“Important. That’s it, Lexie,” Rosie chimed in.
Something in Fletcher ticked. He’d met a man very much like that just the day before. A man who would know enough about the congressman and his day-to-day life to impersonate him with ease.
But if that were the case...
“Hold on, ladies. I’ll be right back.”
Fletcher left the conference room and quickly traversed the floor to his desk, toggled his mouse and typed in the website for the congressman. He clicked on the Staff button, and up popped a bevy of people. The man at the top was the one he wanted. He captured the image and sent it to print, anxiously tapping his forefinger on the mouse, making the pointer jump herky-jerky all over the screen.
Once the printer spit out the paper, he took it and went back to the conference room.
He had no idea what he’d interrupted, Inez was pink again and Thompsen was nearly doubled over laughing, but he ignored them and shoved the paper toward Alexis.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Alexis nodded right away, handed the paper to Rosie, who said, “Yeah, that’s him. That’s Peter.”
Thompsen took the paper from Rosie and glanced at it. “Who is he?”
“Glenn Temple. The congressman’s chief of staff.”
Chapter 40
Dillon, Colorado
Xander Whitfield
Sam was bent over the files Reed McReynolds had brought them, lost in a world Xander barely understood. He watched her read, her eyes flitting across the pages as she absorbed the autopsy report on Sal Gerhardt. She made little noises every once in a while, hmms and ohs which could only lead him to believe she was finding the information of some worth.
He tried to ignore her and read through the memoir Loa Ledbetter had written. As far as he could tell, she’d come across the Mountain Blue and Gray through a private message board and reached out. She knew all the right lingo, used the acronyms that he was familiar with liberally throughout the text. TEOTWAWKI came up often, but she got into other details—bugout bags and humanitarian daily rations and INCH communications. Xander, too, had these items in his arsenal—in addition to the guns and rations and stored water and iodine pills and batteries, he had a solid escape plan should he ever have to bug out of the cabin in the Savage River mountains, and a way to send an INCH letter that told people “I’m never coming home.” He’d never really talked to Sam about his preparations, knowing they were paranoid at best, but better safe than sorry. He could safely get them to his parents’ farm within three days in a car and two weeks on foot. He figured Dillon was as safe as anywhere, and at least he knew the land like the back of his hand. His parents already had everything they’d need to live, and they’d all be happy and safe.
Honestly, one of the reasons he’d headed willy-nilly down to D.C. Tuesday in the first place was to evacuate Sam back to the cabin and assess the situation from there. At least he had a bolt-hole high up in the mountains that could keep them safe temporarily, if not permanently.
But nothing like that was going to be necessary, unless a giant asteroid came out of nowhere and hit the earth, and the odds of that were astronomically high, which made him feel pretty comfortable with his plan should it be needed for any other sort of man-made or natural event. His prep was as useful in the event of a tornado slashing through the woods as it was for the end of the world.
He hadn’t told her because she would look at him with that grin in her eyes that she got when she wasn’t taking him seriously, the one that made him want to chase her all over the house then throw her down on his bed. And he wouldn’t blame her one bit.
But he was a good Boy Scout. And there was no reason in the world not to be prepared in case of a “what if” scenario.
Sam closed the file folder and stretched her back, the light from the windows catching the ends of her hair, making them reddish in the morning sun. She was a truly beautiful woman, even if she didn’t see it in herself.
She caught him watching her and smiled.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself.”
“Anything good in that book?”
“Anything good in that autopsy file? You sounded like a French chef going over the last-minute details for an enormous meal.”
That surprised a laugh out of her.