two-minute mark. Although these little wonders of technology that he and Seamus were using were touted as trace proof, Coleman had learned over the years to trust no piece of technology completely.
Not wanting to go over the two-minute threshold, Coleman asked for the number Seamus had been using to contact Stansfield, then told him he’d call him back in ten minutes.
Coleman hung up the phone and checked his rearview mirror for any recognizable cars. He bit down hard and began running through his options. If they didn’t get Michael back quickly, they were in a lot of trouble. Nance had to be dealt with.
In a barely audible voice Coleman said, “If I get the chance, I’m going to end this thing my way.” The maroon Audi stopped at the security gate and a pair of watchful eyes peered down at the driver from behind the bulletproof glass of the guard booth. The guard had been notified by his employer that this certain guest was to be allowed entry without inspection. Mike Nance had learned a lot from Arthur Higgins over the years, and one of these lessons was to hire his own private security people. The Secret Service would more than likely disapprove of some of his activities, and tonight was a perfect example. The heavy gate began to slide back on its tracks, and the guard nodded for the driver of the car to proceed. The Audi sped down the long, newly paved driveway and took the right fork about a quarter of a mile from the house. Jarod pulled the car up to the main entrance and popped the trunk. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he exited the car and walked to the rear. Jarod lifted the trunk and studied O’Rourke, who was curled up in the fetal position. The Congressman looked through squinted eyes at the strange man who had abducted him. Although he felt sluggish, the drugs had not affected his mind. The thirty-minute car ride in the darkness of the trunk had given him time to figure out, with relative certainty, what was happening. Only one person could be behind this. Garret was too big of an emotional wimp to have the balls to do something like this by himself, so it had to be Nance. Michael knew his only hope was if Liz had made it back to the house and called Tim and Seamus. If she hadn’t, Michael had no doubt that Nance would shoot him full of drugs and get him to sing, just as he and Coleman had done with Arthur. He had to buy some time until they found him. The grandfatherly-looking man was silhouetted by a pair of lights that hung next to the entrance of the house. He pulled a medium-sized, matte black combat knife from inside his trench coat and leaned into the trunk. The knife slid in between O’Rourke’s legs, and with a quick jerk the plastic ankle cuffs were cut.
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The man transferred the blade from his right to his left hand and helped Michael out of the trunk. O’Rourke felt the increased effects of whatever had been pumped into him as soon as his feet hit the pavement.
His legs were unsteady, and he staggered slightly to the side. Jarod hung on to him by the arm and prevented him from toppling to the ground.
The two of them proceeded toward the front door, and after about five steps Michael regained enough of his balance that he could walk without assistance. When they reached the house, the door opened from the inside, revealing a grinning Mike Nance. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Nance was wearing a pair of dark wool slacks, a white button-down, and a blue cardigan. O’Rourke stared at the smug grin on Nance’s face and fought back the urge to reach out and smash in his face. He took a step forward, but the stranger holding on to his arm prevented him from taking another. O’Rourke froze as Jarod dug two fingers into the pressure point under his right arm. Michael’s whole right side buckled under the penetrating pain, and he slouched in a convulsive jerk.
“Now, now, Congressman, behave yourself.” Nance waved his finger at O’Rourke as if Michael were a little schoolboy. “You don’t want to upset my friend.” Nance nodded for the two men to follow and started down the hallway. Jarod loosened his grip slightly and prodded Michael forward.
The three men went down the hall and entered the large game room.
O’Rourke looked to his right and saw Stu Garret standing behind the bar with a drink in his hand. O’Rourke glared at the President’s chief of staff, and Garret averted his eyes.
Nance pointed toward Michael’s mouth and said, “Jarod, you can take off the tape.” The shorter man reached up and yanked the gray duct tape off O’Rourke’s mouth. Michael ignored the slight sting and kept his eyes fixed on Garret. Nance spoke from a discreetly safe distance. “Congressman, we have some unfinished busness from this morning.”
O’Rourke stared at Nance in disgust and said, “I finished my business with you when I
broke your nose.” Nance turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
He reached up and gently touched his swollen nose. “Yes, I suppose I owe you for that, don’t I?” Turning back to face O’Rourke, Nance said flatly, “Jarod, would you please break Congressman O’Rourke’s nose for me?” Michael had no time to react. The man standing next to him grabbed his handcuffed wrists and forced them down. Jarod’s free hand raised up like a tomahawk and came crashing down in a karate chop across the bridge of Michael’s nose. There was a loud pop as O’Rourke’s nose moved a quarter of an inch to the left.
Michael stumbled back, his head reeling. O’Rourke had had his nose broken twice before while playing hockey in college, but he never remembered it hurting this bad. He
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gritted his teeth in an attempt to try to fight back the pain as blood streamed out of his nostrils and over his upper lip. Nance walked back over from the bar and proclaimed, “I
don’t like resorting to violence, Mr. O’Rourke, but I do believe in an eye for an eye. Your behavior this morning was very uncivilized.”
“And I suppose killing Erik Olson was civilized. Spare me your bullshit.” Michael wiped some blood on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. Nance nodded to Jarod, and before Michael could react, a fist slammed into his lower back, sending him crashing to the floor.
Grimacing from the agonizing pain in his right kidney, O’Rourke pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at Nance’s shoes. Michael had never been one to take things lying down, and he reasoned the longer he kept them from asking some real questions, the better his chances were.
Slowly, he brought his head up. His eyes rested on Nance’s white shirt.
O’Rourke felt his mouth filling with blood, and as he got to his feet, he spit it at
Nance. A large glob of blood and saliva splattered Nance’s face and white shirt. O’Rourke had less than a second to enjoy his small victory. He was instantly knocked to his knees by another punch to the kidney. Nance, infuriated by the indignity of being spat on, stepped forward and slapped Michael across the face. The slap barely moved Michael’s head. O’Rourke paused to gain his breath and then looked up at Nance. Through clenched teeth,
