Indeed, and his own fortunes with it. He shook his head, pulling the USB drive from the side of machine.
Let it burn…
“Welcome to Vegas, Congresswoman. It’s a rare pleasure.”
Laura Gilpin smiled, taking the proffered hand as she descended the steps of the LearJet onto the tarmac. Fifty-three and unmarried, she was known in D.C. as the “Iron Maiden”, as much for the physical discipline of her daily jogging as her heated debates on the floor of the House.
She could have passed for at least five years younger, maybe ten — depending on how prejudiced the eye.
“The pleasure is all mine, Steve, but there was really no need to send your own jet,” Gilpin laughed easily, displaying the effortless Texas charm that had swept her into office twice. “We’ll let the media play with that ball of yarn for a few days, shall we?”
“So long as you’re willing to break the President’s embargo of Vegas,” Steve Winfield responded, answering her smile with one of his own. The casino owner glanced up the stairs into the darkened interior of the Lear. “Don’t you usually travel with your own security, Laura?”
“Never when I’m visiting my friends at the Bellagio, Steve. Gave them Christmas off to be with their families. You’ll watch out for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Winfield turned to the short, stocky man at his side as they moved toward the waiting limousine. “Gilad, you’ll be personally responsible for the congresswoman’s safety from now until she leaves Vegas. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, the runway lights reflecting off his shaven head as he extended a hand toward the congresswoman. “My name’s Cohen, Gilad Cohen. I’ll do my best.”
Winfield laughed. “Don’t let Gilad fool you — he’s the best there is. Former Israeli special forces, the head of my security team ever since I stole him away from Adelson at the Venetian.”
The Israeli never even smiled, moving to flank Gilpin as they entered the limo. “Can you update me on your threat profile, congresswoman?”
Gilpin let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. She leaned back into the white leather of the limo. “The usual crazies, you know the drill. I get a couple death threats on Twitter every day, a few people ranting in all caps how they’d like to ‘remove me from office,’ nothing serious. Nothing like it was a year ago, right after my appearance with Frank Gaffney.”
“So, no threats that you would consider credible?”
“None.”
He could remember it all clearly now, Thomas thought, looking down into his whiskey. A night in D.C., just back from the sandbox — spending the evening in the Atlas Room. A blonde, alone at the bar.
No ring.
“What are you going to say?” Nicole Powers asked, her eyes pleading with him across the kitchen table.
“About what?”
“Us, of course.”
Thomas shrugged, tossing back the last of the whiskey she had poured for him. “What’s there to say?”
What, indeed. It had only been hours later, back in his room, that she had gotten a call from her husband. Out of the country, in the Sudan to be exact, working with the JTTF.
“He should have been here by now,” he observed, glancing at his watch. How many minutes was it since he had entered the house? He didn’t remember.
He pushed the glass away from him, silently cursing himself for giving in to the temptation. His weakness.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs outside and the door burst open, revealing the silhouette of her husband. “Honey, I got here as quickly as I could, the traffic was heavy and I…”
His voice trailed off as he saw Thomas sitting there at the table. “Who are you?”
“Have a seat, Trent,” Thomas admonished, gesturing to the chair beside Nicole. “We really need to talk.”
He had to do it. Go now, the voice within warned him. Nasir glanced ahead — they were almost to the check-out counter. Only one customer ahead of them, an overweight American woman with a cart heaped full of snack food, undoubtedly destined for a Christmas Eve party…or perhaps it was all for her. It was hard to tell.
Just enough time. He watched as Omar grabbed a pack of Trident gum off the display, placing it on the counter beside their loaves of bread.
“I gotta take a leak,” he whispered, nudging his brother in the side.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jamal replied, seeming preoccupied. “We’ll see you at the car.”
And it was that simple. Nasir felt sweat trickle down his face as he walked away, struggling not to run — not to call attention to himself. He moved up one aisle and turned, heading down another toward the back of the store, scarce daring to breathe. Freedom.
A double door marked “Employees Only” stood in his path and he pushed it open, half-expecting an alarm to sound. Nothing.
Nasir found himself standing in the storage room of the small grocery store, shelves filled with toilet tissue and paper towels rising above him toward the ceiling ten or eleven feet above his head. His hands fumbling with the back of the phone, he moved behind a nearby shelf, crouching down.
Redial. His breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the phone’s screen, watching as it began to ring.
He murmured a curse in Arabic, his hands trembling. Pick up. He nearly dropped the phone when a woman’s voice answered, “Yes?”
The woman from the FBI. His handler.
Alhamdulillah. God be praised.
“Please, please — you have to help me. They’re moving forward with the attack.”
“Details, Nasir. I need the details — what is the target?”
He closed his eyes, shaking his head back and forth. “No, no, no. You come and get me first — then I will tell you everything. Once I am safe. I’m done.”
“Where is your brother?” Omar asked, holding the grocery bags easily in his massive hands as he and Jamal left the check-out counter.
“He’ll be with us in a couple moments,” the college student responded carelessly. “Men’s room.”
Omar nodded, starting to push open the door of the convenience store. Good enough.
All at once, he stopped, his eyes fixed on a little sign hanging just outside, printed in both English and Spanish.
No Public Restrooms.
His heart nearly stopped, the words of the imam that morning flickering through his mind. Keep an eye on Nasir…I fear his heart is not with us.
And he knew. They had been betrayed. “Find him,” Omar hissed, ignoring Jamal’s look of disbelief — his eyes darting around the small store. He patted his jacket with anxious fingers, feeling the bulge of the Smith & Wesson underneath. “Quickly.”
A noise, something moving in the store outside — and Nasir looked up, sweat trickling down his face. “I’ll meet you at the back of the store,” he whispered into the phone. “I can tell you their plans for the attack, everything — just please hurry.”
“We’ll be there in under ten minutes, Nasir,” the woman’s voice responded. “Just need to cross town. But you need to give me the information now.”
He hesitated, an agonizing moment of indecision — running a hand through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. The rough concrete floor of the storeroom cut into his knee as he leaned against a nearby shelf.