president is safe. But is Greg? She races back to the van. Derek and Manny have moved him to the back and laid him flat with a jacket under his head. They’ve taken off his poncho and Manny is holding a white cloth to the wound in Greg’s chest. The fabric is soaked with blood, which oozes out between Manny’s fingers.
Erica climbs into the back of the van and cradles Greg in her arms. His eyes are half closed; she can see the life ebbing out of him.
“Film me, Manny, I want this on record,” Greg moans. Manny hesitates. “Film me! Use your phone.”
Manny takes out his phone and shoots.
“Erica . . . I’m sorry . . .” Greg’s breath is coming in short jerks. “Nylan was obsessed with you, he was going to make you a star. I thought the ferry crash was just coincidence. Then Barrish . . . it was too much. I was suspicious . . . but happy for you . . . and for me.” He runs his hand down her cheek, then winces and clenches his teeth. “Then your court records . . . I realized he had them all along . . . I got angry and confronted him . . . told him what I suspected . . . he said if I told anyone, he would kill you.” Blood trickles from the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I meant when I said I was protecting you. I could have stopped this . . . but then I might have lost you . . .”
Erica brushes the dank hair from his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Erica . . . I . . . love you . . .”
“Please hang on, Greg, please don’t give up.” Erica’s tears fall onto Greg’s face and mix with his sweat and blood. The hurricane calms, the world disappears, it’s just the two of them.
And then the world is back—an FBI helicopter touches down and a convoy of police cars, ambulances, and Secret Service vehicles—lights flashing and sirens blaring—roars into the industrial park.
Two EMTs rush over and load Greg onto a stretcher. Erica tails them as they carry him to their ambulance. “You’re going to pull through, Greg. You’re going to make it, hang on, please hang on . . .” she screams over the storm.
They load Greg into the ambulance, its doors close and it takes off, holding Erica’s hopes.
A policewoman runs up to her. “Are you all right?”
Erica looks around at the mayhem, the flashing lights, the screeching sirens, the shattering storm. Then she says, “I’m still here.”