*
Southwestern Colorado
Montgomery Pierce frowned down at the tuna salad and fruit plate Joanne Grant had just delivered for his dinner. He would kill for a cheeseburger and fries—it had been months since he’d had them—but she’d insisted on overseeing his meals until his blood pressure returned to normal limits. Sighing, he picked at the salad. Small price to pay, he told himself, to finally have love in his life and someone to come home to. In recent months, he’d toyed with proposing marriage, though they’d have to keep it secret or the whole no-fraternization rule among ops would have to go.
His phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Shield’s on line one.”
He hit the button. “Pierce.”
“I have confirmed that some kind of conspiracy is going on in the White House,” Shield said. “Watchdog is certainly a part of it, but the real figurehead calling the shots is a woman—and it isn’t Lighthouse. Lighthouse is somehow being coerced into participating in this and she’s afraid.”
“Explain.”
She relayed the relevant parts of the bugged conversation she’d just overheard between Thomas and Moore, and asked whether Reno had been able to come up with anything new on the president’s special advisor.
“Nothing yet. Whoever made the big payments to Watchdog’s Grand Cayman account has taken extraordinary steps to avoid being traced. Reno has tracked the money through four dummy corporations on three different continents so far,” Monty replied. “It’s time to send someone in to bug Watchdog’s home.”
“Agreed,” Shield said. “Though I don’t expect we’ll hear anything from that. He seems to spend most all his time in the House, watching Lighthouse very closely. He’s at her side at every opportunity, often whispering in her ear. Not enough to really draw undue attention to himself, but definitely a lot more than his previous counterparts.”
“We’ll let you know if we turn up anything else. So far there’s no sign of Agency involvement. But from what you say, Watchdog is concerned about you, so stay sharp and let us know if you need backup.”
“Roger that.”
After Shield disconnected, Monty stared down at his dinner for a few seconds before pushing it aside, his appetite gone. Even if the CIA wasn’t involved, the confirmation that someone outside the White House was powerful enough to exert such control over the president was daunting news. What was the objective? And how many were in on it?
He feared for the country and for Shield. She was a top agent, but she was alone in there, among who knew how many conspirators.
*
Outside Houston, Texas
Jack woke up in the same cuffed-to-a-chair position, only this time in a cold, white, fluorescent-lit room, and she’d been stripped down to just her underwear and T-shirt.
She surveyed her surroundings. No windows, and apparently only one way in and out—through a steel door. Two cameras were mounted high on opposite sides of the ceiling. The temperature was moderate, but if she had to sit still much longer she’d start to feel cold. Her head was a bit fuzzy and her mouth dry.
“So, now what?” she said to the camera facing her. When no one answered, Jack continued. “I hope you kept your word about Cassady.”
“And what if we didn’t?” replied a low male voice. It was slightly distorted—coming through a speaker she couldn’t see.
“I kept my part of the deal.”
“Madam is very pleased you did.”
“She kept her word, right?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“Answer me, goddamn it.”
“I did.”
Jack wriggled in her seat and realized for the first time that her ankles were cuffed to the chair and the chair was bolted to the floor. “Where is she?”
“Ms. Monroe?”
“No, you fuck. I mean TQ.”
“She has prior obligations this evening.”
“What…what the fuck? She had me brought to this isolation cell and she isn’t even here?” She struggled against her handcuffs, but they held fast.
“That’s correct.”
“Where the hell is she?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“What the fuck can you answer?”
“I can tell you that madam will be with you at her first convenience.”
“What am I supposed to do till her convenience?”
“Wait.”
“Like this?” Jack looked down at herself. “What if I need to use the toilet?”
“Your chair is equipped with a pan.”
Jack moved her ass and felt a hole beneath her. “This is insane.”
“Then I suggest you practice control or deal with the consequences.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding,” Jack yelled. She waited for a reply and, when it didn’t come, feared the man had left. “Food. How about food?”
“You can do without for a fairly long time.”
“Not without water, sadistic fuck.”
“We will supply you with water when we see fit,” the voice replied.
The lights were so bright they hurt her eyes. “Can you dim the damn lights?”
“No.”
Jack knew constant intense lighting was a popular method of torture; she had undergone that treatment in Israel. It had taken her years to put those weeks of torture and pain that had changed her forever behind her, and now, here she was, more than a decade later, reliving the same introduction to hell. This was just the beginning of what most probably was yet to come, and honestly, she didn’t know if she would survive it. This time she had Cassady in her life, but she wasn’t sure even her love for Cass would be enough to fight her way out of this.
She closed her eyes and let her head drop to her chest. “I can’t do this again,” she mumbled.
Chapter Eighteen
The White House
That evening
Kennedy left the wall behind Thomas and started toward the president the moment she got up from the dinner table and announced to her black-tie guests that it was time to adjourn to the East Room for entertainment provided by the White House Marine Orchestra.
In addition to the president of Argentina and his much-younger wife, the one hundred and thirty or so invited guests included diplomats, members of Congress, cabinet members, and a scattering of A-list Hollywood celebrities—all of whom had been lucrative fund-raisers for the Democratic Party. But Kennedy focused on Elizabeth Thomas, and not just because that was her job. She couldn’t take her eyes off the president for long, even if she’d wanted to.
The president was stunning tonight in her floor-length Vera Wang gown. The pale-lavender dress was made of a material that shimmered slightly when it caught the light, and the cut, exposing just one of Thomas’s smooth, pale shoulders, was stylishly sexy yet maintained the right amount of decorum for the occasion. And for once, the White House stylist had given her a hairdo and makeup job that Shield approved of—the more natural coiffure and subtle cosmetics enhanced, rather than harshened, Thomas’s innate beauty.
Thomas’s smile, however, was forced. Not surprising, given the exchange she’d heard earlier between the president and Moore, and not to mention the stress of hosting such an important and protocol-ripe event. Most observers probably would not note any problem, but Shield had seen Thomas’s true, spontaneous smile and could spot the difference. None of the smiles tonight had been reflected in the president’s eyes.
Some guests took seats in the East Room and others remained standing while the orchestra opened with a medley of Latin tunes, including “Down Argentina Way.” The guest of honor, seated in the first row between Thomas and his wife, smiled and clapped approvingly.
Then it was time for the prearranged waltz between the two presidents. Thomas had chosen “Fascination,” one of the tunes they’d practiced with. Shield suspected the selection had revolved more around the length of the options—this was the shortest one—than the president’s personal preference, given Thomas’s remarks the day before.