Transfer of Power

Instead of using his brakes, King shifted the car back into first gear and deftly released the clutch. The low-slung car growled as it slowed, and then, when there was just enough room to make it through the opening, he shifted into second and hit the accelerator.

The large tract of land, almost twice the area of the White House grounds, was besieged by the media. The main gate off Massachusetts Avenue was crowded with news trucks pulled haphazardly onto the curb, and the reporters and cameramen tried frantically to get a photo of King's car as it sped past. King kept his foot on the gas as the car shot onto Massachusetts Avenue, the Secret Service stopping traffic in both directions.

He raced northward up the avenue. King checked his rearview mirror and cranked the stereo. Four blocks north of the observatory, and out of sight of the main gate, he yanked the car back into second gear and turned hard to the right, the wide tires of the BMW squealing into a one-hundred-degree turn onto Garfield. King floored it through the residential neighborhood at speeds approaching seventy miles per hour.

At Twenty-ninth Street he took a hard right turn, and one block later at Calvert, he slowed to about ten miles per hour, paid no heed to the stop sign before him, and shot out in front of an approaching cab. The wild maneuver solicited both the horn and the finger from the cabbie. King ignored both as he raced through the light at Co

He was late, and the woman he was meeting would not be happy. King took another hard turn at Eighteenth Street and slowed his speed as he entered one of the most congested areas in town. Two blocks later he pulled up in front of Stone's, a posh, hot new bar. King stopped the car and yanked up the emergency brake just as a valet appeared at his door.

Grabbing his black sport coat, he handed the man a ten-dollar bill and said, "Keep it close."

Standing just inside the door was an Asian woman in a body-hugging red dress with a slit that seemed to run from the floor to her left hip. She looked up at the dashing Dallas King and offered her cheek. When she stepped forward, the slit in her dress revealed a long, toned thigh.

The young hostess had no idea what King did for a living, nor did she care. All she knew was he was handsome, welldressed, and graced the trendy bistro with his presence at least once a week—and usually with a different woman. The stu

As King kissed her cheek, the woman slipped her hands inside his suit coat and placed them gently just above his belt line. King felt the gentle touch other hands on his waist, and a sexual jolt hit him straight in the groin. Letting his nose linger by her smooth skin for a second, he took in a deep breath of clean, fresh perfume. With a furtive grin he said, "Kim, you look gorgeous, as always."

The young Asian woman took the compliment with a smile and slowly removed her hands from King's hips.

"Thank you."

King stared at her for a moment, allowing her the chance to ask him the obvious question about what was going on at the White House. The moment came and went, and it dawned on King that the beauty before him was either severely hampered in the brain department or she honestly had no idea what he did for a living. In either case she wasn't about to run out and join the local Mensa chapter.

King winked and then made his way toward the rear of the restaurant.

The bar area was crowded. The hostage crisis had given the city something to talk about. For Washington bar owners a scandal or crisis was like a big sporting event. Several of the more astute bar patrons recognized the young Californian as Vice President Baxter's chief of staff and began to whisper as King worked his way through the crowd.

As King walked past the trendy rag-rolled walls and secluded booths, he sca

Upon seeing King, she said into her cell phone, "He's here.

I'll call you back." The thirty-four-year-old reporter set the phone down but kept the glass of wine securely in her grip.

"Dallas, where in the hell have you been?"

"I'm sorry." King bent down to kiss the blond-haired woman sitting in the booth.

Du

With an angry look, she added, "You'd better talk fast."

King sat in the booth, and as he did so, a waiter approached. Du

"You're an hour late. That's a hell of a way to try and endear yourself to me."

"Excuse me," King uttered, a touch irked by her comment.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we have a bit of a crisis going on, and I'm just a touch busy right now."

"Don't patronize me, Dallas. I'm very aware of what's going on, and I have a deadline to meet, so when you say you're going to be here at a certain time and you show up an hour late, without calling, don't expect me to act like one of your congenial little empty-headed bimbos." Du

This was the exact reason why King liked her. She was feisty. Most of the women he dated were great arm pieces, but they lacked something up top. Sheila Du

Du

He reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

"How are things with your husband?"

"Shitty," was Du

Rubbing her hand, he asked, "When was the last time you two slept together?"

She pulled back quickly.

"Dallas, that's none of your business."

"Fine… you don't have to answer it, but you're far too beautiful a woman to be so lonely."

"Dallas, let's change the subject."

King had taken her down this road before, and he was gaining ground.

Du

This was the biggest story in three decades, and no one had any idea what was going on inside the White House or the FBI's command post.

No one was talking. The crisis had people tight-lipped. If sleeping with King meant she could get some info out of him, it might be worth it.