When her cries of pain stopped, the man continued. “Now, what were you saying again, Mr. Blunt?”
“Let her go,” Blunt said. “She’s done nothing to deserve this.”
“You’re right. She hasn’t. But you have. Now the sooner you cease with the empty threats, the sooner we can establish a better understanding of how this relationship is going to work moving forward. I have people give you orders, and then you do them. Understand?”
Blunt seethed as he stared out his window, refusing to answer.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Mr. Blunt. Do you understand?” the man asked again.
“Yeah,” Blunt muttered.
“Good. Now that we’ve cleared that up, you’re going to do what we tell you to do, and you’re not going to complain about it.”
“Or what?”
“Do I really need to spell it out for you? You’re a smart man, Mr. Blunt. You know what’ll happen.”
Blunt hung up and resisted the urge to kick his trash can across the room. He strode over to the mirror and studied his weathered face.
“Think I look angry now, just you wait.”
CHAPTER 4
Washington, D.C.
FALCON SINCLAIR DUG HIS Patek Philippe Calibre 89 pocket watch out of his suit vest to check the time. His Airbus ACJ319 jet came to a halt as he calculated that he would have just about five minutes to spare in reaching the First Lady’s funeral if the city’s traffic didn’t become more snarled than usual. Due to the number of dignitaries attending the service for Madeline Young, congestion at Washington National meant his pilot had to spend an extra half hour circling the airport. His extravagant wealth bought him plenty, but apparently it couldn’t compete with the power of important American politicians.
“Alfred,” Sinclair said in his thick Aussie accent, “change of plans.”
“What would you like me to do, sir?” asked the genteel septuagenarian who’d spent the past five decades serving the Sinclair family.
“Without the motorcade, we’re going to need an alternate form of transportation to the service.”
“Again, I'm sorry, sir, that we weren’t able to arrange that beforehand. Working on such short notice along with the apparent large influx of VIPs attending the First Lady’s funeral created obstacles that were too much for us to overcome.”
“It happens,” Sinclair said. “But nothing a short helicopter ride won’t remedy.”
“Sir, I already considered that,” Alfred said. “I just couldn't find a place to land.”
Sinclair sighed. “Alfred, when are you going to catch up with the times? I swear, I might as well let you go since I have to do everything myself around here these days. I’ll make a donation to the St. Albans School just a block away, and they’ll let us use their athletic fields to land the helicopter.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I just thought that—”
“It's all right, old chap,” Sinclair said. “I’ll just take a portion of that gift money from the generous salary I give you. But trust me when I say that if my father hadn’t been so kind to you when he endowed you a job until the end of your life, I would’ve moved on a long time ago.”
“I understand, sir. You remind me of that daily.”
Sinclair rested his head in his right hand and sighed. “Sadly, it’s a point that bears repeating. Do better.”
Sinclair relied upon Selena, his perky twenty-five-year-old assistant, to handle most of his transportation requests. But she was getting married in less than a week and had requested time off months in advance. If she had been any other employee, he would’ve demanded that she work, wedding be damned. But she was different. They had a special relationship, the kind that he went to great lengths to keep from his wife and two other mistresses. Selena had promised him that nothing would change after she got married, an arrangement that made him abnormally forgiving of her absence at such a critical juncture in the overall timeline of his plan. Having to rely upon Alfred to arrange transportation concerned Sinclair, but not to the point that he was overly worried. The kind of power he’d only dreamed of was within reach once a few more pieces fell into place. Complete command was so close now it was almost palpable. And the last thing he wanted was a little traffic jam to delay his scheme—or possibly thwart it all together.
Sinclair happened to meet the headmaster at the St. Albans School, Valentine Prescott, at a fundraiser for endangered marine life in Sydney just a few months earlier. Their conversation had been a pleasant one, though brief, and consisted of their shared joy of snorkeling. But based on the way Prescott hemmed and hawed over the request to land on the St. Albans athletic fields, Sinclair concluded that he hadn’t made the kind of impression that immediately endeared him to the school’s director.
When they hung up, Sinclair pointed at Alfred and smiled. “There’s not much a generous one million dollar donation won’t solve.”
“Are you ready to move, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Did you get clearance for us to utilize the airspace over the city?”
Alfred nodded. “There will be another fifty thousand dollars required for the White House official who grants such clearance. I trust that you’re prepared to meet such demands.”
“Of course,” Sinclair said. “That’s a bargain for sure, Alfred. I may not even charge you for the difference in what it costs for me to rent a helicopter.”
“Thank you, sir,” Alfred said. “That’s most kind.”
Sinclair rolled his eyes.
Nothing like a tenured butler.
* * *
A HALF HOUR LATER, Sinclair ducked as he exited the heli taxi and hustled across the St. Albans School athletics field. He waved at the boys crowded along the fence, many of them staring slack-jawed at the Australian billionaire. Hustling toward the sidewalk, Sinclair found a limousine waiting by the curb, complete with a gloved driver standing by an open door.
“Are we going to make it on time?” Sinclair asked, buttoning his jacket as he approached the vehicle.
“Without question, sir,” the man said. “However, I won’t be
