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The second text was equally terse—we need to talk about the interview. Because right in the middle of the staff meeting he remembered he’d never discussed it with Carly last night. He’d intended to—until she’d opened the door and every rational thought was driven from his brain. He hadn’t been angry—well, okay, maybe a little angry, although upset was a more appropriate word. He’d been upset they’d used the domestic terrorism incident at the bookstore in the broadcast. That they’d interviewed the woman whose life he’d saved. That wasn’t news—it had been at the time, but it wasn’t now—and he felt Carly’s network had crossed an ethical line it shouldn’t have.
And he’d been upset Carly hadn’t mentioned anything about it when he nixed her interview question on the topic. She had to have known what was planned, but she hadn’t said a word, and that had bothered him.
When he’d watched a replay yesterday morning of the broadcast his press secretary had taped for him, it had bothered the hell out of him at first because he saw it as some kind of betrayal. But then he’d realized he was looking at it through the lens of their date that night...and into the next morning. When she’d interviewed him on Sunday, he’d been nothing more than a story for her. The subject of an interview. Sunday night had changed all that.
Then he’d deduced that’s what Carly had wanted to tell him on the phone early yesterday morning—too late to change it, but at least in time to warn him what to expect from the news media. Because he was more than just a story for her now. Because he mattered to her. Because his opinion of her mattered to her. He hadn’t given her the chance to tell him, so he couldn’t blame her for that. At least she’d tried.
But he still wanted to discuss it with her. He had no intention of letting last night and this morning be the end of his relationship with Carly. Which meant he needed to get a few things straight before they went any further.
* * *
Marsh whistled tunelessly to himself as he walked casually away from the reporter’s town house in Georgetown and down the block. He’d already taken care of the senator’s house with no one the wiser. Now he’d done the same here. The reporter had a better security system than the senator—which didn’t surprise him with her being a woman. But neither had been too much of a challenge for him to overcome.
He turned right at the corner and walked three more blocks, “checking six” twice, before turning left. He always watched his back for a tail—it was as automatic for him as breathing. He’d never been followed. Not once. But he always looked.
Halfway down the block he clicked the remote to unlock his truck, and waited. When nothing untoward happened, he circled his truck as he always did when he’d left it unattended in a public place, because a professional hit man had a lot of secrets. Secrets that could be dangerous to those who hired him.
Marsh wasn’t a blackmailer. When he accepted payment for a job, he did it, collected his money and his employers never heard from him again. But sometimes his employers figured him for a liability once he’d completed the job they’d hired him to do. He’d set enough booby traps himself that he had no intention of being someone else’s victim.
Once he was satisfied none of his nearly hidden markers had been disturbed, he hopped in, started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
He never even saw the man who’d been shadowing him.
* * *
Carly returned home to find her street roped off and yellow tape stretched across her front door. She parked as close as she could, got out and headed for the first official-looking person she could find—a DC police officer standing guard in the street, watching her closely as she approached, then heading to intercept her.
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t tell you. Do you live on this street?”
“I live there,” she said, pointing to her town house and the group of FBI and ATF agents clustered on her lawn, a couple of them blowing on their hands and stamping their feet to keep warm. “I’m Carly Edwards. What’s going on with my house?”
