I lie on my side in the strange bed, my son latched to my breast, his pulls growing weaker as he falls into sleep. Blue is curled behind my bent legs, his chin resting on my ankle. Frank snores softly on the other side of James, and Nila is a white ball at his feet, her back pressed to my raised knees.
Richard’s words float through my mind. He offered me influence over a future president. I can be your ally or your enemy. I will do as you ask.
I trace a finger over James’s forehead, pushing his downy hair aside so that I can look down onto his smooth brow, admire his dark lashes stark against his pale cheeks. Such a perfect creature. Did Richard’s mother feel this way about him? Does she still?
A soft sigh slips free from my chest. Blue raises his head to look up at me. I meet his gaze—reflective green in the dark room.
James rolls onto his back, flinging out his arm. It hits Frank’s shoulder—who shifts to press his snout into James’s tiny hand. My heart swells with gratitude and love for James, Frank, Blue, Nila…everyone in my life who loves my son like I do. Everyone who gets this painfully wonderful feeling I have every time I look at him.
I slip out of the bed, Blue following me and Nila moving into my place so that James is bracketed by her and Frank. As safe as any one-year-old ever has been in the history of one-year-olds. Blue and I make our way downstairs to where Mulberry and Simon are set up in the dining room.
“I hope you didn’t worry too much,” I say as I enter. We didn’t have time to talk when I first got back. James needed me and to be honest, I needed him too.
Simon shakes his head. “Not at all, we heard everything. I sewed a microphone into the lapel of your jacket and stashed one in your wig at the center of the updo.”
I blink at him. Mulberry smirks. They are sitting across from each other at the far end of the table, laptops open, supplies packed into the black backpack at Simon’s feet. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
Simon doesn’t flinch at my tone. There is nothing in his demeanor to suggest he may feel bad about his deception. Of course, that makes sense. Lying is his thing. “To keep you safe.” He holds my gaze, a small crease forming between his brows like he’s confused that I didn’t understand that.
“What do you think about Chiles’s proposed alliance?” Mulberry asks, saving me from having to respond to Simon.
“I don’t trust him, obviously,” I answer, pulling out the chair at the head of the table and settling into it. I’ve removed the wig but still wear the makeup, lashes, and contacts. They go awesome with my gray sweats and black T-shirt.
Mulberry nods and shrugs. “Do you trust Robert? They are very similar men.” There is no accusation in his tone—just a curiosity.
“I trust him to be himself. I know him. Can anticipate his next move. I don’t know Richard that well.”
Mulberry nods a silent agreement.
Simon leans back in his chair. “Could be worth the risk. At least giving him a few days to begin to come through on his promises. We can always take him out at a later date.”
I press my lips together, trying to make sure it’s not the storm’s winds blowing me where it wants to go—that my decisions are coming from the bottom of the sea, the calm darkness. And from the bright sky above the clouds—the calm light.
“I think we should move forward tonight. If we wait, he will see it coming—and drugging him again will be more difficult.”
They both nod.
And I nod back.
The decision made. Richard’s fate decided.
The temperature has dropped and the icy rain transformed to soft snowflakes. It dapples Blue’s coat and swirls in the streets. The top floor of the St. Regis Hotel kisses the thick gray cloud bank.
The famous hotel is in midtown, right in the center of Manhattan—not far from Times Square but oh so different. This isn’t for the average tourist. The St. Regis is the epitome of luxury. It harkens back to the turn of the last century—the last time our wealth gap yawned this wide.
The limestone facade glimmers in the wet night. The awning, ringed with Beaux-Arts-style lights, glows elegantly, welcoming and yet not. The whole aesthetic is this place is safe for you if you can afford it. There are two gilded entrances, each with their own set of steps covered in bright red carpeting. The doormen standing next to each with their broad shoulders and communication wires curling into their necklines reinforce the message of safety for the select.
They let me pass with submissive nods. I cross under sparkling chandeliers and a hand-painted ceiling toward the front desk. Noise filters from the attached bar—it’s just after one a.m. and a couple hurries past us. They are young. He’s wearing a suit, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Her putrid pink dress suggests she spent her evening as a bridesmaid. The way he’s gripping her hand and the squeal of a giggle she makes as they pass suggest she won’t be wearing it for much longer.
My outfit isn’t as obviously expensive as the opulence of the lobby, but it speaks the silent language of wealth. The wig and makeup are updated—the ash blonde replaced by dark copper curls hanging loose to my shoulders. They help conceal the earpiece I’m wearing.
My eyes are green now, the lashes spiky instead of fluffy. Freckles cover my nose and cheeks—sprayed on with an airbrush and then added to with a pencil. Simon’s concentration was so intense, and his face so close, I had to close my eyes and focus on my breathing.
My hat is pulled low and Blue matches my pace as I keep my chin tucked, aware of the location of the CCTV cameras, careful to hide my features from them—the broad curls helping shield me. The woman behind the front desk is wearing a name tag that reads “Jennifer”. I give her a subtle smile, and she offers me a bigger one, her amber eyes flitting over my clothing.
It’s casual and expensive—the entire ensemble purchased at Bergdorf Goodman a few days ago and costing as much as a decent used car. The cashmere and wool ball cap was on sale for three hundred dollars. My black pull-over windbreaker has a small triangle at the center of the chest with the Prada logo—it cost over four thousand dollars. The cargo pants with tied ankles came in at just under a grand. The boots—Prada again.
They are combat boots with thick platform soles that add two inches to my height. There is a little square purse at the ankle with the logo and a broad silver zipper…I’m guessing I’m the first person to put a WiFi scrambler in it.
My backpack was marketed as “Exclusively big” and for men. Which makes sense, women can’t have pockets—obviously our evening bags need to be tiny too. After all, we have nothing to carry around on a night out but the weight of patriarchal expectations.
I’m carrying sedatives, stimulants and scalpels. The three S’s of a kit for assassinating senators.
Blue’s spiked collar is black on the outside and red on the inside. It cost more than my hat. And the matching leash almost double that. Jennifer clocks it. When her eyes return to mine it’s obvious she recognizes my casual clothing isn’t that casual. “How can I help you?” she asks. And she means it.
“I’m here to see Julian Archer.” I ask for Mulberry’s alias, a first name that sits in the top hundred popular names and a last that makes it to the top thousand. It’s not so unique and also not bland. A name that fits the scarred man who checked in today, returned from an evening out shortly before my arrival, and will be gone before the breakfast buffet opens.
Her gaze drops to the computer screen in front of her—it’s hardwired so my WiFi scrambler isn’t affecting the system. But the cameras in the lobby closest to me are no longer getting service. The jammer in my ankle purse isn’t strong enough to knock out all the cameras, just those in a twenty-foot radius. But it’s enough that Blue and I won’t show up in any of the cctv footage. “Can I have your name?” Jennifer asks.
“Sarah,” I say. One of the top ten names for most of the last two decades. Almost as popular as Jennifer…who picks up her phone. She smiles at me while it rings.
“I have Sarah in the lobby for you,” she says. A short pause. “I’ll send her right up.” She hangs up and smiles at me, tapping at her keyboard, then presents me with a keycard.
“Room 1802.” Jennifer gestures toward the elevator bank.
“Thank you.” Blue and I cross to where a couple wait in front of the golden doors. He’s wearing a suit and overcoat, her patent leather trench is beaded with water. They smell good—like expensive perfume and snow. Both nod at me and I return the gesture. Their gazes dip to Blue but say nothing.
We crowd onto the elevator together. The walls are dark wood framing mirrors, reflecting the four of us from every angle. The man pulls out his keycard and swipes it on the security pad before pressing his floor. Stepping back, he waves a hand, offering me access.
I use the keycard Simon made me rather than the one Jennifer handed over, pressing Richard Chiles’s floor, one below Julian Archer. The couple exits first. They leave with nods of acknowledgment which I return.
The mirrored doors close behind them and I take a deep breath, watching the floor numbers. Richard has two security men with him—they are Capitol police assigned to him after Eunice Jackson’s assassination because they’d worked together on so many bills. The irony is not lost on me as the golden cage whisks me up to his floor.
I remove Blue’s collar and leash, putting them into the front pocket of my exclusively big bag. His tail wags, sensing the impending fight. My heartbeat picks up. The elevator doors open onto another mirror—this one framed in gold set above a wooden pier table. It’s as if this is someone’s bizarrely large home. It’s the kind of thing one of Robert’s designers might come up with.
Pale green silk lines the walls; the silver carpeting is thick. We turn the corner and spot the two security agents. Neither is the man who accompanied the senator to dinner. They are dressed in plain clothes—dark suits that don’t fit nearly as well as any of the ones I saw in the lobby, including the bellmen. The room the senator is staying in probably costs more per night than they will make this week.
They both nod at me, polite but not friendly. The bulge of their guns under their suit jackets makes them stiff. They are both white, one older—he has salt-and-pepper hair cropped close, crow’s feet radiating from sharp brown eyes. His head tips to one side, like he’s trying to get a better angle of what’s going on. “Hi,” I say, letting out a friendly laugh. “I hope you can help me. I’m totally turned around,” I say, still moving toward them.
The younger one has raven black hair and thick eyebrows that link above his nose. His smile is indulgent. Women are silly and get lost easily. I stop in front of them, speaking low so that they have to lean in a little closer. “This is ridiculous.” I laugh quietly. They both smile. It’s okay, no need to be embarrassed. It’s easy to get lost, this is why women are best not left on their own.
The men smell like coffee and soap. These are not bad men—despite their sexist assumptions. It’s a weakness that just makes them easier prey, but they don’t deserve what I’m about to do to them. Members of the Dignitary Protection Division of the Capitol police, they have no particular loyalty to Richard Chiles. Though the man does seem to engender it—I’m sure Unibrow and Crow’s Feet think he’s a real man. Senator Chiles wouldn’t get lost in a hotel.
Crow’s Feet’s gaze drops to Blue, his brow furrowing. It is strange that he’s not wearing a collar or leash. I shift my weight, leaning into my back leg, twisting my body to point back down the hall. “I could have sworn my room was that way but—” I pivot back, using the torque to increase the power behind my first strike. I bring my palm up into Unibrow’s nose. Blood explodes. The force of the blow lifts him onto his tiptoes and throws him into the wall at his back.
I duck as Crow’s Feet lashes out at me. His fist flies over my head and I come up under his arms, slamming his chin in a vicious uppercut. His teeth clack. He stumbles back. I step into him, following his momentum, pivoting, pressing into my back leg and driving my fist into his stomach.
I leap back, out of his range as his back hits the wall. Blue’s standing in front of Unibrow. Blood masks his mouth and chin, is splattered onto his white dress shirt, and dapples the lapels of his jacket. Unibrow’s hand hovers at his stomach, as if he’s going to go for his gun, but Blue’s raised hackles and rumbling growl have him frozen. Smart man.
Crow’s Feet slides onto the floor, eyes unfocused. But his hand is gripping the weapon under his arm. I step forward as he unclasps the holster, kicking Crow’s Feet’s hand hard with the heel of my two-thousand-dollar platform Prada boots. He oofs out air and winces.
I lean down, wrenching his gun free and stepping back, flicking off the safety and pointing it at the man’s head. His eyes are wide, breath chainsawing. “Choices, gentlemen.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.
With my free hand I pull out the case with two syringes from my thigh pocket. The beauty of cargo pants is they’ve got all the pockets. I grin at the joke in my head. Crow’s Feet blinks, eyes on my twisted lips. The fear in his gaze sends a shiver of satisfaction down my spine. God, this is fun.
“You can either inject yourselves with sedatives or die. Picker’s choice.”
They choose wisely.