“Are you insane?” President Blake said. “There’s a killer out there! Maybe a whole terrorist cell!”
“You don’t understand,” Mike said insistently. “There’s a bomb. We have to get out of this car.”
The president protested, but Mike didn’t wait to hear any more. He lunged forward, grabbing the door handle and flinging it open.
The Secret Service men outside had their attention trained away from the car on the potential assailants, so they were taken by surprise when the rear door suddenly burst open. Mike grabbed Ben by the coat lapels and tossed him out of the car.
“What the-”
Mike didn’t hesitate a second. He hoisted the president up and out. Several agents immediately formed a protective perimeter around him.
And Gatwick and the rest of the agents had their guns trained on Mike.
“Stand down! What do you think you’re doing?”
“There’s a bomb in this car,” Mike answered, not moving. “It could blow any second.”
Gatwick stared at him. “On Cadillac One?”
“I tell you, there’s a bomb! I saw the clock. We only have seconds-”
Agent Colbert, who had done time with a bomb squad unit, ran to the far side of the limo. “My God, he’s right. Get Samson out of here.”
Two agents grabbed the president and carried him away much as Ben had seen the first lady carried earlier.
“Go!” Mike shouted as he tried to clamber out of the car. Tidwell had the opposite door open and was making his escape in the other direction.
Ben suspected there would be no personal escort for him, so he didn’t wait for help. He scrambled to his feet and ran.
The force of the explosion knocked Ben to the ground, chin first into the pavement. The sonic boom shattered his ears. Car parts flew all around him, like a hideous metallic rainfall.
Cadillac One had become a fireball.
In the midst of the thick, billowing smoke, Ben pulled himself to his feet, his face bleeding in a dozen places, his eyes watering from the fumes. He knew he had been shot at least once, maybe more. He wasn’t sure the president had moved far enough quickly enough to be protected from the explosion. But none of that was uppermost in his mind.
“Mike!” he shouted to no avail, desperately trying to locate his best friend. “Mike? Where are you?”
Stumbling backward, crying, coughing, lost in the sudden cloud of smoke, he was so confused and distraught he crashed into the EMTs who were moving a female body from the stage to someplace away from the fray.
They were moving Emily Blake. Not that there was anything they could do for her now.
The first lady was dead.
3
Christina McCall pulled at her long strawberry blond locks so hard, she feared she might pull them out by the roots. “Where is he?”
Jones looked at her sympathetically. “Where do you think.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m about to go nuts, mon ami. ” She was wearing a red body stocking with a fur collar, a short red skirt with a scalloped hem, black and white striped tights, and boots-which for her was a fairly conservative look. Her hair was pulled forward in Bettie Page bangs. “I’ve been dealing with calls from constituents, demands for action, expressions of sympathy, all very difficult and demanding, and all of it directed toward the only surviving senator from the great state of Oklahoma. Except-guess what? I’m not the senator!”
Jones laid a hand on her shoulder, trying to quiet her. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. You know how the Boss gets sometimes.”
“I certainly do. And pardonnez-moi, but that’s no excuse.” She slumped into the nearest available chair and stared out the window. Her normally chipper, freckled face was drawn and haggard. The crow’s-feet around her eyes were more pronounced than their sparkling blue color. “Did I mention that I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon?”
Jones felt a tug at his heart. Even his normally acerbic exterior was melting. “You didn’t have to.”
“I’m supposed to be sipping French wine in a Parisian cafe, having a tete-a-tete with my grande passion. Not dealing with the worst security crisis on American soil since 9/11.” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m tired of talking on the phone.”
Jones sat beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll take your calls.”
“And I’m tired of trying to explain why Senator Kincaid isn’t in his office.”
“I’ll make up a story.”
“And I’m sexually frustrated.”
Jones removed his hand. “That you’re going to have to handle on your own.” Christina’s head drooped even lower. “Did I mention that I was tired?”
“I’m pretty sure you did.”
“I can’t do this by myself. I mean, I appreciate your help, Jones. You’re the best aide-de-camp in the building, as far as I’m concerned. But it’s too impossible. Loving is still off with that Trudy woman, right?”
Jones coughed into his hand. “Loving is still with, um, Trudy, yes.”
“And Ben hasn’t been in the office since the attack. He has to take control of this situation. He has to decide if he’s going to run for reelection. He has-” Her voice choked. “He has to take me on my honeymoon, damn it.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
Jones squeezed her hand, then returned to his station where his phone was ringing off the hook, while Christina continued to stare blankly at the office around her. She had put a lot of effort into improving the decor here during the past few months. Even though the name on the door and the desk read BENJAMIN J. KINCAID, she knew she couldn’t leave the interior decoration to him. The office would end up resembling a monk’s cell: two chairs and a dead plant. At best, it would be a reproduction of his office back in Tulsa, and that was not a work space that deserved the opportunity to reproduce. So despite the budgetary restrictions that accompanied working for an unelected senator with no war chest and a law practice that had not practiced for months, she tried to improve the joint. On weekends, she frequented flea markets-there were dozens of them in the Washington, D.C., area-looking for salvageable furniture and knickknacks. She nurtured plants at her apartment until she thought they were strong enough to survive Ben’s negative botanic energy. Christina even replaced some of the fixtures, which apparently hadn’t had any attention since before the first World War. Her efforts had turned a sterile government office into a cozy workplace.
Today it seemed colder than a tomb.
She knew the specifications of the building all too well; she heard a tour guide leading a group of citizens down the corridor or around the rotunda almost every day. She knew this capitol building covered 153,112 square feet, which worked out to about three and a half acres. Somehow, though, it managed to have a floor area of more than fourteen acres. And 435 rooms, 554 doors, 679 windows.
Didn’t matter. It was still a tomb. The first lady was dead, along with eight Secret Service agents and four civilians, one a little girl of three. Two U.S. senators. And Mike…
She closed her eyes tight. She couldn’t allow herself to wallow in the misery that had blanketed the country. Someone had to keep this office together.
But who was going to keep her together?
