Fitzgerald poured himself another couple of fingers of thebrown liquid. He looked at Harrison with icy contempt, took a long pull from the tumbler, and smiled.
“Listen, Coleman, here’s the deal: Your girlfriend is a drug addict.”
“What? That’sbullshit,Walt. What the hell are you talking about?”
“There are two kilos of Colombia’s finest inside her apartment in Boston at this very moment. Believe it or not, she has it hidden in her closet—right next to all those toys you’ve both enjoyed so much.”
Fitzgerald smiled as he watched the senator’s incredulous look.
“That’s right. See, what’s going to happen is that your luscious lassie seems to have double-crossed some drug-dealing bandits—who, incidentally, have been sending all their cash back home to support the cause. Maybe the IRA. My guess is that they’ll want to settle up on Saturday.”
The speed of events Fitzgerald had set in motion plunged Harrison into shock. He needed a drink. He reached for the decanter and poured himself a stiff one. He took a long draw, swallowing hard as the liquid scorched his throat.
“We desperately need to get Elise back on the campaign trail with us,” Fitzgerald continued.
Harrison looked up from his chair. “Who?”
“Your wife, you moron—that’swho.”
Fitzgerald sighed.
“Look, Coleman, you have two choices: One, you decide to be a stand-up guy all of a sudden, putting the White House out of reach, plus Elise cuts you off from her money and kicks you to the curb, leaving you with two things—jack and shit. Or two,you follow my plan, play by my rules, get what you want, and no one gets hurt. Well,almostno one.”
Walt Fitzgerald laughed and drained his drink.
It took Senator Coleman Harrison exactly three seconds to make his decision.
“Tell me what I need to do.”
CHAPTER 6
Baxter Road, Nantucket
Through the morning fog I saw a team of Secret Service agents posted on guard along the perimeter of the property. Though he hadn’t yet secured his party’s official nomination, Senator Coleman Harrison qualified for protection as a major presidential candidate.
The agents were dressed casually—save for the MP5 submachine guns strapped across their chests. I gave them a playful wave and watched as they immediately started talking into the palms of their hands.The bad guy was back.I figured one of them would be over to test the waters once whoever was in charge got wind of my arrival.
I tasked Si with his first job—making coffee—while I went to my garage to check on the concealed gun safe I had hidden underneath a workbench. I opened the biometric lock and pulled out my HK USP .40 pistol.
Just as I pulled the slide to the rear, I heard a female voice say sternly, “Put the gun down and turn around slowly.”
No way this happens a second time in less than twelve hours.I put the pistol down, raised my empty hands, and turned around to see … a smiling face.
A fit, tan woman about five foot eight with shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes was standing in my garage dressed in khakis, a polo shirt, and hiking boots. She was alone and didn’t have her gun drawn.
“Too soon?” she teased. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” She held out her hand. “US Secret Service Special Agent in Charge Rowan Anderson.”
How could I forget the woman who’d had me arrested? She looked to be in her mid-thirties and had a drop holster and a pistol strapped to her thigh.
“Funny,” I snorted. “The senator still alive?”
“For at least one more day,” she said. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. But youwereskulking around in the dark with a bevy of weapons.”
“I’d hardly call it abevy. It was more like a tiny collection of guns. And I wasn’tskulking—I was moving quietly and deliberately.”
She flashed me a grin. Anderson had a lovely smile and wore no ring that I could see.
“We had to take the potential threat even more seriously than we do the usual whack jobs running around these days, especially given the ruckus you caused with that state trooper. The rear security detail enjoyed that bit of excitement.”
