“Sadly, I have to agree with you. What’s wrong with him?” she asked.
“You mean why does he keep wanting to make money?” Hawk asked.
Alex sighed. “That’s not what I—oh, forget it.”
“I understand what you’re saying. The truth is he doesn’t have a conscience. It’s how he can make such deadly weapons without considering the consequences. To him, it’s just another product he can pimp to the DoD.”
“He’s going to be the death of us,” Alex said.
“I hope you’re not right,” Hawk said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Alex said. “We have us a senator to find.”
CHAPTER 17
SENATOR THURMAN ADJUSTED his earbuds and scrolled through the playlist on his cell phone before starting with a slow warm-up jog. He ran several long-distance races every year and always proved competitive, including winning the 50-54 men’s division a year ago in the Marine Corps Marathon. His next event was less than two weeks away, so he took the opportunity to get in some extra training. Plus he needed to clear his mind.
With the death of his son still weighing heavily on Thurman’s mind, he wanted to pound the pavement and see if that brought him any release from all the inner turmoil he felt. But running was an normal activity for Thurman, one that he knew was an appropriate metaphor for the moment in his life. He simply wanted some time out of the office and away from all the demands of his job. Above all, he didn’t want to have the impending conversation with the two Phoenix Foundation operatives who had warned him they would be heading to his office—at least, not yet.
He cranked up the volume on his phone, increasing his speed to match the rhythmic beats of “Eye of the Tiger.” Whenever that song was playing, he felt like he could do anything. Some people needed liquid courage to take certain actions. Not Thurman. All he needed was a few bars of his favorite song to get him in the mood to face anything.
After ten minutes, Thurman had settled into his usual training pace of seven-minute miles. He glanced at his watch.
Not bad for a fifty-four-year-old.
Running in his neighborhood afforded him several amenities that enabled him to train longer and harder. The towering canopies provided by the large oaks planted along the median of the roads shielded him from the stifling Washington heat most days or the rain and snow on others. But the most important element was the iron gate with an armed security guard. Thurman didn’t want to be captured by some snooping photographer. Several times in public races, photo journalists snagged pictures, but Thurman was always embarrassed by them. If he intended to run for the land’s highest office one day, he didn’t want some goofy picture of himself out there for the world to mock and make memes from. And he still hadn’t forgotten how goofy President Obama looked while riding a bike. Thurman determined not to make that same mistake, necessitating the move to a secure gated community.
Thurman was already on his third mile when a black SUV rolled up next to him. He couldn’t see inside the tinted windows and started to grow nervous when the vehicle slowed to match his pace. In an effort to see if the car was indeed following him, Thurman sped up, darting down one of the neighborhood walking paths away from the road.
When he looked over his shoulder, the SUV was gone. Thurman smiled to himself, pleased that he’d been able to outfox the car’s driver.
A minute later, Thurman was still reveling in his victory when the same SUV skidded to a halt next to him.
Great. Now what?
He wanted to take off running again but decided it wasn’t much use since the vehicle had circled back around and cut him off.
Thurman threw his hands up in the air. “Okay,” he said in the direction of the passenger side window. “You got me. What do you want to do with me?”
Agent Alex Duncan climbed out of the near side of the SUV, while Hawk strode around from the other.
“You said you were going to meet us at your office, Senator,” Hawk said. “What happened? We went by there and you were gone. Any reason for that?”
Thurman forced a smile. “I just needed to clear my head, which I do by taking a jog. I can’t run through the streets of Washington, as I’m sure you understand.”
“That doesn’t explain why the rest of your staff also went home,” Alex said.
“If I didn’t send them home, they would be bothering the rest of my day with incessant questioning. You probably know how that is?”
Neither Brady nor Alex flinched.
“Okay,” Thurman continued, “maybe you don’t. All I can say is that it is the biggest obstacle to me being able to get work done. If my aides are crawling all over my ass every waking moment when I’m out of the office, I can’t get a damn thing finished. Sometimes you just have to walk away.”
“Or run, like you were doing just now,” Hawk said.
“What are you suggesting, Agent Hawk?” Thurman asked.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply pointing out the obvious—that you didn’t just leave your office to get things done; you came out here to get away from the impending shit storm that’s about to rain down on you.”
“How dare you attempt to castigate me,” Thurman said with a growl. “My son’s body is barely cold. I think I should be afforded some time off to grieve whenever the hell I feel like it.”
Alex shook her head and then studied Thurman for a moment before speaking. “Is it grief you feel—or guilt?”
“What are you talking about?” Thurman asked, his eyes widening.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Alex said.
Thurman was already hot from his run, but there was a different type of warm sensation coursing through his body, the kind he always experienced when he felt
