The Kill Shot (20 page)

Night had fallen by the time I left my father's offices. I didn't see Roger on my way out. I didn't see the police officer at the blockade of a desk in the reception area under the Capitol, either. Outside, I didn't see other officers patrolling the manicured grounds. But that was okay by me.

I'd seen who I needed to see.

My father still had a long night ahead of him. He'd called a special session of the Armed Services Committee. And I suspected they'd be discussing the information about her homeland's secret nuclear program that Ikaat had brought with her. No doubt they'd jaw over the observations Barrett and I had brought from Britain, too. I had no idea what they'd do with all that knowledge.

Cold light poured off the Capitol dome above me and the Supreme Court buildings across the street as I slipped from the back of the complex, nipped across the Capitol's grounds. Massive concrete planters, chock full of evergreens and frost-resistant pansies, barricaded the street and made this particular stretch of pavement a pedestrian walkway. Lots of folks were taking advantage of it.

Young staffers and a plethora of interns made their way like sleepwalkers toward the bistros to be found past the Library of Congress. Most would stumble onto Blue and Green Line Metro trains at stops like Archives and Judiciary Square to go home, get some sleep, and do this all over again tomorrow. Because of the long hours they'd needed to put in—and the few parking places to be found—few would've driven to the Hill.

I had, however.

And I had wormed my way into a precious parking space not far from the Library of Congress's Jefferson Building.

Leaving the pedestrian walkway, I headed that way, sticking to the sidewalk and hooking a right onto one of the Hill's cramped side streets. There, under a streetlight, stood a slender woman with lustrous curls, free of their customary hijab. Her face was turned to drink in the sight of the Capitol's rotunda.

“Ikaat?”

She jerked, startled that a stranger had called her by name. But I wasn't a stranger. She smiled when she recognized me.

“Jamie. I did not expect to see you.”

“What are you doing out here?”

Or more to the point, what was she doing out here—alone?

Katie and a cadre of federal agencies would want to keep Ikaat under lock and key for a while. For her own safety, sure. But also for everyone else's—just in case she decided to take anything she'd managed to learn about our own nuclear programs or our security secrets and head back home to share her information there.

Yet here she was. On her own. Mooning over our national architecture.

Ikaat's smile turned sheepish. “I am a guest in a lovely apartment, but in the hall, in the lobby, and on the street are guards. They are friendly men and they wear suits, not uniforms. Still, they are guards. Now that I am to be an American, on my first night in America, I wanted a few moments to be free, like other Americans.”

Well, I could hardly argue with that.

“How did you get away without being seen?”

“Katie helped me.” Ikaat dipped her fingers into the neck of her sweater, withdrew a pass card on a lariat. “She gave me this key before she went to her own home for the evening. It opens all the locks in the building.”

Katie shouldn't have done that.

But I kept that sentiment to myself.

Instead, thinking of the goons who'd tried to kill us in London, I suggested Ikaat call it a night. I offered to take her back to her apartment. But when her face fell, I added, “We'll take the scenic route.”

So Ikaat was all smiles again as we made our way toward the intersection together. I could see my XJ8 by then, gleaming green and shoehorned between a late-model Mercedes and an ancient Ford across the way. Ikaat and I stepped to the granite curb, looked both ways before crossing the bumpy cobblestone street.

Halfway between the sidewalk and my Jag, my fully charged cell phone began to dance in my coat pocket. I withdrew it, glanced at the screen. Philip's name and number lit up the display.

I paused in mid-stride, Ikaat at my side, and weighed the pros and cons of answering. He loved me—or so he said. And I cherished him. But there was Barrett to consider. So my thumb hesitated over the touchscreen.

Just as a car roared out of the darkness.

And drove straight at us.

I gripped Ikaat's wrist, yanked her toward the safety of the sidewalk. The car's high beams hit us full in the face. I couldn't see who was behind the wheel, but I was sure he could see us.

And he intended to plow us into the pavement.

I took off, running full out and towing Ikaat behind me. It wasn't an easy task in high heels. Ikaat stumbled, too, but we kept going. Until the heel of my Michael Kors pump got caught between two cobblestones.

“Jamie!” Ikaat shrieked. She tugged on my broken arm. Pain ricocheted through me.

The engine of the oncoming car sang as it shifted gears.

I wrenched my foot from my shoe, shoved Ikaat ahead of me, and kicked off the other heel. Barefoot, I sprinted for the gap between a Corolla and a Lexus. We almost made it.

The Lexus and the Corolla were parked nose to tail. Not even an emaciated supermodel could've squeezed between them. Ikaat dove onto the Corolla's trunk. I planted my good hand on the Lexus's paint, used its bumper like a step stool. The enemy car clipped the fender beneath my foot. The impact knocked me off balance. And flung me backward.

I fell hard, slamming onto the speeding car's hood. Momentum thrust me up and over the windshield. I tumbled across the roof, out of control and sick with the sensation.

The driver hit the brakes. I bounced off the back end of the car. And landed facedown in the street—with my broken wrist pinned under me.

Agony lanced every bone in my body. But instinct forced me to my feet. The car's bright backup lights kicked on. I pivoted on the balls of my feet, ran for the opposite sidewalk. I ducked behind a Jeep Grand Cherokee.

The car that had run me down shot off down the street. It was a silver sedan. But I didn't get the make and I didn't get the model. It screeched through a red light at the top of the block, leaving a chorus of blaring horns and squealing brakes in its wake. And just like that, it was gone.

“Jamie!” Ikaat ran to me, throttled me in what would have to pass for a teary hug.

“Are you okay?”

I turned, blinked at the clean-cut young man who'd spoken to me. Apparently, my automotive acrobatics had drawn all those congressional staffers who'd been on their way to drinks and dinner, and he was one of them. A number of his compatriots were already on their cell phones, no doubt calling the cops.

“We're peachy,” I told him.

And we were.

Considering someone had just tried to kill us.

But “peachy” turned out to be an exaggeration. I'd used my broken wrist to break my fall. As a result, chunks of my cast rained from my coat sleeve like hailstones and my arm had gone numb to my shoulder blade.

Of course, I didn't notice this at first. It took a Capitol Police officer to point out my broken arm-wear to me. He and his confederates had reached us in record time, thanks to all those staffers calling 911.

Two paramedics took charge of me. They treated me for shock, fitted me with a splint, and immobilized my arm in a sling.

And all the while, I had a ringside seat as all kinds of law enforcement appeared on the street and multiplied. Ikaat's minders were among the first to show up. They whisked her off to the security of her monitored apartment. Plainclothes detectives from a variety of agencies conferred in knots while techs in white Tyvek suits spread out along the cobblestones. Choppers whooped overhead. I could see the blue beams of their searchlights snap on to whip in and out of the nooks and crannies of the Hill.

They might find evidence to lead them to the silver sedan I'd reported. But they wouldn't find the driver. I knew they wouldn't.

Still, I watched them try. Until Roger loped into my field of view. He made a beeline for me, bundled in a blanket in the back of an ambulance.

And Roger wasn't alone.

Barrett's face was as grim as the Reaper's. But he cradled something gently in his hands. It looked an awful lot like one of my abandoned shoes.

“What happened?” Roger said.

“A silver sedan disagreed with me and Ikaat.”

“You didn't see the driver?”

“Of course I did. We're meeting for drinks when I'm done here.”

Roger held up his hands as if I had him at gunpoint.

“Sorry,” I said, and I meant it. But I hurt all over, I was scared for my arm, and I was considerably less than comfortable knowing someone thought so highly of me and my friend the physicist that they wanted to see us dead.

Roger said, “Who knew you were meeting Dr. Oujdad?”

“It wasn't planned. I ran into her when Katie deMarco let her out of her cage for some impromptu sightseeing.”

“Who knew you were coming to visit the Senator?”

“I don't know. Who did you tell?”

Roger and Barrett exchanged looks. Some kind of message telegraphed between them. I couldn't read it—and that got me worried.

My hand strayed to the new sapphire at my throat and stayed there. “Is my father all right?”

“The Senator's fine.” But Roger was pale under his late-summer tan. “Given the circumstances, however, he's been moved to a safe location.”

“What circumstances?” I demanded, scared now.

Roger didn't answer.

Likewise, Barrett said nothing.

And my patience was past gone.

“What”—I spat—“
circumstances
?”

“Well, as you know, the Senator's been deeply involved in the extremely delicate negotiation regarding Doctor Oujdad over the course of several months, and there are some foreign powers who haven't appreciated his position—”

“Stop talking like a damn politician, Roger.”

He scrubbed nervous fingers over his five o'clock shadow. “More than one government wanted Ikaat Oujdad under their thumb. You and the Senator brought her to Washington instead.”

“In other words,” I said, “Ikaat's a target. Because a dead physicist can't help the U.S. And I'm a target, too. Because I helped her get here.”

“That,” Roger replied, “about sums it up.”

“If we're on some kind of hit list,” I insisted, “we're not the only ones. You've got to protect Katie deMarco.”

“We will,” Roger assured me, “when we find her.”

“Find her?”

“Seeing Dr. Oujdad to the safe house was her last duty today. When the report of the attack came in, State requested Arlington police check Ms. deMarco's apartment in Ballston. She didn't answer her door. Her car wasn't parked in its slot, and she hasn't answered her cell phone.”

“She could've stopped for dinner somewhere.”

“She could've,” Roger agreed, “but at this point, we don't know for sure.”

Well, I knew I'd feel better when we did.

“We won't give up on her,” Roger promised. “You take care of that arm. I'll contact you the moment we hear from her.”

That sounded good to me.

Except for one pesky detail.

I said, “I'm not going to hitch a ride in the back of this ambulance. Not if some foreign operative is truly gunning for me. Trundling around town in this thing, I'd be a sitting duck.”

“Barrett will drive you,” Roger said.

That's when Barrett offered my forgotten shoe. He grasped my ankle in his strong, sure hand. And slipped the shoe onto my foot like some kind of postmodern Prince Charming.

I bit back the urge to point out the shoe's mate was still missing.

Without a word, Barrett helped me from the gurney. He steered me toward a waiting car that smacked of FBI fleet sedan. Roger probably wished me well, but I didn't hear him. All I could hear was the rushing of blood in my ears. And a crime-scene tech when he caught up with us.

“Sir, this has been cleared,” he said, offering something to Barrett, “and it's ringing.”

Buzzing was a more accurate description.

Because the thing was.

It was my cell phone. I must've dropped it when the car bore down on me and Ikaat. But the leather case Philip bought me had protected it beautifully.

Now, it lay flat on Barrett's palm, humming to beat the band. And the caller ID blazed with one name and one name only. That name belonged to Philip Spencer-Dean.

Before I could pluck the phone from Barrett's hand—and before I could silence it—he dropped it in his jacket pocket.

I opened my mouth to object, snapped it shut when he turned his chocolaty eyes on me. He hadn't said a word since showing up with Roger. I wasn't sure I'd like to hear what he had to say just then.

Instead of grousing about Philip, though, Barrett took my hand.

As I hobbled along beside him, his fingers threaded through mine.

Barrett drove me directly to the military hospital on Fort Belvoir, an extensive U.S. Army installation just south of the Capital Beltway and located within the Commonwealth of Virginia. He did not pass Go. He did not collect two hundred dollars.

Naturally, being an army post, Fort Belvoir wasn't open to the general public. As an army officer, Barrett had the right credentials to get through the gate. I, however, did not. As soon as a guard intercepted us at the checkpoint, and Barrett gave my name as Ms. Sinclair, it became abundantly clear Roger must've made some phone calls. And that the last name I shared with my father could open some heavy doors.

The staff at the hospital's emergency room was clearly expecting us, too. Rather than cool my heels in the waiting room, I got to warm a bed in a private room. With a nurse's help, I still had to change into one of those despicable hospital gowns, but I didn't have to hang out in one of those cubicles with nothing but a flimsy curtain for privacy. Most notably, no one chased Barrett away. And no one objected to the nine-millimeter handgun I could see riding his hip despite the handsome brown, tweed sports coat he wore.

After a cursory exam with a team of orthopedists, a series of X-rays, and an MRI, I found myself alone with him in my private room. My entire body radiated pain. If I breathed too deeply, I felt like my skeleton might fall apart. So I was more than glad to spend a few moments resting in a hospital bed. Instead of taking a seat in the room's armchair, though, Barrett stood at the door, peering out the skinny window in the wood. He still hadn't said anything to me. And that spoke volumes.

“Barrett, what are you doing here?”

When he glanced at me, his face was as innocent as a tot's at Christmastime. “I'm waiting for the doctor.”

“No, you're standing guard. Who called you down to Capitol Hill tonight?”

Barrett set his face toward the window again. And gave the answer I didn't want to hear. “Your father.”

So, my father had called Barrett to the Hill. He'd sent him to London, too. In London, Barrett had killed Dalmatovis to protect the Oujdads, Katie, and me.

But really, he'd killed Dalmatovis because my father had maneuvered him into a position where he'd had to do so.

And I didn't like my father manipulating someone as near and—if I were honest—as dear to me as Barrett.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “The next time my father calls you, don't answer.”

Barrett left his lookout, crossed the room to me.

He touched a fingertip to the sapphire at my throat. “I'm a soldier, Jamie. When my country asks me to serve—”

“—My father is not the country—”

“—I'm not in a position to say no.”

I shoved myself higher on my pillows. And the pain of that unwise move had me gritting my teeth. “Your country didn't ask you to the Hill tonight. It didn't ask you to bring me here.”

“Maybe not.” Barrett grinned. “Maybe that's why when your father calls, I pick up the phone.”

He smoothed a lock of my hair that had escaped my ponytail and tucked it behind my ear. “I'm going to look out for you, Jamie. If that's what your father wants, so much the better. If it isn't, that's too bad for the Senator. Got it?”

I nodded. Barrett's declaration was as good as it could get. As long as he didn't expect some kind of pledge on my part. I wasn't ready to give him one. I wasn't ready to give
anyone
one. The notion of doing so had panic bubbling in my chest. But Barrett was all business.

He said, “Good. Now, you're going to get patched up and you're going to stay on the post tonight.”

I sputtered all kinds of protests. Access to Fort Belvoir was restricted, certainly. But with someone wanting me dead, I'd feel a lot safer behind the locks, bolts, and security system I'd installed in my own townhouse. Not to mention, I could use the cold comfort of my Beretta 9000S nine-millimeter or even my Bobcat .22-caliber pistol at my side. I'd left them at home when I'd traveled to London.

I missed them.

Beyond all that, I had another concern. Katie deMarco was still out there somewhere. I couldn't just leave her be. She could be in danger—and chances were she didn't even know it. Barrett, however, refused to hear any of these arguments.

He said, “Roger Lind and the State Department will worry about Katie. You need to concentrate on taking care of your arm. You grew up on an army post, so think of the next few nights here as coming home.”

“What?”

“I mean it, Jamie. You have to take it easy—”

I would. When Katie was safe. But Katie also had a habit of visiting her childhood home. Her sister had been sure to keep it in the family even after their father passed away. Katie had told me about it when we were in London.

And I'd have bet gold bullion to bullets that's where she was now.