Sean shook his head. “Thanks. So tell me, Don. What’s your story?”
Wheaton shrugged, working his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “No real story,” he drawled. “I’m in heavy construction. I live in Noble. Got tired of scraping and struggling and other people getting rich off my sweat.”
Sean noticed a silver wedding band on the man’s finger. “Is your wife here with you?”
Wheaton looked embarrassed, fiddling with the ring. “No, but she understands. I call her every other day.”
He tossed Sean’s duffel onto the queen-size mattress in the little room, then backed away.
“Where will the women sleep?” Sean asked. “Kat and Britt.”
Wheaton looked amused. “Well, with you, of course. Aren’t you with them?”
“Well, I…” Sean shut up.
“Some guys have all the luck,” Wheaton said, and went off down the hall.
Sean headed downstairs, where the group was assembling. In addition to a diversity of age, there were two black men, one black woman, and a very young, college-age Asian woman. There were two middle-aged men who stayed very close to each other, and by their body language, Sean took them to be a gay couple. He shook his head. The Coalition for Social Justice was unlike any extremist group he’d ever known. But then, with Daryn McDermott as one of the driving forces behind it, that made sense. She was certainly unlike any woman he’d known.
Franklin Sanborn sat in one of the battered armchairs at the periphery of the group. “Let’s get started,” he said. He was still genial, with the easygoing air, but now there was something else underlying it, a let’s-get-down-to-business sort of urgency.
Sean slid onto one of the couches, squeezing between Kat and one of the black men. Britt was on Kat’s other side, pressed close to her. Sean tried several times to catch Britt’s eye, but she never looked at him.
Partners in this deception, Sean thought, and she doesn’t want to acknowledge me, doesn’t want to acknowledge her own part in it.
Sanborn looked directly at Sean. “For the benefit of our newest members, I should explain that we do have one tiny little ritual that we observe at all general meetings.”
Sean stiffened slightly.
“Don’t worry, Michael,” Sanborn said. “No ritual bloodletting. Not even a secret handshake.” There were a few chuckles from around the room. “We simply reaffirm verbally our commitment to the cause.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll begin. I’m Franklin Sanborn, and I accept the Coalition for Social Justice’s mission and objectives.”
He nodded to his left. A heavyset blond woman in her thirties said, “I’m Jeannie Davis, and I accept the Coalition.”
And so it went around the room. Sean was reminded eerily of the AA meeting Faith had dragged him to-I’m Jack and I’m an alcoholic. Hi, Jack!-but when it came to him, he said, “I’m Michael Sullivan, and I accept the Coalition.” His hands were trembling a little, and he had to sit on one of them to keep Daryn from seeing. It was late afternoon, and he hadn’t had a drink since morning. Just a couple of shots to steady myself. That’s all I need.
Daryn beamed at him and said, “I’m Katherine Hall. I accept the Coalition and believe it will change America!”
There was scattered applause. After it died down, Britt said in a small voice, “I’m Brittany Ray. I believe in Kat, so I believe in the Coalition.”
Sanborn nodded approvingly. “Thank you, friends.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and touched his index fingers to his lips, looking very professorial. “We’ve had many discussions about how to get the attention of the ruling classes in this country. They weary us with moralistic platitudes and blather on about ‘family values,’ as if every family in America shares the same values, as if we were all carbon copies of each other. While oil companies and brokerage houses reap record profits and their CEOs earn tens of millions of dollars for doing essentially nothing, real people struggle for their lives every day. Women like Kat and Britt have no protection, no health care. People like Jeannie, a social worker, someone who helps others on a daily basis, can barely make ends meet. It’s wrong, and we know it’s wrong.”
Sanborn’s gaze traveled the room. He made eye contact with everyone, lingering for a moment on Daryn.
What’s with the two of them? Sean wondered. Just the connection between the two leaders of the group, or something deeper? He felt a pang of what he recognized as jealousy.
What the hell is happening to me? This is a job, an undercover operation to get Daryn McDermott to come back home willingly. Gain her trust. Bring her back. Period.
But it’s not that simple anymore.
“But then, I’m preaching to the choir, right?” Sanborn said, to another round of chuckles. “What defines the ruling classes?”
“Money,” one of the men said.
“Exactly,” Sanborn said, clapping his hands together. “So we strike at the monetary system. Many groups with radical ideas have tried many things to get the world’s attention. Just a few miles from here, in downtown Oklahoma City, is the evidence of one of them. Did the Murrah Building bombing really accomplish anything? Of course not. Timothy McVeigh was an idiot. Was one single governmental policy changed because of his strike?” Sanborn shook his head.
“It’s because he didn’t strike at the rulers,” Daryn said, leaning forward. “In fact, the people he hurt, the people he murdered, were real people, low and midlevel employees who were all at the mercy of the policy makers, just like the rest of us. That should be a lesson to all of us. To bring about change, real societal change, means you strike at those who have the most to lose.” She smiled. “And you hit them where it hurts.”
Sanborn nodded. “The rulers derive their power from their money. We don’t live in a democracy or a republic anymore. Elections are bought and sold. It’s all about the money. No attempt at reforming the system from within will work, because of the enormous sums of money involved. No ruler wants to give up his kingdom, after all.” He spread his hands apart. “So we strike at the money.”
The man who’d been making notes earlier at the coffee table raised a hand. He had introduced himself as Alan Davenport. “We’ll make surgical strikes at banks. Not to rob them, of course. That’s a silly cliché. To damage them. To destroy them, in some cases.”
Sean’s pulse quickened. They were talking about terrorist acts, pure and simple. Blowing up banks. Good God, they’re a bunch of terrorists! They have a wholesome-sounding name and they’re not blithering idiots, but they’re planning acts of terrorism!
He must have unconsciously made a noise, because Sanborn and Davenport were both looking at him. “Yes, Michael?” Sanborn said. “Do you have something to offer to the discussion?”
Sean’s mouth twitched. Jesus God Almighty, I’ve never needed a drink like I need one right now.
“Michael?” Daryn said.
Daryn McDermott. The reason he was here. How far would he have to go with this? How deeply into her extremist politics did he have to go to get her to trust him, to convince her to go with him? He was still technically a federal law enforcement officer, after all. How much longer could he do this? How much further could he go?
He looked at Daryn, at those deep dark eyes, that perfect face, at a silent plea that she sent to him. For a moment he thought he would do anything for her. She’d seduced him with her body and her mind, had reached into his essence like no one ever had. He understood how Britt-poor tragic Britt, naïve and worldly at the same time-could view Daryn with such utter and absolute devotion. She was intoxicating, more so than any drink he’d ever had.
But how far can I go?