The End Game

Andy was shaking his head back and forth. “That’s gotta be a lie, I mean, I saw her with my own eyes. Like you said, you shot her dead, and she was on the floor, bleeding all over the place, and she wasn’t moving. They’ve got to be making that up.”

Matthew felt strangely detached from himself at that moment.Andy was right, it was a lie, had to be. Vanessa was dead. True, he hadn’t seen her sightless eyes staring up at him as he had Ian, he hadn’t leaned down to feel for a pulse, but he’d never doubted that she was dead. Obviously they were trying to set up a trap to get him to the hospital. The idiots. He wasn’t that great a fool.

His brain looped back. But what if she’d really survived? Vanessa was smart, he knew that. He didn’t doubt she was a hotshot agent, always thinking, always on red alert, always knowing what to do.

The reporter continued: “The Federal Bureau of Investigation has been tasked with finding her assailants. It is not known how she is attached to this investigation, nor what her role was. We’ll have more on this story at the top of the hour. Back to you in the studio . . .”

Matthew sank back into the chair, covered his eyes with his hand. No, he didn’t think it was a lie, not now. Vanessa was that smart. She’d played dead until he was gone. How had she not burned up with Ian? The hidden exit to the roof—that must have been how she’d managed to get out.

“She’s alive,” he heard Andy repeat again. Andy seemed a mile away, his bewildered kid’s voice like a loud echo. Matthew scarcely heard him. He was utterly unimportant at the moment.

Andy’s voice broke in on him, louder now, “Hey, Matthew, she’s a federal agent. Can you beat that?” Andy started slapping his hands against his head and his voice rose to the familiar whine Matthew hated. “Man, we are screwed. Totally and completely screwed. What do we do now? She’s going to tell them all about us. Wait, she’s already told them about us, they already know who we are.

“And how did she survive? Why didn’t you make sure she was dead? But you didn’t, you just ordered me around and wouldn’t even let me set the fire, and here it was my own special mix, and look what happened.”

Matthew looked toward the grating voice. He didn’t really see Andy. He saw failure, and it was bright and hard and burned deep, making rage grow, roil around, twisting, bending his mind, taking over.

Andy shouted, “And Ian named you the Bishop? Because you’re such a genius, like a great chess player who can figure out twenty moves ahead? Well, you sure blew this one, didn’t you? Talk about failure, this is the biggie, Matthew. They’re going to find us and if they don’t kill us dead, they’re go

Matthew stood slowly, looked to where Andy’s voice simply wouldn’t stop, and said, “Why not get it over with now, Andy?” And Matthew raised his gun and shot Andy in the forehead.

Andy fell back without a sound, his head striking the cheap backboard, flipping him onto his side, away from Matthew.

Matthew sat down again, laid the gun on his thigh, and listened to the golden silence.

Andy was probably right, the whining little puke, so best hit the button now. He picked up the blood-splattered laptop, set it on his knees, opened the program.

He had to admit, it was a beautiful program. Andy had done well. He smiled as he hit the button, launched the attack. The countdown clock started in the window.

His beautiful bomb would show the world power beyond belief. There was no stopping it now, and no stopping him. He was set, he was ready to go, ready to change the world, locked and loaded.

He was whistling as he shoved the gun in his waistband, grabbed his bag. He was only forty minutes from downtown D.C. This time he would do it right. This time he would look into her sightless eyes and know she was finally dead.

If it was a trap, he’d still make it happen, and who cared if he bit the big one? Maybe he didn’t care, he was no longer sure about it.

As he closed the door to the motel, hung up the flimsy DO NOT DISTURB sign, he wondered how long it would be before someone went into that room.

Good-bye, Andy.

He was still whistling as he walked to the car.

64

PAWN TO B5

Georgetown

Mike stuck her face in the shower stream of the hot water. She was angry, but she knew it was no use getting into another fight with Nicholas. In the morning she’d present her case to Dillon, maybe Mr. Maitland, that she would be the best at playing Vanessa. It wasn’t like she was helpless—no, she’d have her Glock. She was fast and smart. She was a professional.

She fumed and fretted as she towel-dried her hair, combed it out, and pushed it off her face, hooking it behind her ears. She pulled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her go-bag.

The bed looked nice and firm, the way she liked it. She had to admit she was dog-tired, and the bruises were singing out loud and clear. She cursed Nicholas one last time and pulled back the covers.

There was a knock at her door.

“Yes?”

Nicholas opened the door, closed it behind him.

“We need to talk.”

She eased out of bed and stood facing him, hands on her hips. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about, unless you’re ready to stop being such a lamebrain about me taking Vanessa’s place. I am a professional, Nicholas, I’ve played bait before, not a problem. I’ll be armed, not helpless, like Vanessa. And I’d—”

He waved his hand in front of her. “Pay attention, Caine. This is a CIA op. Bait will be a CIA operative. Hang it up.”

That stopped her mid-rant. She should have come to that obvious conclusion, which went to prove how tired she was, even her brain was operating at twenty watts. It hurt to say it, but she did. “Very well, I suppose you’re right. It’s too bad, their mistake. What did you want to talk about?”

“About what didn’t happen today, between us. I think we should, don’t you?”

She took a step back. “There is nothing to talk about, since nothing happened. How many times do I have to tell you that? You’re like a dog with a bone. And isn’t that fitting? No talk, do you hear me?”

“Is a dog with a bone better than a bad dog? Never mind. Since you’re shouting again, of course I can hear you. I like those pants and that shirt—what does it say?”

She looked down at her chest. It was one of her favorites: FEEL SAFE, SLEEP WITH A COP.

“So you can read. Bravo.”

He gri

She stared at him. He was wearing pajama bottoms that came low on his hips and a T-shirt, black and snug, and she kept staring.

In the next instant, she ran those six feet across the room and he grabbed her up in his arms, brought her long legs around his waist, and pulled her tight against him.

“Mike—Michaela.” The words sounded magic in her mouth and in her brain, and she was kissing him like there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling his face to hers so she could kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, but it wasn’t enough. She yanked and pulled on his T-shirt as his hands went under her bottom, stroking up her back beneath her shirt, feeling the soft flesh, smelling the jasmine in her damp hair. She carried her shampoo in her go-bag? Of course she did. He was losing his mind and didn’t care. He butted her head back to kiss her neck, felt her tighten her legs around his waist. His hands found the smooth, stretchy band at her waist, and he wanted to jerk them down even as he moved to the bed.

“Uncle Nicholas?”

They froze.