She couldn’t pick a partisan hack or even a serious writer from an oft-dismissed news outlet. This story needed a respected political writer, one with a penchant for breaking stories and free from the trappings of political bias.
I know just the person.
Alex took a deep breath and dialed Brian Lawton’s number from The Chicago Tribune.
She’d met Lawton in college at Northwestern University, and while they hadn’t been close friends, she was still comfortable with calling him up out of the blue. After she spent a few minutes explaining the bombshell story and evidence she possessed, he stopped her.
“Should we really be talking about this on the phone?” Lawton asked. “With the precedent already set by the government for listening in on journalists’ calls, I’m not really comfortable with continuing this conversation, much less even writing such a story. Now, if you want to call me some other time to reminisce about the good ole days, you can. But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
Alex listened as the line went dead. She hung up, disappointed that she’d made such a mistake. If Michaels had The Chicago Tribune’s lines monitored, the brief explanation she gave would raise red flags. Lawton was smart to get off the line.
But as Alex considered his parting words, she realized he was sending her a message. The Good Ole Days was a bar they used to frequent near campus—and one apparently Lawton still visited on occasion. She still had the number memorized from calling to see if certain friends had beat her to their favorite gathering place.
She waited a couple of hours before calling Good Ole Days. Lonnie Cooper, the same man who’d owned the bar when she attended Northwestern, answered the phone.
“Hi, Lonnie. I’m looking for Brian Lawton,” Alex said. “Is he there by chance?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s your favorite Wildcat.”
“Well, I’ll just leave that right there and won’t make any guesses.”
“Lonnie, you tell all the girls that, don’t you?”
Lonnie chuckled. “It’s how I keep all my customers. They all think they’re my favorite here. Now, who were you looking for again?”
“Brian Lawton.”
“He just sat down at the bar. Hold on a second.”
Alex listened as the familiar background sounds filtered through the receiver. She could hear the pings of the pinball machine in the background, two men arguing loudly in what sounded like a sports debate, and a patron trying to get Lonnie’s attention for another round.
“You got my message,” Lawton said as he answered the phone.
“Sorry about that. A momentary lapse in judgment. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“I heard you were a spy now of some sort.”
“Not at the moment,” Alex said. “What I’m doing now might be considered treasonous by some. But when the truth comes out, everyone will know what kind of patriot I am.”
“You’re likely just a decent human being above all else,” Lawton said.
“I don’t care what you call me as long as you don’t include my name in the article. This is going to blow the lid off Michaels’ campaign.”
“You send me whatever you got, and I’ll get everything verified before I even take this to my editor,” he said.
“Good because the last journalist we tried to convince to take a story of this magnitude didn’t fare so well.”
“What happened to him?”
Alex sighed. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this since it might make you reconsider.”
“What? Did he wind up dead?”
Alex remained silent.
“Seriously, Alex. He died?”
“Yeah. The official report was suicide, but that wasn’t an outright lie.”
“I don’t care,” Lawton said. “I’ll do it anyway. Partisan politics aside, I’ve always had an uneasy feeling about him, like he’d somehow gamed his way into the White House.”
“Well, he’s trying to game his way into a second term—and he doesn’t even need to based on the latest polls.”
“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen then.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch tomorrow with details on where you can pick up the assets for the story.”
Alex hung up and pumped her first.
Michaels was going to go down in a glorious blaze.
CHAPTER 10
Muscat, Oman
JUST OVER TWENTY-FOUR HOURS after penetrating Fortress Security’s headquarters, Hawk crouched against the edge of the building across the street from Ray’s apartment. Deciding his next move wasn’t easy given the circumstances. As a person, Hawk liked Ray. They’d definitely had their differences while in Navy Seal training, but Hawk had grown to respect his fellow soldier. Yet Hawk couldn’t dismiss the nagging feeling that Ray’s loyalty to Ackerman exceeded any goodwill accumulated while serving together. In short, Hawk spent the night on the street because of his distrust for Ray.
Yet Hawk’s fondness for Ray as a person created a personal dilemma, one that Hawk struggled with before choosing self-preservation over a fragile friendship.
After a few minutes, Ray exited his apartment and headed down the street. With his hands stuffed in his jacket, he cast frequent glances over his shoulder until he disappeared from sight.
Hawk waited another minute and checked the street, which was empty and lit only by the pale fluorescent street lamps. He stood up and hustled toward Ray’s apartment and used the key he’d been given to unlock the door. In an effort to remain discreet, Hawk kept the lights off. He rummaged through the bedroom dresser in search of some cash.
Ray has to have some emergency money stashed around here somewhere.
Frustrated at coming up empty, Hawk headed toward another room before he heard an awkward squeak beneath one of the floor planks. Hawk knelt down and used a knife to jimmy open the loose board. About a foot below was a small treasure trove—cash, weapons, and passports.
Maybe Ray doesn’t trust Ackerman as much as I thought.
Hawk scooped out a healthy portion of cash before replacing the plank and securing it. With his mission accomplished, Hawk exited the apartment and walked down the empty street toward a location several blocks away that he’d seen advertising
