Seduced by the Enemy (Blaze, 41) (16 page)

If she took her feelings for Jared into consideration, Peyton finally understood how her mother could have given up hope. But she wasn't her mother, she thought. She would go on, just as she had when Jared had disappeared the last time.

The distinct sound of the snapping of a dried reed had her sitting up straight. Her fingers slipped around the small gun in her lap. Carefully, she removed the safety and eased the slide back to load the bullet into the chamber.

Two shadows suddenly appeared at the steps, the smaller of the two obviously female. It was the woman's large companion that worried Peyton.

“Take another step and it'll be your last,” she said, leveling the weapon at the intruders. The calm note
of authority in her tone surprised her, especially since her insides were quivering like Santa's mythical bowl-full-of-jelly tummy. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Ms. Douglas, I'm Sunny MacGregor with the FBI.”

Fear threatened to choke her. She was as good as dead. “Not a good answer,” she managed to croak.

“Peyton, it's Chase Bracken. I'm—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Bracken.” He was Dee Romine's lover, according to Jared.

“Then you know you can trust me.”

“I don't know any such thing,” she said truthfully. “Mind telling me what you're doing keeping company with the feds?”

“I'm here to help, Peyton.”

His voice was smooth and calm, and he kept repeating her name as though she was some crazed shooter he had to talk down. He might no longer officially be with the bureau, but he obviously still had the skills.

“Where's Jared?” he asked.

She laughed, the sound caustic and brittle even to her own ears. “That's the question of the day, it seems.”

“Ms. Douglas,” Sunny said in the same calming tone Chase had used. “Would you mind lowering your weapon, please?”

Instead of doing as she asked, Peyton stood. If she'd learned anything the past few days, it was that nothing was as it seemed, so she planned to take no chances with her life. “I want to see ID. Now,” she ordered.
“Toss it over here. Try anything stupid, and I
will
put a bullet through you.”

Both Sunny and Chase did as she asked. Keeping her eyes, and the gun, on them, she stooped to retrieve the leather ID holders they'd tossed at her feet.

Although convinced of their identities, she refused to put the gun away until they answered her questions. “Okay, you are who you say you are. But that still doesn't mean I can trust you. How did you find me here? No one knows about this place.”

“We did a search of public records,” Sunny explained. “Your son was born at St. Andrew's Hospital in Biddeford.”

“We're forty miles away from Biddeford. That still doesn't explain how you found me.”

“Your medical records from the hospital told us your emergency contact was Harry Shanks. Actually, we were looking for him, hoping he'd provide us with information on where to locate you and Romine. One of the sisters at the Biddeford home told us he often comes here, and mentioned you stayed with him for a few months before your baby was born.”

“Peyton, we came to help,” Chase repeated.

She tapped the leather wallets containing Sunny's and Chase's identification against her thigh. She'd made the wrong choice once where Jared was concerned. To betray him yet again was not something she wanted to spend the rest of her life regretting. Still, she couldn't forget the fact that the night they'd left D.C., he'd told her if anything happened, she was to make her way to Cole Harbor and Chase Bracken. Chase would know what to do, Jared had insisted.

Slowly, she lowered the gun and engaged the
safety. “Come inside and we can talk. I hope you're hungry,” she said, handing them back their IDs. “When Harry's upset or worried, he cooks. A lot. He's been frying chicken for the past two hours, so I know there's more than enough food to feed a small army.”

She led the way into the cottage. Under the soft lamplight, she was able to get a good look at Sunny and Chase. Sunny was a perfect name for the petite blond agent, she thought, as she held the door for Chase to enter. He, on the other hand, was a big guy, easily four inches taller than Jared.

“Does Jared's sister know you're here?” she asked him.

A wry grin canted his mouth, and his lilac eyes softened. “Yeah,” he said, “Dee knows. She wanted to be here, but one of her patients is about ready to go into labor. She did give me a message for you, though.”

“She did? For me?” Peyton was surprised, as she'd never met Jared's younger sister.

Chase nodded. “She said to tell you she's anxious to meet the woman who stole her brother's heart.”

Peyton offered up a wobbly smile. Someday. Maybe. Provided they got out of this alive.

T
HE WAY HE SAW IT
, Jared had only one option available to him, regardless of the risk to his own life, and possibly Peyton's, as well. But he'd made a decision that consisted of finding someone to believe his story now that he had all but one of the pieces in place. Unfortunately, time had definitely run out, now that the formal announcement of Galloway's appointment to the high court had been made public.

At precisely nine o'clock, Jared parked Harry's Jeep in the first unattended public parking garage he could find deep in the heart of the city. After a cursory glance around the area to make certain he wasn't being watched, he stepped from the vehicle and reached under the seat for the pistol Harry had insisted he take with him.

With the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans and hidden by this worn, leather bomber jacket, he gathered the envelope of evidence from the passenger seat. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, without drawing unwanted attention, he walked the short distance to Fifteenth Street, then hurried two more blocks to the offices of the
Washington Post.
He'd never been a friend of the media; in fact, he viewed most of the reporters on the bureau beat as a colossal pain in the ass, and had always done his best
to avoid talking to them. When an agent worked undercover assignments, the last thing he needed was for his face to be plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the country, with a story congratulating or condemning him for doing his job.

Despite the late hour, the main door was unlocked. If Jared's luck continued to hold, there just might be a reporter still in the building.

A security guard sat behind an enormous marble monstrosity that served as a reception desk. Jared gave a moment's thought to ignoring the guard and heading straight for the elevators, but something that reckless practically guaranteed that cops would be storming the building in no time flat.

He walked up to the heavyset guard. “I need to talk to one of your reporters.”

The guard set down on a sheet of waxed paper a tuna sandwich oozing mayonnaise. “Your name?” he asked, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

Jared thought about lying, but figured he'd get further with the truth. “Jared Romine.”

The guard narrowed his eyes slightly, but didn't reach for the holstered revolver at his side. Jared took that as a good sign. After only a brief hesitation, the guard picked up the phone and punched in four numbers.

Jared breathed a sigh of relief. The rent-a-cop could have easily dialed the local police or even the bureau, no doubt collecting a hefty reward for the arrest and conviction of one of the FBI's biggest embarrassments. Thankfully, the guy was loyal to his employer and the “if it bleeds it leads” mentality of the news media.

“Jared Romine to see Mr. Stanton,” the guard said into the receiver. “Yes, sir, he sure did.” The guard paused for a moment. “No, I didn't ask for ID, but it's him.” Another pause. “Right away.”

“Go on up,” the guard said as he hung up the phone. “Third floor. Ford Stanton will be waiting for you.”

Jared thanked the guard. Within moments he stepped off the elevator onto the third floor. A tall, young, athletic looking reporter stood in the corridor waiting for him. “Jared Romine?”

Jared nodded. “Stanton?” he asked cautiously. He'd never seen the guy before, which meant he'd never had the opportunity to step on his toes. Another stroke of luck—good luck for a change.

The guy grinned from ear to ear. “I have a feeling tonight's going to be the defining moment in my career,” he said as he pumped Jared's hand.

A half grin tipped Jared's mouth at the reporter's eagerness for a hot story. Heaven must be really on his side tonight. “Then you know who I am?”

Stanton sobered immediately. “There isn't a reporter in town who hasn't followed your story. Let's go somewhere we can talk.”

Jared followed Stanton to a small private conference room and declined the offer for coffee. Stanton disappeared long enough to retrieve a tape recorder, an arsenal of blank tapes and a yellow legal pad, along with a half-dozen pencils.

Jared settled in the standard desk chair for what was going to be a very long conversation.

“One question before we get started,” Stanton said. “Why come to the
Post?
”

“Because the
Post
has a reputation for never running scared from a political scandal,” he stated honestly. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “And what I'm about to tell you will sure as hell stir up a whole lot of trouble.”

Stanton's grin returned with a vengeance. “Sounds like my kind of story.”

 

O
NE OF THE PERKS
of working as a close personal aide to Senator Martin Phipps was going to the round of parties the senator failed to personally attend. More often than not, Phipps sent Steve in his stead to offer his apologies, usually stating an urgent business matter that required his attention at the last minute. Tonight's celebration honoring Theodore Galloway and his appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court was no exception.

Steve sipped Dom Pérignon from an elegant crystal flute, feeling more in his element than ever before. He held back a smile. If only the esteemed guests at the party knew the senator's urgent last-minute business consisted of a room at the Horton in the company of a “date” that charged a hefty hourly fee so the senator could indulge in his eccentric sexual appetite.

Other than a few empty, albeit cordial, comments regarding the senator's absence, not a single guest raised a brow at Steve's being there. He'd become a recognized and respected figure within Washington's tight-knit membership of back stabbers and deal makers.

Rumor had it that the vice president and perhaps even the president were scheduled to make a brief
appearance at the party. It never hurt to be seen by two such important men.

Once he had Romine and Douglas silenced, which had better be soon, and Boswell appointed to the Supreme Court, Steve planned to make a request of the senator. For a man having political designs that did not include running for office, there was only so far someone like Steve could rise in his career, but he had plans. Big plans that would take him directly to the top office. And he had more than enough information on the senator to completely ruin the man if he refused to cooperate.

The time had come to put the dirt he had on Phipps to good use, and move on to a bigger and more powerful position…as aide to the vice president of the United States. There was little doubt in Steve's mind that the current president would serve another term. With the growing popularity of the vice president, thanks to his patient rights platform, he was a contender for the big job himself once the president finished his second term in office.

Steve took another sip of champagne as he half listened to a congratulatory speech by the Speaker of the House. Aide to the president of the United States. Better yet, chief of staff. Oh, he really liked the sound of that. Not bad for trailer trash, either, he thought, with a slight inclination of his head in greeting to a freshman senator from New York, who'd arrived late for the party.

The cell phone tucked in the inside pocket of his Armani tuxedo vibrated noiselessly. Under normal circumstances, Steve would ignore it and allow his voice mail to take the call. Only these were not normal cir
cumstances. Not with Romine still on the loose and, he feared, getting closer to the truth.

He walked to the back of the room and slipped into a carpeted hallway. Entering the first door he came to, he stepped inside a private study and closed the door after flipping on the light. “Radcliffe.”

“Mr. Radcliffe. Ford Stanton from the
Washington Post.
”

Steve's ears started to buzz, a low-sounding hum that slowly took over his body. “How did you get this number?” he demanded, but his voice lacked its usual authority. Only three people had the number to his private cell phone, and a reporter from the
Post
was not one of them.

“Mr. Radcliffe, would you confirm that you provided Attorney William Minor with funds from Senator Phipps, which you authorized for disbursement into accounts held by Justice Department Council Peyton Douglas?”

Steve reached blindly for the floral-patterned wing chair in front of the rich, cherrywood desk. Minor had gone to the papers. That was the only explanation he could come up with to explain how a
Washington Post
reporter knew he was connected to the cover-up. “I have no comment,” he said, and quickly disconnected the call.

How the hell had some nobody reporter gotten Minor to talk? Worse, how had the reporter even known of Minor's existence? There was only one answer, and it made the blood in Steve's veins turn to ice water. Jared Romine.

Maybe he was overreacting. Perhaps the reporter
had only been on a fishing expedition. But he'd known about Minor. This was not good.

William Minor had not only been paid handsomely for his services, and his silence, but Steve made sure there was a constant and steady stream of clients sent his way.

No, he thought with a desperate shake of his head. The reporter must've talked to Minor, because there was no way to connect Steve to the filtering of money into the Douglas account without confirmation from the lawyer. He had no idea exactly what Minor had told the reporter, but it sounded as if he'd sung like a goddamn canary.

Steve took a deep breath, then another, before he tucked his cell phone back into the pocket of his tuxedo. He sure hoped the big-mouthed bastard had enjoyed the sunset tonight, because it was definitely going to be his last.

Feeling slightly more in control, he left the quiet study and went to make arrangements for Minor's permanent disappearance.

 

M
OST REPORTERS HAD
a string of resources and contacts that even the feds envied, and Ford Stanton was no exception. Producing the private cell number of the aide who had replaced Roland Santiago was nothing short of good networking. Plus, it appeared they'd hit pay dirt with one phone call.

“It's not an official confirmation as far as the story goes,” Stanton said, “but it's enough for me to believe that Steven Radcliffe is involved.”

Jared couldn't disagree. It made perfect sense. Radcliffe had replaced Santiago, which translated to a job
description that included keeping the senator's dirty little secrets and covering up the senator's indiscretions. Jared already knew Phipps wasn't what he appeared, since he and Dysert had been assigned to investigate the senator over three years ago. What he hadn't understood, however, was that even after Jared's disappearance, there'd never been any word of an investigation of the senator. A clue that had made it obvious to him that someone high up in the bureau had been involved with Phipps, or perhaps even Radcliffe.

“Minor's going to need protection,” Jared told Ford. “Immediately. Especially if you're right about this.”

Ford sat back in the chair and grinned. “Oh, I'm right, all right. I have a contact or two in the bureau who can make sure Minor isn't harmed.”

Jared shook his head. “No! We don't know yet who in the bureau is involved. You make the wrong contact and Minor is as good as dead. The guy deserves to be disbarred for the part he's played, but not killed.”

Ford leaned forward and pointed to the papers scattered on the table—documents Jared had brought with him to back up his claim. “Relax, Romine. I know what I'm doing.”

Jared didn't like what he believed was Stanton's sudden overconfidence. It hadn't only been lack of information that had kept him on the run for three years, but a lack of trust. Gibson Russell had assigned him and Dysert to the Phipps investigation, and only Gib had known the two of them weren't together the night Dysert and Santiago were killed. Someone high in the bureau was involved—maybe Gib, maybe
someone else. The exact identity of the dirty agent continued to remain a mystery—a deadly mystery, as far as Jared was concerned.

Ford stood and gathered up the papers, his tapes and notes. “Come on, Romine. We're going for a ride.”

“Ride? Ride where?”

That ever-present grin on Ford's face widened. “We're going to pay a little visit to Dawson Craig.”

Jared couldn't quite believe his ears. “Dawson Craig? As in Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Dawson Craig?”

Ford chuckled. “The one and only.”

“Dawson Craig is one of your contacts within the bureau?” he asked incredulously. In all the years he'd been with the FBI, even he'd never had any direct contact with the director himself. The fact that a junior staff reporter of the
Post
did blew him away.

“Yeah,” Ford said with more of that cocksure confidence Jared was slowly beginning to admire. “It really helps when you've got an older sister married to the old man's son.”

 

A
HALF HOUR LATER
, two agents personally selected by Director Dawson Craig were stationed inside William Minor's Arlington, Virginia, home. Minor himself had been moved to protective custody, where he would remain until Radcliffe was safely under arrest. And it'd all been ordered from the director's kitchen table.

Dawson laid his cell phone on the oak table and gave Jared a hard look, his pale blue eyes missing nothing. “Okay, I've done as you asked, Agent Rom
ine, based on the scant information Ford gave me. Now I want a full explanation, or I will personally place you under arrest.”

Jared drained his glass of single malt scotch. He'd expected to either be arrested or shot on sight, not invited to sit at the director of the bureau's kitchen table with a glass of whiskey. The fact that he had said a hell of a lot for the director's faith in Ford Stanton and his insistence that a lowly Washington lawyer needed immediate protection.