“Wit sack?”
“WITSEC. As in Witness Security.”
“You mean like the Witness Protection Program?”
“Exactly like the Witness Protection Program — which, along with judicial protection, is run solely under the jurisdiction of…”
“… the Marshals Service,” Rogo said, shaking his head and finally realizing why Dreidel hadn’t wanted to come.
“Starting to stink now, isn’t it?” Boyle asked. “But that’s how they work. They’ve got fake offices in every city in America. The only difference here is, it’s Witness Protection 2.0. Instead of just putting you in hiding, they make everyone think you’re dea—”
Overhead, a 747 shredded the night sky, buzzing down toward the airport and drowning out Boyle.
Rogo stared at the frosted-glass building as the adrenaline from fighting with Dreidel drained away and the dread of his new reality seeped into his system. “So when the guard called on his radio, he…”
“… wasn’t just calling his buddies,” Boyle agreed as they tore past the front of the building. “He was calling the United States Marshals Service. And unless we get out of here, we’re gonna get a personal introduction.”
106
Lisbeth’s elbow scraped against the jagged granite as she backed into the clay-colored headstone with the Celtic cross on top.
“Tell me where Wes is hiding,” The Roman demanded, his gun so close to her head, she saw her own distorted reflection in the tip of the barrel.
When she didn’t answer, he asked again, but Lisbeth barely heard the words. All her attention was still focused just over The Roman’s shoulder, where the First Lady read Lisbeth’s shock for herself.
Soaked by the falling rain, Lisbeth tried to back up even further, but the headstone held her in place.
“Wes?” the First Lady hissed like an angry cat at The Roman. “You brought me to see Wes?”
“I told you to stay back, ma’am,” The Roman said, never taking his glance or his gun off Lisbeth.
“And I told you to never contact me again — but that didn’t stop you from showing up at my house — entering my home! Do you have any idea what kind of risk that—?” She cut herself off as the consequences sank in. “Good God! He’s — Wes is here right now?” She anxiously looked up the stone path, scanning nearby headstones. “You brought him here t— Is that why you had me give him that note?”
The Roman stared at Lisbeth, then glared back at the First Lady. “Don’t play for the reporter, Lenore.”
“Playing? That’s not— Why didn’t you tell me!?” the First Lady exploded, her umbrella jerking wildly with each syllable.
The Roman laughed softly, his sandpaper voice grating. “No different than a decade ago, is it? You’re telling me you really wanted to know?”
The First Lady went silent as the rain tapped on her umbrella. Across from her, Lisbeth stood unprotected, the drizzle slowly soaking her red hair, which flattened and dangled across her face like wet yarn.
“Please tell me they blackmailed you,” Lisbeth pleaded, her voice cracking and her eyebrows knotting.
The First Lady ignored the question, still searching the lot for Wes. Just in front of her, The Roman flashed the smallest of grins.
“And that’s it? You just did it?” Lisbeth asked.
“I didn’t do anything,” Dr. Manning insisted.
“But you knew. He just said it: Even if you ignored it, you—”
“I didn’t know anything!” she screamed.
“That’s because you didn’t want to!” Lisbeth shot back.
The First Lady did her best to stay calm.
“They came to me through the Service, saying they could help on security issues — that our senior staff was holding us back by not paying for Blackbird and other good tips. Back then, I… we needed to show we were strong. I thought I was helping!”
“And so you just did whatever they said?”
“Are you listening? They were from the Service! From our side!” she insisted, her voice booming. “I figured they knew best — d’you understand? I never thought they’d— I was helping!”
“Until what? Until Boyle suddenly turned up dead and you realized you’d been had?” Lisbeth asked. No question, that could certainly be the case. But it didn’t explain why the First Lady had continued to stay silent in the days that followed — or how, when she was first approached by The Roman — when the White House was swarming with an internal investigation of Boyle and the group they started calling The Three — how she could’ve been so naive and not even questioned what The Roman was selling. It’s not like national security was her pet issue. In fact, that close to reelection — especially when they were down in the polls — the only issue any First Lady should’ve been focused on was bringing home a second ter—
“You wanted to win,” Lisbeth blurted.
“Roman, I’m leaving now,” the First Lady said, turning away, her pinkie flicking the strap of her umbrella handle.
“That’s why you never reported him, isn’t it? Maybe you wanted to believe it; maybe you just turned the blind eye. But as long as he could help you on security issues — if he could give you the bump in the polls, just this one time—”
“Did you hear me?” she shouted at The Roman, almost crying.
“They learned their lesson with Boyle, didn’t they? They approached you with a softer touch. Then suddenly, Boyle got shot…”
“Roman, tell her I didn’t know! I never knew you’d do that!”
“And now they had it all,” Lisbeth added. “A sitting President behind in the polls… the guaranteed bump from some hired whackjob’s assassination attempt. If it all went right and the President hadn’t been pulled back by the crowd, The Three would say good-bye to Boyle, while putting you, their unknowing new member with far more inside influence than Boyle, in the perfect spot to pass along your helpful new recommendations to your husba—”
The Roman’s good hand jabbed forward in a blur, pounding the butt of his gun into Lisbeth’s face. Blood burst from her top lip, and her head whipped back, cracking against the headstone. Gasping, she swallowed something tiny and jagged. A lick with her tongue quickly told her it was the tooth next to her left front. “Hkkkkk!” As it scraped down her throat, she hunched forward like she was about to throw up, then dry-heaved twice as a mouthful of blood drooled down to her shoes and the soaking grass.
Two miles away, the faint wail of an approaching train moaned.
Staring at the ground as a dry heave flushed all the blood to her face, Lisbeth didn’t even hear the whistle. Indeed, as the rain dripped like a leaky faucet from her hair, her chin, her nose, the only thing Lisbeth registered was the squish of The Roman’s shoes as he stepped forward.
“She’s gonna need an ambulance, Wes,” he called out calmly into the darkness. Reaching down to the back of Lisbeth’s head, he grabbed a fistful of her soaking hair, holding her so she was bowed down in front of him.
“Get the hell off me!” Lisbeth shouted.
“Keep hiding, Wes!” The Roman announced, clenching her hair even tighter and taking a half-step back. Almost like he was winding up.
The last thing Lisbeth saw was the flecks of mud on the tips of The Roman’s black calfskin shoes. And the ball of his knee as he rammed it toward her face.
107