Chapter Twenty-Seven

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Thomas Jefferson

Gideon closed the door and crossed the room to his desk. He’d come back here yesterday afternoon and found out nothing of any use. They were shutting him out. He hadn’t heard anything from Kate, and he tried to tell himself that was good. But worry nagged at his mind, like a fleabite he couldn’t scratch.

He’d once spent a week trapped inside a flea-infested hut outside the Wall. He’d become used to them in the end. In fact, he preferred fleas to the company he had to keep right now.

Eventually, he picked up his phone. He’d have to be discreet—all calls were monitored—but at least he could check she was okay. He punched in her number and she picked up straight away.

“Kate Buchanan.”

She sounded breathless. He realized she wouldn’t know it was him—the call would just show up as Secret Service. He’d probably given her a heart attack.

“It’s me, sweetheart.”

“Gideon.” Her relief was palpable. “How are you? What do you want?”

“Just to say good morning. I missed you last night.”

“You did?”

“I did. Did you get your sister’s apartment sorted out?”

“Some of it. I’ve organized a cleaning firm to come in and do the rest.”

“That’s good. Are you ready for tonight?”

“Not really. I have nothing to wear. You sprang this on me rather suddenly.”

She was acting; she sounded outwardly flirtatious, but he could hear the reserve beneath the banter. “I couldn’t bear the thought of going without you.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, but as I said I have nothing to wear.”

“Go buy something pretty, then. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Okay. Bye, Gideon.”

“Bye, sweetheart.” He put down the phone and sat in the chair behind his desk.

He liked calling her sweetheart, partly because he knew it would wind her up. He liked winding her up. It was something he’d never done with Stella. They hadn’t had that sort of relationship. She’d always been very reserved, but he’d reassured himself that she would get over that when they married. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Both their families had been keen on the relationship. When they were younger, he’d always thought that Stella and Aaron would end up together, but their friendship had fizzled out when they’d been teenagers. He’d once asked Aaron why. His brother had just shrugged and asked who knew how girls thought.

She’d been so beautiful, almost perfect, with her quintessential American looks. Blonde hair and blue eyes. He’d been enchanted by the idea of them as the perfect American couple. Together they could help take the country to the next level.

Except that they hadn’t really been a couple, never mind a perfect one. They hadn’t shared anything.

He’d been so busy back then working on the president’s staff, trying to make a name and a place for himself, that it had almost been a relief that Stella hadn’t asked for much of his time.

He stared out of the window. She was dead now, and he’d never really known her.

His relationship with Kate felt more real. Hell, it was more real.

And was going absolutely nowhere.

It might all be over by tonight. They’d be caught and locked up, and there was a good chance they’d be tortured. His guts twisted at the thought of anyone hurting Kate.

He’d spent the night trying to think of an alternative, but he’d come up blank. He wouldn’t get past the door of Stella’s office, never mind into the systems. This was the plan and they had to stick to it. Which didn’t mean he had to like it.

What he needed was an idea of what was going on here. Who was in and who was out.

He’d heard nothing around the office about the massacre that had taken place yesterday. It had to have been planned, but there hadn’t been a whisper. He was quite aware that the guard at the checkpoint would have recorded his presence there. So there was no point in pretending; it would seem odd. He also wanted to know more about what had happened and who had ordered it. And why?

He could find nothing in the records, no orders. The only reference was the allocation of assets. A large number of personnel had been allocated to what was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration. The order for that had come from the top—from his boss, Boyd.

He looked up the roster and found that Corporal Watson, the agent who had escorted them back to the checkpoint, was in the building at the moment. That was a starting point. He made a couple of calls and located Watson in the basement. He headed down there and found his man on one of the firing ranges. He stood at the back of the room watching while Watson shot at the man-shaped target. He was mediocre at best. When he turned, Gideon could see the frustration on his face. He caught sight of Gideon and scowled, then his face cleared of expression.

He nodded. “Sir?”

“Corporal Watson.”

“I heard you’re a good shot, sir.” He held out the gun, then stripped off his ear protectors and handed them to Gideon. He took them. He hadn’t shot a gun since he’d left the army. Most of the time he carried, but he’d never come close to needing to shoot someone—however much he might have been tempted.

Now the weapon felt comfortable in his hand. He settled the protectors on his head and held out his hand for a new magazine. Replaced the old one. He shifted the weight, stretched out his arm, and shot six bullets into the center of the target’s head.

He lowered his arm and pulled off the protectors. A group had gathered around to watch him. Even if he didn’t like the audience, it wasn’t a bad thing that they got a look at who he was, what he could do. He got the idea that most people around here thought he was just pretty window dressing. They weren’t completely wrong. He ran a finger down the scar on his cheek. Except that he wasn’t pretty.

On the other hand, perhaps it might have been safer if they thought of him that way. Too late now.

He handed the gun back to Watson. “I wanted to thank you for not keeping us waiting yesterday,” he said.

“I take it you got Ms. Buchanan back safely,” Watson said. “She must have been shocked.”

“She was.” He gave a friendly smile. “She’s spent her life in an office playing with computers. I don’t think she’s ever seen anyone killed before.”

“And she’s okay? She’s not going to make a big thing of it?”

“Of course not. She’s aware that these things happen. That certain factions have to be controlled if America is to be safe.” He couldn’t believe the crap falling out of his mouth, but Watson nodded his head. “Tell me, it looked like you came prepared for trouble. Had you been pre-warned?”

Was that suspicion flickering in Watson’s eyes? “Why are you asking?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to get a feel for how things work around here. I’m new and I’m a little out on the edge.”

Watson’s expression closed up. “You’ll have to ask the boss if you want any more details. I’m sure he’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Gideon had the impression he wasn’t going to get anything out of the man, and he was also pretty sure that Boyd would tell him nothing.

He headed back up to his office, taking the stairs. He was on the third floor, deep in thought, when the door from the corridor opened into the stairwell. Two men entered. He recognized them vaguely, but not by name. They were on Harry’s bodyguard detail, so he’d never worked with them.

As he made to walk past, they formed a barrier between him and the stairs he was heading for. He stopped and looked them up and down. Both were big, well over six feet, with wide shoulders under their black suits. Both wore white shirts and navy ties; they could have been clones except that one was pale and blond and the other darker.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

The blond guy’s eyes narrowed at the polite tone. “Some of us don’t like the fact you’ve been brought in from nowhere. There were a lot of qualified people who could have taken that job.”

“Instead you got me. Aren’t you lucky?” He gave them a smile while he studied them. Muscle. And as his gaze drifted down, he noticed the knuckle-dusters that covered their hands. They had come to give him a proper hello.

“We’re just here to extend a welcome from some of the guys.”

Gideon’s smile widened. Some of the tension drained from him. He knew the feeling. That moment waiting to go into battle. When he actually got out there, he’d experienced the same feeling, a release of fear. There was nothing else but the fight. Fight or die.

A good fight was exactly what he needed. Get rid of the frustrations that had been building since he came back here.

They thought he was some sort of pretty-boy figurehead here to placate the people, and maybe he was in some ways. But that wasn’t all he was. As they were about to find out. The space was small, and he didn’t really want to kill either of them. He just wanted to say his own sort of hello.

He stood relaxed, waiting for them to make their first move. He was sure they were well trained—they wouldn’t be on the bodyguard detail if they weren’t. He was also sure he was better.

Two on one he wasn’t worried about. He’d learned a lot about scrapping, and he didn’t worry about fighting fair. Certainly not when the odds were against him.

Without warning, the darker man on the right rushed him. Gideon allowed the man to land one punch, just to get himself in the mood. Pain blossomed across his cheek as he whirled around, kicking his assailant’s legs from under him so he crashed to the ground. He growled as his friend circled around Gideon. Ignoring the second man, Gideon clenched his fist and brought it down hard on the back of the neck of the downed man, who was pushing himself up. He slammed to the floor on all fours, fingers splayed. Gideon brought his boot down hard on the man’s right hand, heard the crunch of bones as he ground it into the concrete floor.

The blond caught him in a clinch from behind. Now his adrenaline was pumping. He’d expected the move, and his response was pure instinct honed by many fights. He didn’t struggle against the hold of the massive arms around his chest. Instead, he backed up fast into the wall behind him. As they hit the concrete, he raised his head and smashed his skull backward into the other man’s face. More crunching of bones. He liked the sound. His opponent groaned, his grip loosening. Gideon tore free, turned, still close, and kneed the man in the crotch. He collapsed to the floor with a moan, then rolled to his side.

Hardly worth the effort. Gideon eyed the door, almost hoping they would send some more.

The first man sat leaning against the metal posts of the stairwell, cradling his broken hand. “Bastard.”

“Yeah.”

He glanced up, caught the wink of a camera in the corner where the wall met the ceiling. Someone was watching. What would a bastard do? He turned back to the blond lying still curled up on his side. He kicked out, hearing the crack of ribs and getting no satisfaction from the sound. Made himself repeat the action.

“Tell the guys I said welcome right back. And mention if they want to come by and make it personal, then I’ll be waiting and more than willing.”

He cast the pair one more look. He’d made his point.

Back in his office, he sat down, flexed his fingers. Was anyone watching? While there was supposed to be no surveillance in the offices here, that meant nothing. He’d get Kate to check with her little computer friend. If there was surveillance, then it wasn’t sanctioned through ordinary routes, and he doubted it would be picked up.

For the moment, he’d presume he was being watched.

He was about to switch on his system when his phone rang. His boss. That had been quick. But then Gideon figured that Boyd had probably known all about the fight before it had even started. He’d probably just expected a different outcome.

For a moment, it occurred to him that maybe he should have let them beat the shit out of him. Would it be an advantage if they underestimated him? Maybe in some things, but the fact was that what he needed most now was to be accepted, taken into the fold. Told the secrets. They were keeping things from him. Boyd had mentioned a probationary period, but Gideon didn’t have the time.

He picked up the phone. “Sir?”

“My office. Now.”

So what position should he take? Outrage—why the hell were his own men trying to beat him up? Or understanding? He was being tested. He had no problem with that. Ha. He had fucking huge problems. He’d been fighting for his goddamn country, risking his life on the Wall, while these assholes—including Boyd—were wandering around D.C. in their smart suits in safety.

By the time he stood outside Boyd’s door, he’d decided on a mixture of understanding and righteous anger. He knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Boyd’s office was twice the size of his, but that was the only sign of excess. It was austere in the extreme. White walls, black tiled floor. A bare steel desk with a big leather chair behind it and an upright metal chair in front. Off to the side was a long black leather sofa—he’d heard that Boyd spent many of his nights sleeping on it.

Boyd was standing beside a bank of screens. The big one in the center was replaying the fight in the stairwell. Gideon watched until the screen locked on an image of him kicking the blond guy in the ribs. He studied his own face—it was totally free of expression. He waited for Boyd to speak.

“Tell me,” he said. “Why did you go back and break Dawson’s ribs? The fight was obviously over.”

“Just making my point. You don’t play where I come from. If you play, then you die. And I’m not ready to die just yet.”

“I think your point was already made.”

“Not really.” He gave a small shrug. “I’d shown them I could fight. I needed to show them I was more than willing to. Plus, I don’t want to have to spend my time here wondering if some asshole is waiting for me around the next corner.”

“You need their respect?”

“They think I’m some sort of fucking pretty boy brought in here as a figurehead to be paraded in front of the people.” He gritted his teeth and let some of his anger show. “I’m no fucking pretty boy.”

A small smile curved Boyd’s thin lips as he glanced back at the screen. “No, I can see that. But are you ready for the decisions you might have to make back here in D.C.? While it’s a different playing field, it’s as much a war as out there on the Wall.”

“I want to be involved. I think I’ve earned the right to be in.”

“Maybe. But your family will always be a black mark against you.”

“I’m not my brother.”

He held himself impassive as Boyd paced the room, clearly considering what he should tell him.

Come on, you bastard, let me in.

Finally the other man came to a halt in front of him. “You’re a soldier and, from the reports I’ve read, a good one.”

Get on with it.

“However, some of the things you’re called to do here might be of a different sort. You’re used to facing the enemy straight on, but there are other enemies we need to fight, far more insidious and far more dangerous to America than anything you will meet on the Wall.”

“The demonstration yesterday?”

Boyd searched his face and gave a curt nod. “On the outside that might have seemed like a peaceful protest, but let me tell you—there is no such thing. I got the report you were present. How?”

“Pure coincidence. I’d been having an early lunch with my…” Christ, what was he supposed to call her?

“Kate Buchanan.”

“Yes. We’ve become close since I came back.”

“She doesn’t seem your type.”

His eyes narrowed. “I have a type?”

“Blonde, beautiful, and brainless.”

“Maybe I needed a change. We met by accident, but I’ve been helping her through a tough time.”

“The death of her sister.”

“While they weren’t close, it hit her hard all the same. Just a shock.”

“You were once engaged to her sister?”

“A long time ago. A different life. An engagement of convenience. We were both ambitious.”

“Would you say you’re still ambitious, Gideon?” It was the first time he’d called him by his first name. Significant? Boyd wandered over to his desk, leaned down, and pulled a bottle and two glasses from the drawer. He waved at the upright chair and sat down in his own in front of the desk. He didn’t ask, just poured two measures of bourbon into the glasses and pushed one across to Gideon.

Sitting down, Gideon reached out and picked up the glass. He took it as a sign that he was making progress. That Boyd was finally seeing him as more than a pain in the ass forced on him by the president, and maybe as a useful tool.

“I’m ambitious,” he said cautiously, “though maybe not for the same things. And Kate’s father is a supreme court justice.”

“What things do you want? How are they different?”

“Before, I wanted to be the face of the Loyalist Party. I wanted to be at the forefront. Now, while I still believe in the Party, I no longer want the fame. I want…power. Ten years ago, my life was torn apart through nothing I had done. I want to be in a position where that can never happen again. And I’m not too picky about how I get there.”

“What did you think about the way we managed the demonstration yesterday?”

I think you’re fucking murdering bastards.

He took a sip of the bourbon. It was smooth and slid down easily, warming the ice at his core. “I’m sure there were very good reasons.”

“You’re not going to rant about the murder of innocents?”

“There are very few innocents, and collateral damage is always a risk in any campaign.”

Boyd seemed to assess him. “I’m glad you see this as a campaign, because that’s exactly what it is. How did your little girlfriend react?”

“She was shocked. She’s led a very sheltered life in some ways. But she was brought up in a political household. She understands the way things are. She didn’t question the necessity. It was more worry about her personal safety.”

“I hope you reassured her.”

“Of course.” He swallowed the rest of his bourbon. “So, are you going to give me something useful to do?”

Boyd sat back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head. “When I first heard you were joining us, I have to admit, I was pissed off. I don’t like being told who to employ, so you might say I was predisposed to hate your guts.”

“Thank you.”

Boyd grinned. “But I’m beginning to think that maybe you might be an asset after all.”

Hallelujah.

“So I’ll be given an actual job?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. There’s something big going down in the near future.”

“Big?”

“I’m afraid the details are classified until your probation period is over.”

Damn.

“Curb your impatience. Afterward, there will be plenty of opportunities for a man with your talents.”

Gideon fought back the urge to push the issue. He sensed he was close to a truth that would make everything clear. However, he also sensed that pushing right now would be dangerous and counterproductive. He’d done a lot to get himself accepted. He needed to rein in his impatience and leave it at that.

He had the distinct impression that within the organization there were actually two tiers, and that entrance to the second tier was by invitation only—after passing the probationary period. He could at least start working out who was in that upper tier. Starting with the agents who were part of yesterday’s massacre.

He stood up. “Thank you, sir.”

Boyd didn’t say anything further. The meeting was clearly over. Gideon pushed back the chair and headed for the door.

“Gideon?”

He turned back, his hand on the door handle.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”