He removed two more bolts and checked his computer and air gauge. Using hand signals, he motioned with a balled fist thumb sticking up followed by cupping his hands together. "Go up to the boat," was the signal. Barnett led the way, followed by Regan and Jake.
Back on board after the safety stop, Jake fired up the air compressor and refilled the tanks. He grabbed a double tank harness and rigged his regulator for a two-tank dive.
Like most men, he figured, he had his routines. Unless White House duties hindered, which they often did, every weekday, rain, snow, or shine, Evan Makley went to the Starbucks on the corner of K Street and 16th Street NW to grab a bite to eat from the bakery and a large cup of House Blend coffee. It was a short three-block stroll through Lafayette Park and up 16th Street. He enjoyed the daily respite from his White House office.
Now, more than ever.
After Elmore Wiley's team uncovered his clandestine meetings with Abigail Love, Rudd had all but formally removed him from White House business. The Executive Secretary to the President had assumed most of his job functions.
President Rebecca Rudd had given him 48 hours to tender his resignation — a timeline that was drawing near. He'd done everything he could think of to warrant a reprieve, but nothing seemed to work. He had fully disclosed every detail about his involvement with Abigail Love. He'd called off the hit on Jake Pendleton. But first he'd warned Love on her Gmail account.
All this trouble because he was trying to save President Rebecca Rudd from a scandal that would certainly oust her from office. In a sense, he was the Good Samaritan. He didn't deserve everything that was happening to him. Rudd was going to make him a scapegoat.
Rudd had scheduled a one-on-one meeting with him for this afternoon. It might be his last chance to salvage his career. The past three years had been, without a doubt, the worst of his life. He was kicked out of his home, lost his wife, custody of his children, and most of his money and possessions. His face had been plastered over all the national media outlets. He was disgraced on television, the news, in the papers, magazines, and even Talk Radio.
Rudd stood by him during all that.
Why not now?
Makley cleared the security gate on Pennsylvania Avenue, crossed the barricaded street, and entered Lafayette Park when the answer occurred to him. He would use what he knew to blackmail the President if he had to. He'd tell her the truth, how her days as President were over unless she withdrew her demands for his resignation and gave him another chance. He could regain her trust.
As he approached the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson in the middle of the park, he noticed several children playing tag. Oh, to be young and innocent again.
Suddenly he felt a crushing blow to the chest followed by the sound of a firecracker. His legs faltered like someone had stripped the bones out of them. He fell to his seat but remained upright. He heard faint sounds of kids screaming. His eyes lost focus as everything blurred and the sounds faded. Something was sucking the life out of him. Was this what a heart attack felt like? His chin fell. He looked at his chest; his pressed blue dress shirt was red. What was happening?
Movement caught his eyes. He glanced up and saw mothers and fathers running toward their children, scooping them in their arms, and carrying them away.
Another blow to the chest.
Another firecracker.
Evan Makley fell over and watched as a river of blood flowed across the sidewalk in front of his eyes.
The bright, sunny day grew dimmer.
His mouth filled with blood.
He spit and gasped for air.
Nothing came.
Abigail Love swore she would never do this again, but she saw no other way. She put the regulator in her mouth and slipped in the water.
Three years ago while deep reef diving in the Turks and Caicos Islands, her regulator separated from her mouthpiece as she exhaled at a depth of sixty feet. She kept her mouth closed so saltwater wouldn't fill her mouth. With no air in her lungs and no way to breath, she panicked. In her terror, she'd forgotten about her integrated backup regulator until the arm of her dive buddy reached out and shoved it in her mouth. She was still shaking when she surfaced ten minutes later. She called off the rest of her dives that trip and vowed never to scuba dive again.
Until now.
When she arrived this morning at the cove, the women were in their boat donning their scuba equipment while a man was in the distance fishing in his small bass boat. She observed both boats under the pretense of sunbathing. It worked. The women paid her no attention and continued their dive preparations without interruptions. She did get a kick out of the fisherman stealing glances after she removed her tunic revealing her bikini. Typical male, she thought, always thinking of one thing. Or maybe two — tits and ass.
After the two women had been underwater for ten minutes, she swam to their boat and rummaged though the cabin, under every cushion, in every cubby and storage, and through the women's personal belongings. No book. She heard the faint echo of banging under the water and felt the vibration through the boat's hull. She made the decision to return and eliminate the friend and capture Ashley Regan. She would torture her until she relinquished the book.
It took her almost two hours to find suitable dive equipment in the small town of Butler, but she managed, as she always did. A lesson she learned long ago, anything could be bought if the price was right.
When she returned, she anchored her boat on the opposite side of a point separating the cove from the main section of the lake, which meant an underwater swim of three hundred yards. She was in excellent physical shape and knew it would not be a problem after she descended in the water.
She kicked to the edge of the point and watched as the two women dove into the water. There was something more troubling though; the fisherman had joined them. She noticed the small bass boat was anchored next to the larger boat and realized the fisherman must be the man from Charleston, Jake Pendleton.
This was unexpected. Despite what Makley ordered, Pendleton would die along with Regan's friend.
After the three submerged, Love pulled out her dive computer with an integrated compass and took a bearing to the spot where they dove. 160 degrees. While she descended toward the bottom, she set her timer and tracked the bearing toward the spot. If her calculations were correct, a hard kick at 2 MPH should get her close in five minutes.
She tracked the same bearing and followed the sound on the metal banging. Even though direction of sound was difficult to gauge underwater, volume and vibration wasn't. She could tell she was getting closer.
Visibility was worse than she anticipated but she realized that also offered her an advantage. If it was harder for her to see them, then it was harder for them to see her. She was coming in silent and unexpected. They, on the other hand, were making a lot of noise, which gave her the upper hand.
When the three of them came into view it looked like an underwater construction site. The two women were holding dive lights on something while the man was turning a wrench. Each turn made a grinding sound painful to her ears.
When the man, whom she presumed was Jake Pendleton, stopped, they all seemed to show some sign of happiness with high fives and fist bumps. Then Pendleton grabbed a crowbar and started prying off something that looked like the top of a concrete box. It appeared to be a large metal plate loosely anchored at one corner. He slowly rotated it until it was clear of an open space in the center of the concrete box.
The women looked at each other. Both women wore matching black dry suits and identical scuba gear. With both of them crouching over the metal plate, she couldn't distinguish one woman from the other in the murky waters.