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?
He was still ten feet away when he saw Tony—Damari—coming up on the far side of the president. It took a moment for his mind to register—the champagne. He’d handed them glasses of champagne for a toast, and the president was raising his glass, clicking it against Callan’s and the two of them lifted their glasses to their lips.
Nicholas shouted, “Don’t, don’t!” but someone had turned up the music and it drowned out his words, or maybe it didn’t, but they didn’t register, or they didn’t hear enough to understand.
Nicholas was shoving people out of the way, screaming now, “Don’t drink the champagne!” People were grabbing at him, asking him what was wrong, becoming alarmed. No one knew what was happening, but they kept getting in his way. He saw the Secret Service agents had heard him yelling, and were looking through the windows at him, and then they were inside, now charging across the room toward him, as if he were the threat.
“Don’t drink it, don’t drink it, it’s Damari!”
Callan heard him, finally, and she looked up, saw him racing toward her, yelling, and her glass was halfway to her mouth, her head cocked to one side, puzzled, but the president, the president.