“One condition,” Candy said. “I have to be on top.”
He cleared his throat. “Because of your scars?”
She smirked, bit her lip. “No.”
She kicked off one shoe and then the other.
“This doesn’t interest me,” he said. “We have a job to do.”
She shifted her weight, crossing her arms self-consciously. “Don’t be so literal.” Slowly she turned, bringing the ruined flesh of her back into view. “I just need some help … dressing this before the mission. I can’t always reach, and…” She gave him her profile over a shoulder, her face downturned. “I’m ashamed.”
He walked over to her. “I have gauze in my pack.” He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, just beneath her chin. “We’re all scarred.”
She took his hand in hers and turned to look up at him, her eyes huge and fragile, her fingers clutching his. She put a hand on his cheek and started to pull his face to hers.
Then she laughed and pushed him away. “You liked that?” Her eyes shone with predaceous pleasure. “Le Wounded Bird routine? God, men are so easy . If one lever doesn’t work, just move to the next and give a little tug.”
She walked past him, bumping his hip with hers, making him stumble to keep his balance. “Remember, some of us have more work to do tonight. I have to change. That doesn’t mean I want to fuck you. But when I saw you pretending not to look at me, the picture of strained virtue … well, I couldn’t resist.”
As she wriggled out of her pants, his RoamZone rang. He noted the caller ID, forwarded on from his rarely used home line. Grimacing, he moved back to the window before answering.
Mia got right to it. “What the hell , Evan?”
He said, “Sorry?”
“You should be. Wanna tell me what went down with Oscar Esposito?”
He paused a beat. “Who?”
“You know exactly who. Oscar Esposito, case number PA338724. You said it to me when you were bragging about your forensic noticing skills.”
He thought, Fuck.
He shot a glance at Candy, lowering his voice even more. “I can’t get into this right now.”
Over the silence he could hear Mia breathing.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “No need.”
And she hung up.
Evan pursed his lips, stared at the phone as if it could tell him something he wanted to hear.
“Marital problems?” Candy said from across the room.
He turned to find her dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt, the better to disguise her upcoming night maneuvers. Even so she looked working-class competent, her rose-gold hair twisted up in a bun beneath a stylish army cap, her makeup wiped off, her boots replaced with sensible sneakers. A Hardigg case rested at either side of her. They could have held concert equipment, tools, computer hardware.
“Nothing like that,” Evan said.
“Good. That shit doesn’t work with us. You should know better.”
He said, “I do.”
He thought he sensed a flicker of longing move across her face, but he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, casting his own doubts across the shadowed room so she could wear them instead of him.
They stood in perfect stillness, mirror images facing off over a stretch of patterned carpet.
“You did good work,” he said. “The survey of site. With what’s coming tomorrow…” The words did not come easily. “I’m glad you got my six.”
“That’s what I’m good for.” She bent at the knees and with some effort lifted the Storm Cases. “The dirty work.”
49
Kill Zone
Evan lay flat on his back, staring up at the unbroken D.C. sky. To his right, a barred metal overhang shaded the extended open terrace cupping the southern edge of the Newseum’s top floor. Six stories below that, eight lanes of Pennsylvania Avenue swept by, stretching less than a mile to Capitol Hill. Flanking the traffic, leafy crowns of trees swayed in a faint wind, green wads of cotton. This precise thoroughfare was the site of countless processions, parades, and—especially under Bennett’s administration—protests.
To Evan’s left, the backpack rested on the rooftop. Five hours earlier he’d skated up the sidewalk to the museum, slinging the Santa Cruz Slasher board through the backpack’s carry straps before entering so it would shield the bulky cargo. Disguised in a youthful hoodie and mirrored surfer shades, Evan sported a pair of high-top Vans to complete the look.
He remained still, only tilting his head slightly now and then to check the sight lines. Next door the Canadian embassy rose, the red maple leaf fluttering at high mast. Under the Vienna Convention, its premises were immune from requisition by the host country, which meant the Secret Service couldn’t station countersnipers on its roof. This offered Evan a key swath of hidden visibility.
Across the way in the opposite direction, the Federal Trade Commission Building forged into view like the prow of a steamship, its rounded face fanged with limestone colonnades. Peeking over its shoulder, the Washington Monument’s arrow tip caught the midday glare.
The motorcade’s route was not the straight line between the White House and Capitol Hill that lay before Evan. The twisting course they’d mapped out, designed to thwart malignant planning, lay well beyond his range. The two contingency routes carried the motorcade even farther afield from his location.
That was what Candy was for.
To herd the prey.
He rolled his head toward Pennsylvania Ave. A plastic grocery bag snared on a telephone line above the wide street wobbled in the faint breeze.
From far in the distance, the sound of chopping rotors reached him.
Candy’s voice came through his earpiece. “It’s go time.”
Staying flat on the roof, Evan reached beside him, unzipped the backpack, and removed the weapon.
*
President Bennett ducked into the first of the three limousines, the helicopters low enough to blow his hair out of place. His body man, a Secret Service agent, and Eva Wong were waiting in the rear compartment. He settled into the leather, noting the sparkle of sweat at Wong’s temple.
“Nervous?” he asked.
She shook her head too rapidly, a cunicular tic.
He laid a presidential hand on her knee. “It’ll be fine.”
The agent’s body was tense, his jacket flapped open to grant him quicker access to his SIG P229.
As the three matching limos eased out of the protective shield of trees to join the convoy, Bennett took a moment to smooth down his hair. He found himself breathing a bit more deeply than usual.
All at once the driver tapped the brakes, causing them to lurch in their seats.
Wong cried out, and the agent drew his weapon.
Bennett found himself gripping his seat belt. He gave a laugh that sounded a touch strained even to his own ears and let go. The dummy vehicles behind had halted as well.
A rap came on the agent’s window, followed by a fall of blond hair as Agent Templeton leaned over.
The window eased down.
“Come on,” she said to the agent, gesturing for him to climb out. “I’m taking the ride myself.”
The agent hesitated.
Naomi said, “Get out.”
He obeyed.
She took his place, sitting heavily, the plush leather seat giving out a sigh of air.
Bennett said, “You sure you want to join me here on the bull’s-eye?”
She kept her seat belt unbuckled, her eyes pegged to the window. “Like you said. If I can’t get you seventeen blocks safely, we both deserve to die.”
She rapped the divider, and they pulled out and away from the White House.
*
Courier bag slung over one shoulder, Candy McClure sliced through the pedestrians behind the blockades, unnoticed by the motorcade cops guarding the intersections. She held an iPhone live-streaming from a camera she’d hidden in Lafayette Square on the right foot of the statue of the French general himself. The tiny lens was angled on the northeast gate of the White House, through which Evan’s intel had indicated that the presidential motorcade would exit.
And indeed that’s where the three limousines appeared now, sandwiched in the middle of a host of G-rides, the footage crisp and seamless. The limos halted at the gate, waiting to insert themselves into the stream of the bigger convoy.
Holding the phone tightly, she watched the tires as Evan had instructed.
The back vehicles ground their wheels against the gravel before accelerating, but the lead limo turned them gradually as it eased forward.
The target had been identified.
Threading closer to the sawhorses, she smiled. Misreading her, one of the motorcade cops tipped his head to her, a tough-guy flirt. She let her smile widen.
Drifting past the curved marquee of the Shakespeare Theatre Company, she took a position on the corner that gave her a clear view up E Street. Swiping the live feed off her iPhone, she called up her telephone favorites.