At Any Cost (21 page)

Though it seemed the only thing anyone could talk about, Fallon dreaded the inauguration. She wanted to avoid any situation in which she might be forced to see Tom, and she could not stomach the thought of her mother now. Behind the shield of her cold calm, she even managed to forget Antoine Campbell to some degree. It was ridiculous to worry about so many people—her mom, Antoine Campbell, Evan, even Tom—and have absolutely nobody worry about her. That emotional energy was best spent caring about someone actually paying her to care: she worked relentlessly on Robert Chandler's case. Since she understood now that life was worse than unfair, it was diabolically corrupt, she worked intently to see that the hedge fund billionaire would be acquitted.

It had been a week since she had talked to Tom, and six days from the inauguration, when her phone rang with a vaguely familiar number.

“Hey, Fallon!”

She recognized the voice as Travis Hill, a young and too-ambitious-for-his-own-good political consultant that her father used for polling. One quasi date eight months ago and he still called or emailed often enough that instead of simply writing him off as a bad date, she'd had to reluctantly reclassify him as a friend. At least a friendly acquaintance.

“I thought of you because I have two tickets to the Kennedy Center on Friday evening and I know how much you love opera.”

Opera? She didn't love opera and almost asked what made him think so. Before she could utter the question, he invited her to tonight's performance of
Carmen
.

Excuses ticker taped through her mind. She did not find him attractive; she was very busy with work; he was not Tom Bishop.

But this was perhaps the very reason to see
Carmen
with Travis Hill: if Tom Bishop was not appropriate, maybe Hill was … or maybe she had just lost her ability to filter out the losers. Travis Hill was a blowhard who pursued with an intensity that left her unsettled; only in retrospect did she realize he was simply a political animal, more interested in her father's administration than in Fallon. Still, all other things being equal, a date with him was probably more productive than crying all night, sulking around her apartment until she collapsed from exhaustion. It would be healthy to get out there and try to find some semblance of a romantic life, even if it killed her. The fact that Tom would have to follow her around all night, seeing her up close and personal with another man, did not escape her notice either. It was this fact that prompted her to accept the date. She demurred from
Carmen
but suggested dinner, which seemed to make him happy.

She tried to psyche herself into being excited about the date but only succeeded in giving herself an ulcer.

Collin Whitcomb was thrilled about Fallon's date with Travis Hill. The spyware installed on Fallon's laptop automatically sent every email directly from her account to one of Collin's. It was utterly untraceable—and invisible to the user. Without it, he would not have discovered Fallon's plans for a date on Friday.

This was the opportunity he had prayed for. Collin stood up and walked downstairs to the basement where Malkhazi was polishing his weapon.

“I have good news,” Collin said modestly.

“Yes?” Malkhazi grunted.

Collin told him of the opportunity that had presented itself. “Soon Ayrzu will be free.” He frowned, contemplating. “But then we will have to think of a way to outdo ourselves.”

On Friday evening, Fallon walked next door to warn Cameron Chapman that she would be ready to leave in five minutes. But it wasn't Cameron on post; it was Tom. Caught off guard, the cold calm receded for just a moment. He looked so handsome that her instinct was to smile and run into his arms. She had to deliberately remind herself that she would never do that again. The icy calm returned, enabling her to utter the first word's she'd said to him in over a week: “We're leaving in five minutes.”

Before he could even acknowledge her statement, she walked away.

She gathered her purse and her coat, and Tom followed her to the elevator bank. Her phone rang with a call from Travis Hill.

“I wanted to make sure we're still on schedule,” he said.

“Absolutely,” Fallon replied. She was surprised her voice sounded approximately normal; the coldness had not prohibited her acting ability. “Just come right up to the sixth floor.”

“Are there going to be any surprises? You know, the Secret Service …”

“They're totally laid back,” she assured him. Passive-aggression is what it was. Fallon knew it and was too depressed to even be ashamed of it.

Tom stood post at Fallon's door. A man turned right at the elevators and began walking directly toward him. Tom stepped up to him. “Secret Service.”

“I have a date with Fallon Hughes.”

Tom used the moment of surprise to look the guy over. Like so many in Washington, his political ambitions gleamed from him; he wore a suit as pricey and conservative as Tom's, his hair was coiffed and shiny, and he had a used-car salesman smile.

Getting past his own emotion, Tom asked himself the central question:
date or potential assassin?

“Okay,” Tom said, forcing his voice to sound neutral. “We weren't told anything about this. I need some identification.”

Tom watched the man's hands as he reached inside his jacket, scanning his waistline, looking for a sign of a weapon or something out of the ordinary.
Nothing. Back to the hands.

Auto Sales handed Tom a Montana driver's license. Travis P. Hill of Helena, Montana. Tom quickly connected the license to the Hughes White House: a staffer, perhaps, or an aide. Bile rose up in his throat.

“Move back by that door over there, please.” The man watched as Tom keyed the mike on his wrist. “Security room, Bishop.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you receive a call about a visitor by the name of Travis Hill?”

“That's a negative.”

“Copy. He's here claiming to have a date with Avalon. Could you come up for a sec?”

“You bet. On my way.”

When Jason Slaney arrived, Tom indicated the visitor. “Watch this guy for a sec, would you?”

“Sure thing, man.”

Tom stalked down the corridor to Fallon's unit and knocked on the door with more force than was necessary. A moment later, the door cracked open. His heart sank. She looked absolutely breathtaking. Her silky blonde hair was soft and wavy to her shoulders. Smoky, smudgy eye makeup made the blue of her irises pop. Her lips were nude, the clear gloss sexier than a swipe of color would have been.

She was wearing a lace slip dress the deep color of merlot, setting off the golden glow of her skin. And damn, there was a lot of skin. Her bare arms, the lush swells of her breasts, long legs made to look even longer with round-toed high-heels the same color as her dress with satin ribbons tied in sexy, sweet little bows around her slender ankles. But nobody was going to be looking at her ankles. What the hell was she going to do with this moron?

A furious energy welled inside him. He wanted to stalk down the hall and smash that asshole's face in.

Snapping into his agent role, Tom cleared his throat. “Sorry to bother you, ma'am,” he said through gritted teeth, and held the driver's license out for her to see. “Your date is here.” He tried not to emphasize
date
and struggled to keep the question out of the statement. He wasn't sure if he succeeded because a storm of white noise was filling his ears. He wanted to ask a thousand questions and have her deny everything.

Since she slapped him, they had not spoken. Tom had taken her silence for hurt, at first, and slowly decided it must have been anger. She was still angry with him for a completely wrong conclusion she had drawn about his awkward explanation for why he left her in Greece. He'd wanted to speak to her, but after visiting New York and seeing Bethany's family, he had decided it was best to keep things professional with Fallon until they could be made nonexistent.

It was painful, though. Painful to see her face without animation, without a smile for him. Painful to be proven correct by fate. They were simply not compatible.

Not that there was a fireball's chance in Halifax that she would be more compatible with Travis Hill of Helena, Montana.

Fallon looked down at the hallway where Jason and Hill were standing. She waved and called out, “I'll be right there.” She looked back to Tom with an impertinent, happy smile. “Yes, he's invited.”

The door shut softly and Tom walked back down the hallway. “Thanks, man,” he said to Slaney, dismissing his friend.

Alone in the hallway, the guy turned to Tom, a cocky smile on his face that made Tom want to punch something—preferably the guy. “So you're Secret Service, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Are you guys armed all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Seems like a pretty nice job.”

“It has its advantages.”

A moment later, Fallon opened the door. She smiled at Travis Hill. “Don't mind the three piece police,” she said lightly, indicating Tom.

“You look beautiful.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And you smell wonderful too,” he added.

Seized by a force even darker than mere jealousy, Tom was going to strangle him. Right here in the hallway, he was going to grab the bastard by his throat and squeeze until he quit struggling.

Fallon smiled politely. “Thank you.”

She locked the door and tucked the key in her purse. Pointedly avoiding eye contact with Tom, she looked fawningly up to Travis Hill.

Tom walked behind them and spoke into his wrist. “Avalon limo, we're moving to the elevators.”

Travis turned and looked at him. “I thought the mikes in the wrist were just for movies.”

Fallon grabbed his elbow, guessing accurately that Tom did not want to discuss Secret Service methodology with Travis P. Hill.

Fallon kept avoiding him, even in the elevator, and it was for that reason that he knew she was hyperaware of him, and that brought him some measure of satisfaction.

A black Porsche so young it still had temporary tags on it gleamed under the faux gaslights in front of Fallon's building. Travis opened the passenger door for Fallon and she slid inside, looking straight ahead. Tom walked past the German automobile to the limo and got into the passenger seat.

The Porsche's speed remained five miles over the speed limit through the ancient streets of the District. Turning left on M Street, they passed the yellow-windowed building where Antoine Campbell had jumped to his death and then arrived at a chic Mexican-Japanese fusion restaurant that had just opened.

At the curb, Travis got out and opened Fallon's door, then gave the keys to the valet. Tom got out of the SUV as the valet approached. He flashed his commission book and said, “These two vehicles will wait by the curb.”

“Yes, sir,” the valet replied and promptly turned and walked away.

In the restaurant, Fallon and Travis were shown to their table. Slaney stood discreetly behind Fallon. Tom remained in the entryway, hands folded in front of him.

Fallon seemed to have forgotten he existed. She had shrugged off her jacket and was all luminous skin and long shiny hair as she leaned forward, allowing Travis a good eyeful of her magnificent cleavage.

Was she actually going to sleep with that jackass? That mouth-breathing, premature ejaculator?

With despair, he allowed himself to reexamine the incidents and accidents that had brought him to this moment. It seemed to him that that all the wrong turns he had taken linked back that pivotal day: New York City, September 11, 2001. If he had protected Bethany that morning, he'd still be in New York. Maybe he and Bethany would have had a child by now—the subject had come up in the last year. If he had protected Bethany that morning, Tom would not care why Fallon was hanging on to every word of that clown.

He waited for the inevitable feeling of guilt—the same sense that he was betraying Bethany with his attraction to Fallon. But it didn't come.

Just now, watching Fallon, he realized that maybe he was starting to come to terms with the loss. Maybe it was like that sometimes; you just get so used to grieving, so used to being
without
that you shut yourself off from the possibility of ever healing. During that time, women had found something attractive in his emptiness, but he could not reciprocate with anything more than cursory politeness. He had come to believe that his ability to connect emotionally had been cauterized. He had nothing to give any woman.

But that didn't seem true now. Fallon was not only a complication or a problem to be solved. She was a truly decent, good human being who was presently grinning at the smarmy bastard, her head tilted, her long, ladylike fingers loosely twirling her hair. The guy kept stealing glances at her cleavage, and Fallon would tilt her head, giggle, adjust her position, and then continue to flirt.

This was progress?

Tom scanned the dining room, noticing that a few of the patrons were stealing glances at Fallon, and even at him, guessing he was the Secret Service detail.

The waiter delivered the bill for the evening. Fallon's date discreetly paid.

Tom lifted his wrist and spoke into the tiny microphone. “Avalon departing.”

Travis helped her into her coat, and Fallon looked up adoringly at him as she pulled it close around her. He kissed her cheek and as she giggled, her eyes met Tom's. Tom didn't look away; he was too full of rage to look away and too full of jealousy to miss even a heartbeat of this stupid Kabuki theatre. She was beautiful and even angelic in the soft light of the restaurant. Her thick honey-colored hair looked very bright against the black cashmere of her coat. Everything about her seemed so glamorous and alive. And she was holding the hand of Travis P. Hill.

She had the attention of every person in the room now, though she didn't seem to notice. Travis was taking her arm. She blinked like she was coming out of sleep, as if noticing for the first time that she wasn't alone with Tom, in private.

As she walked past him, Tom smelled the rich fragrance of her perfume and her date's bitter scotch.

Tom glowered from the passenger seat of the limo as Travis opened the door of the Porsche for Fallon. She leaned up against him and kissed his cheek, then climbed into the tiny car.

Beside him, Rowland was pushing buttons on the music console. “You mind country?” he asked.

Tom gave a quick dismissive gesture that vaguely indicated he could listen to whatever he wanted. It didn't matter. Tom was not able to concentrate on anything other than the sick, sinking nausea in his chest and the wild, random energy in his arms that kept making his hands ball into fists. This is what he said he wanted. He had told himself that he could not try to split his loyalty between Fallon and Bethany anymore. That horrible scene, watching her cry after she'd struck him …. Seeing the tears fall from her eyes had pained him. Made him want to gather her up and kiss them away. He felt that awful swimmy, panicked sensation in his throat like he was drowning.

Rowland pounded his palms lightly on the steering wheel in time with the music. “She looks hot tonight, huh?”

“What?”

“Avalon. She was smokin'.”

“Yeah.”

Rowland glanced at Tom in the darkness of the cockpit. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, I just have a headache.”

“Late night last night?”

Tom looked at him blankly, and then understanding the other agent's meaning, simply shook his head.

They drove in silence for a while; Tom was too intensely focused on the fury growing in his gut to make chitchat with Rowland. He wanted to throw furniture or smash somebody's face in. He wanted to insert a microphone in the lining of Fallon's coat and hear what she was telling that asshole in the Porsche. On the other hand, maybe he didn't want to know.

Yes he did. He wanted to know.

They once again got on the George Washington Parkway and headed toward McLean.

Kyle Rowland looked in the rearview mirror and saw the follow-up vehicle, and in the left lane was a speeding gray SUV, and several car lengths back was an identical one.

“Check it out,” Rowland said.

Tom looked in the side mirror and saw the two vehicles. “How long have they been with us?”

“Noticed them about a mile back. Not too long.”

The car to the left eased alongside them.

The sound of Jason Slaney's voice buzzed in his earpiece. “What do you guys make of the two late-model gray SUVs?”

Tom had a bad feeling about this. In an abundance of proactive caution, he advised Slaney to speed up and move to the shoulder to protect the right flank of the Porsche. To Rowland he said, “Edge this guy out. Let's get to the Porsche's left and Slaney will get to their right. We need to get that car off the road.”

He hoped Travis was a calm driver and would stay steady.

The gray SUV had advanced nearly parallel with the primary vehicle, but because of the light rain and reflections on the black smoked windows of the other car, Tom could not make out anything until he saw the windows being lowered. A black automatic weapon appeared. As Tom reached for his Sig Sauer, an explosion rang out and splinters of glass rained inside the car.

“Fuck!” Rowland shouted, fighting the steering and trying to take cover as Tom returned fire. Rowland did as he was trained to do and turned the wheel into the other car.