Chapter Forty

“In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten, then he who continues the attack wins.” Gen. Ulysses S. Grant

She’d never felt so alone.

Kate had always considered herself a loner, but now she craved some human contact. Maybe because she’d accepted that this was the end. She didn’t want to die alone. She didn’t want to die at all.

Last night, they’d broadcast the news that the traitor Aaron Frome had been executed. They’d also mentioned that his brother, former hero Gideon Frome, was being questioned by the Secret Service. She’d cried. For the last time.

She hadn’t tried to contact her parents again. She just hoped that they’d gotten away. But did it really matter?

What chance did she have of succeeding?

If she failed, then likely they would all soon be dead.

There had been no contact from Auspex. She suspected she would never hear from him again.

Had there been a time—any moment since this began—when she could have chosen a different path? Not come to this?

Outside the Smithsonian, a crowd waited for the president to arrive, waving flags and banners, no doubt handed out by Harry’s advance team, who made sure that the people showed an acceptable level of love and appreciation whenever Harry deigned to make a public appearance.

At least she was no longer worried that she wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger if she did manage to get close enough. She could shoot him and then happily dance on his corpse.

She’d worried—though worried wasn’t really the right word—that he might cancel after all the rebel activity and his father dying, despite what Teresa had said. But there’d been an announcement that morning that the ceremony would go ahead.

An hour to go.

She skirted the crowd and made her way to the checkpoint. She wiped her hands down the sides of her black pants. Now was the time to see if she was going to get past the first obstacle. If they’d decided to flag her name and bring her in for questioning, then this would be over before it had begun.

The agent on the checkpoint glanced at her ticket and her ID, searched her bag, swiped his wand over her, and waved her through. On this side, the crowd was thinner. She glanced around, feeling suddenly exposed as she made her way to the entrance of the main building. Her heart raced as she passed the second checkpoint, but she forced what she hoped was a natural smile to her face as the agent let her through. Arrows guided the guests to the new wing, which was being named in honor of Harry Senior and would commemorate his life.

She followed these until she came to a staircase off to the left. She’d taken the same route yesterday when she’d visited the museum, and her steps were automatic. At the top of the stairs was a solid steel door. She entered the code Auspex had gotten for her into the keypad, and the lock clicked. Once through, she carried on along a bare corridor until she came to another staircase, which took her down to the ground floor. There were cameras at regular intervals, but they all blinked with a red light, showing they were switched off. At the end of the corridor, there was a closet containing cleaning equipment. She slipped inside. Climbing on an overturned bucket, she reached behind a stack of paper towels on the top shelf. Her fingers touched cold metal and she pulled out her gun—or rather, Gideon’s gun—from its hiding place.

So far, so good.

She checked her watch. Thirty minutes to go.

She had to enter another code to get back into the main part of the building. She headed toward the new wing and merged with a steady stream of people. She stayed with them until just before the entrance to the room where Harry would speak. After slipping through a side door, she worked her way around behind the room until she came to an archway where she could watch for a few minutes. Make sure Harry was really there.

A stage had been set up, and a huge, blown-up image of Harry Senior filled the wall behind it. He’d been a handsome man, even into his sixties when he’d taken the presidency. She was struck by the superficial similarities between Harry Senior and his son. The same build, the same blond hair, they’d even dressed the same—presumably, that had been deliberate on Harry Junior’s part, as though he’d been making himself over in his father’s image.

But there was a strength to Harry Senior—a determination in his face, a sincerity in his blue eyes—lacking in his son.

Harry was a weak, sniveling bastard. And she was going to kill him.

She hoped.

Her mouth was dry, but there was nothing she could do about that. She hadn’t thought to bring any provisions. She hated the thought of dying thirsty. Wasn’t dying bad enough?

The room had filled up now, maybe a hundred people. The city’s elite. How many of them had an inkling of what was going on in the rest of the country? How many of them would care if they did know? At least some. Most people were inherently good, right? She had to believe that. The problem was that most took the easy route. Until something was forced into their faces, they managed to ignore it. To pretend that they were free.

A line of Secret Service agents in the familiar black uniforms separated the audience from the stage. Finally, a murmur ran through the crowd and they went silent. The door at the front of the room opened and two bodyguards entered. They were followed closely by Harry, who’d given up his usual casual dress in favor of a black suit. No doubt in memory of his father’s death. Two more guards entered the room behind him, and in a perfectly choreographed routine, the five of them made their way to the stage.

The door opened again, and Boyd Winters stepped into the room but remained by the door. Kate shrank back as though he might see her in her hiding place.

Harry made his way to the podium. As he stepped up, a wave of black hatred rose up inside her. She wanted him dead so badly it was a physical thing.

He raised his arms in the air, and the crowd cheered and clapped.

“America for Americans.”

It was time to go.

She stepped backward, watching him all the time, but not listening to the words of his speech. They’d be bullshit anyway. Finally, when she lost sight of him, she turned and walked quickly. She passed through two locked doors, closing them behind her. This part of the building had been made secure over twenty years ago. The Smithsonian had been one of Harry Senior’s favorite places, and he’d spent much of his spare time here. He’d ensured there was a safe place to retreat should anybody attempt an attack on his person.

At the center of the building was a suite of rooms protected by steel doors and shutters. Impregnable. Unless you had the codes. Which she did.

After entering the number on the keypad, she slipped inside, the door sliding closed behind her.

She glanced at her watch. She’d know soon if Auspex had done his work properly. Or if he’d canceled the plan. Though, so far, all the codes had worked.

Maybe he wouldn’t even give her another thought.

Thirty seconds.

She counted down. As she hit zero, the alarms sounded.

The shrieking filled her head. If everything was going to plan out there, Auspex would have locked the front doors, the fire alarms and sprinklers would all be going off, and the crowd would be in a panic, trying to get out of the building but locked inside.

The muted bang bang bang of gunshots sounded in the distance.

The Secret Service must be firing on the crowd. She hoped no one was hurt, but she’d known it was a risk. How long? Five minutes?

She drew the pistol from her bag and clicked off the safety. The weapon felt strange and alien in her hand as she retreated into the bathroom, pulling the door half closed so she could still see the entrance.

Come on.

Her hands were trembling, her palms clammy. She needed this over with before her nerves completely disintegrated.

She could hear the slap of booted footsteps now, hurrying along the corridor toward her. Her finger tightened on the trigger. She’d only get one chance at this. For a moment she panicked. She’d been going for a head shot in case he was wearing body protection. But the target was smaller, and she’d be more likely to miss completely. And anyway, he was too vain to ruin the line of his suit. She’d aim for the chest, hoping to hit his heart. But what if she was wrong and he did have body protection on? Her fingers shook and she swallowed, took a deep breath.

Come on.

Finally, the footsteps halted outside the door. Just a few more steps and she’d make her move. Her stomach churned, and bile rose in her throat. She could do this. Her fingers felt slippery on the metal of the pistol and she wanted to scream at them to hurry. To get this over with.

She could almost feel the bullets tearing into her body.

Don’t think about that now.

“Ms. Buchanan.”

Every muscle locked as the voice called out through the open door. Not Harry’s voice, but Boyd Winters’. Had Gideon given her away? She wouldn’t believe that.

“We know you’re in there, Ms. Buchanan. Why don’t you save us a lot of trouble and just come out with your hands up?”

Without thinking, she took a step farther back into the bathroom. But there was nowhere to go. She looked around frantically. It was futile. This place was totally secure. That had been the point. Lure Harry in here. Close the barriers so that he couldn’t get out and no one else could get in.

“I take it that’s a no, then. I’m presuming you’re armed so… I guess we’ll talk later.”

She steeled herself for them to come in, braced her legs, the gun held out in front of her. At least she would go down shooting. She didn’t want to die. At the same time, she didn’t want to be tortured and die anyway.

There was no sound of men entering. She took a slow step toward the door, peered into the main room. The steel shutter was lowering on the door. They were sealing her in here.

Her arm dropped to her side. There was no one to shoot.

As the barrier almost reached the ground, a small, round object rolled beneath it—some sort of grenade? Then she was locked inside. The grenade made a small pfft, and gas billowed up from where it lay. For a few seconds, she stared, then she shut the bathroom door, backed away. Too late. Tendrils of gas wrapped themselves around her mind. Her limbs were heavy, and the gun dropped from her limp fingers.

Towels. I need to put towels under…

She tried to finish the thought, but her mind was fogging up. She felt like she was wading through thick gloop, but she managed to drag towels from the rail and ram them up against the door. The strength drained from her legs, and she crashed to her knees.

She sat, her back against the wall, her legs stretched out. A beep from her bag brought her out of her stupor and she fumbled to pull out her tablet.

For a moment, the screen was blank, then writing flashed across it.

The probability of you dying was 99 percent.

“I had to try.”

The odds were too high. Stopping you killing the president gave the highest probability that you would live.

But for how long?

The screen went dark.

She shook the tablet, trying to bring Auspex back, but he was gone. Would he survive and flourish out there in the world? She hoped so.

The gas was seeping under the doorway; she could taste the sharp bitterness on her tongue, feel the sear as it burned her nostrils. She blinked, then scrunched her eyes up, but the world was darkening around her. Was this it? She shook her head. Pain pierced her skull, and she leaned back against the cool tiles of the wall, gazing up to the white ceiling. The darkness was closing in, shrinking her vision, smaller and smaller.

Gideon.

She wanted to see him again.

Then her life was nothing but a pinprick that vanished to blackness.