“Morning, Jeannie,” Daryn said.
Davis turned. “Good morning, Kat.”
Of the Coalition members, only Britt and Franklin Sanborn knew her real identity. The others knew her name wasn’t Kat Hall, and that she’d only been an “escort” long enough to establish a cover, but they hadn’t been told who she really was. They would learn in time.
The whole world will know in time, Daryn thought, rubbing her forehead. And it won’t be too long, thank God.
“Is he out there?” Daryn asked.
Davis nodded. “Every morning. You want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. Wrong chemical for me.”
She reached into a kitchen drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes and lighter. She didn’t smoke often, and had taken up the habit at fifteen mainly to annoy her father. No one smoked in the house, and Daryn escaped to the deck to light up a couple of times a day.
She walked out into the predawn. The humidity was up, and thick mists had formed across the lowlands downhill from the house. She could barely make out the dark ribbon of Skeleton Creek in the far distance, the mists rising off it like steam from a kettle.
Sanborn was standing at the rail of the deck, unmoving, as he did every morning. “Good morning,” he said without turning around.
Daryn lit her cigarette and exhaled. “Morning.”
Sanborn sniffed the air. “Should you be doing that?”
“What’s the difference?” she said, taking a long drag.
She didn’t really like Sanborn, and didn’t trust him at all. But he was the organizer, the one who’d worked out all the exquisite, painstaking details of the plan. He had his own motivations-he’d never made a secret of that-but then, they all came to The Cause from different perspectives, with different ways of thinking. That was part of the beauty of it, that their diversity created unity.
“We need to move,” she said, leaning against the railing a few steps away from Sanborn.
“He’s really on board?”
“Just about.” She stared into the mists. “Britt and I have almost literally fucked his brains out. He’s totally under my control.” She took another deep drag on the cigarette, holding the smoke in. The burning in her lungs helped dull the pounding in her head. “Let’s move today.”
“Yes,” Sanborn said.
Daryn ground out the cigarette on the deck railing and left the butt sitting there. She glanced at Sanborn. He’d grown increasingly edgy over the past week, nervous and short-tempered. The open-minded academic and the easygoing host was still there, but an undercurrent to the man was rising. The closer they’d come to today, the more in evidence it was.
“I’ll wake everyone,” Daryn said, and went back in the house.
By eight o’clock all thirteen of them were up and dressed. Tension ran like whitewater rapids through the group.
Sanborn walked into the center of the living room and clapped his hands. “The day is here,” he announced. “Today the message of the Coalition for Social Justice starts to be spread.”
There were general murmurs of approval.
“Four cars should do it,” Sanborn said. “Especially since Jeannie has brought her minivan for us to use.” He looked directly at Sean. “Your Cherokee has some room, Michael. I’m sure Kat and Britt would like to ride with you, but could you take a couple of others?”
Sean looked at Daryn. “Sure, why not?”
“Excellent, then, it’s settled. Michael’s Jeep, Jeannie’s minivan, my car, and one of the trucks. That should be sufficient for all of us. Let’s get ready to roll.”
People talked in low voices and began moving toward the front door. Sean stepped out onto the porch, squinting into the sunlight. The fog and mist had burned away, and the morning was brilliant and blinding. He blinked several times.
“A little bright for you?” Don Wheaton said as he went past him, carrying a suitcase.
“Not too much,” Sean said. He’d taken two big shots of bourbon this morning, then quietly gone into the bathroom and vomited. That had been happening more and more of late, so much so that he almost began to accept it as part of his morning routine. My own kind of morning sickness, he’d thought at first.
Daryn came up beside him and put a hand on his arm. Her touch was both soft and electric at the same time. He thought for a long moment. Soon, very soon, he needed to talk to her about why he was here.
But why am I here?
To find Daryn McDermott, of course. To do a job, to convince her to go back home. To have Senator McDermott put in a good word for me and redeem my career. He repeated the words to himself like a mantra. But even as he did, the images of Daryn-above him, below him, inside her, the way she used her body, giving it to him as if he owned it-crowded his mind, jostling his thoughts like people standing in line for an amusement park ride.
A part of him didn’t want this to end.
God help me, Sean thought.
A communal living situation in an old house outside the tiny town of Mulhall, Oklahoma. All the liquor he wanted, no demands placed on him, and imaginative, unbridled sex every night, sometimes with two women at once.
Sean felt he could just drift away on a tide of the Coalition for Social Justice, with Daryn McDermott, as Kat Hall, steering the way.
He closed his eyes against the sun again. Don’t be stupid. You have a job to do. Don’t be led around by your cock.
Then he looked at Daryn again, the big dark eyes. The conflicting feelings careened through him. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Let’s go,” Daryn said.
Sean nodded. Later. Later, after they’d done the demonstration. He’d talk to her then. He’d get her away from Britt, away from Franklin Sanborn, and they would talk.
Later.
They started toward the Cherokee, two others of the group following silently. Daryn stopped, watching Don Wheaton putting the suitcase he’d been carrying carefully into the bed of one of the pickup trucks, then climbing in the bed himself. The man named CJ-Sean had never heard his last name-had an identical suitcase.
“What’s in the cases, guys?” Daryn called.
Wheaton and CJ looked at each other.
“Hello?” Daryn said.
“Nothing,” Wheaton said. CJ nodded. Sean hadn’t heard the man speak once during the entire week.
“Nothing?” Daryn echoed. “Hey, this is me, guys. What’s in the suitcases?”
Sanborn stepped between them. He’d been just about to get behind the wheel of the dark sedan. “Problem?”
“I’m just curious about what Don and CJ are carrying,” Daryn said. “Those cases seem awfully bulky, and I think we have everything we need for today.”
“Don’t worry about it, Kat, my dear,” Sanborn said. The words were meant to be reassuring, but an edge crept into Sanborn’s voice.
Daryn’s voice rose. “I will worry about it. You don’t keep things from me around here. What’s in the cases?”
“Leave it alone,” Sanborn said, his voice low.
“Goddammit, Franklin, what’s in the fucking cases?”
Sanborn faced her savagely. “C-4. Plastic explosive.”
All movement had stopped, as if choreographed.
“Oh, shit,” Sean said.
“What?” Daryn whispered.
“Come on now, Kat,” Sanborn said. “Don’t be foolish. You’re not as naïve as your little pet over there, after all.” He pointed at Britt. “You understand the world. Going and making speeches or putting on sex shows or sending out press releases will not get the attention of the rulers. Those things are components of the plan, but they will be useless, utterly pointless, unless we get their attention first!” His voice had risen steadily until he was almost shouting.