The End Game

He’d stared at her, and slowly nodded. “Yes, we are quite a pair.” He’d said nothing more and they’d walked to Aspen, side by side, silent, Nicholas watching, always watching.

She looked over at him now, speaking with someone whose name she couldn’t remember. He hadn’t shaved, but he didn’t look scruffy or unkempt. He looked like a well-dressed bad boy, walking around the room, completely at ease. And always, he’d turn to her and take her hand, but there were too many people who wanted to speak to them individually, so he couldn’t keep her with him.

Callan was introducing her to her chief of staff, Qui

Mike accepted a glass of champagne, clicked her glass to Callan’s. Callan nodded over her shoulder. “Nicholas Drummond, he’s a lot like his father, I think, and I quickly recognized that man as the complete package.”

“Yes, he is,” Mike said simply. “A lot like his father, I mean. Did you meet his mother, Mitzie, too?”

“Alas, no. But I remember her TV show. She’s quite as remarkable as his father.”

“She solves local village mysteries, you know,” Mike said. “Nicholas tells me that’s where he gets his love of puzzles.”

“Speaking of solving mysteries,” Callan said thoughtfully, eyeing Mike up and down, “it seems to me the two of you fit together well. I suppose you could say you’re perfectly attuned to each other, each of you needs the other. An amazing partnership. You each have your strengths, and they’re complementary.”

“You mean like I’m the wallflower and Nicholas is the outgoing charmer?”

Callan said very precisely, “Do not do that. You are an intelligent woman, Agent Caine. You know very well what I mean.” She looked again toward Nicholas. “And, I might add, speaking as the voice of ancient experience, don’t waste your opportunities.”

Mike wished she didn’t know what that meant, but of course she did. She also realized it was a long-standing habit, downplaying what she could do, turning away compliments, a habit she should break, but growing up with a mom like the Gorgeous Rebecca, it was tough to be cocky and self-assured.

Callan Sloane tapped her champagne glass to Mike’s. “If you ever decide you want another life, give me a call. I could use someone like you on my team. I see that Nicholas and Tony were in close conversation earlier. About Zahir Damari?”

“Yes, he’s still on the loose. Nicholas is concerned.”

“Don’t worry, everyone’s on the lookout for him. So relax, Mike. It’s a party and you’re the guest of honor. Like I said, tomorrow we’ll face the next enemy.

“I sent Tony to grab us some beluga from the pantry. He was in the kitchen earlier with the chef, stealing blinis, I’m sure. The chef said he was making them especially for you and Nicholas. You do like caviar, yes?”

“Certainly,” Mike said. “Caviar is very popular in Omaha.”

Callan laughed. “If you don’t like it, you can hide it under the crème fraîche. Now, let’s go introduce you to some more people who are dying to meet you.”

•   •   •

When Callan pulled Mike away, the president took over Nicholas and kept him at his side. They moved around the room from person to person, Nicholas patiently smiling and shaking hands and accepting praise and compliments, most of them sincere. It was an honor and he was grateful, but he’d rather be eating pizza with Savich and Sherlock, maybe playing a video game with Sean, or with Mike, maybe even pulling those pins out of her hair, slipping those glasses off her nose, telling her they needed to talk.

He saw Mike laughing with the vice president; the two looked like they were sharing a secret, and that made him smile. He was begi

He took another glass of Veuve Clicquot from the table, shook the hand of yet another staffer to the president. He saw the vice president bringing Mike over now. Mike was smiling, but no matter how incredibly hot she looked in her little black dress and her biker boots, he could tell she was tired.

Callan said, “Nicholas Drummond. How is it you find yourself on our shores, working for the FBI? You can tell me the truth, you’re some sort of spy for her Majesty, keeping an eye on our intelligence services?”

He opened his mouth to tell her about his stint in MI6, the Brit equivalent to the CIA, when his mobile vibrated in his pocket. He held it up. “Excuse me a moment, ma’am.”

“Certainly. Take it to the kitchen. The reception in here is piss-poor. If you lose the signal, find Tony, he’s in there bossing the chef around, getting caviar for Agent Caine, who tells me it’s a favorite in Omaha. He’ll get you a house phone.”

80

KNIGHT TO C3 CHECK

The vice president was right, the reception was piss-poor. Nicholas crossed the room, accepted pats on the shoulder and well-wishes as he did. When he reached the surprisingly empty kitchen, he took a deep breath and glanced down at the screen. It was a text, from Adam Pearce.

911. I’ve tried to call, phones down. Plans Damari received in Baltimore were for Camp David. Be on alert. The cavalry is on its way.

He’d known, somehow he’d known to his bones, something wasn’t right. His heart began to pound. Damari was here, close, he had to be.

He tried to call Adam, but there was no cell service. He hurried deeper into the kitchen, wondering where all the staff were, looking for a landline. He spotted one, put it to his ear. The line was dead. He had to warn everyone, get the president and vice president to safety. He spun on his heel, and his foot slipped. He nearly went down but managed to catch himself with the edge of the granite counter.

And he saw the blood on the floor.

There was a closed door opposite him, blood seeping out. He pushed it open, met with resistance. He gave it a shove with his shoulder.

There were two people inside, both unconscious, both bleeding. One was the chef, his white hat beside his head on the floor, and the other was Tony Scarlatti.

Nicholas felt for a pulse in each man’s throat. Both were thready, but both were still alive.

Nicholas ran to the kitchen door and looked out. He knew the guards were all outside the lodge, patrolling. He’d have to get across the large living room crowded with laughing, chatting men and women, and open the door to alert them.

First the president. The brief his father sent flashed in his head as he moved quickly back into the living room.

Master makeup artist.

Tony down in the pantry.

And of course he knew.

His eyes roved the room to search out the president and vice president. Mike saw him, her eyes fixed on his face. Then she looked over her shoulder as if Damari would be right there.

Which he was, across the room, laughing with the president and vice president, hovering at her right hand where he always was. And that was surely impossible, since Tony was bleeding in the pantry.

Nicholas started toward them, dodging people who were trying to intercept him then moving out of his way, still speaking to him, but he was focused, moving as quickly as he could.

He never took his eyes off Zahir Damari, a part of him amazed at the transformation, a part of him counting the seconds, praying Damari wouldn’t pull a gun or a knife, and it would be all over. No, no gun or knife, he’d never get out alive. Then what?