"You mean you-"

"I mean, sir, that there are several agents on the grounds who'll wake up with raging headaches in a few hours." She nodded at the room's door. "Two of them are right outside. Does that answer your question?"

Dorn nodded deliberately, never taking his eyes from Skylar. "Yes, it does, Commander. Yes, it does."

CHAPTER 22.

EARLY MORNING, and Chief Justice Warren Bolger steered his brand-new BMW toward the Supreme Court building and through the thick fog drifting in off the Potomac River, which was shrouding the streets of downtown Washington. He loved this sleek, black 7 Series, and the h.e.l.l with bloggers who ridiculed him for having such expensive tastes. And thank the Lord the car was all they'd found out about. His family's investment income dwarfed the $231,000 salary he earned as chief justice.

If you really looked at the situation a.n.a.lytically, he was as powerful as the president, maybe more so. Every day Bolger made critically important decisions that would guide the country's social and economic paths and policies for centuries to come. He never had to worry about reelection or Congress overriding him, so he made those momentous decisions free and clear of any childish whining by const.i.tuents. Therefore, he voted with his conscience, not for his campaign manager, the way the president had to, especially at reelection time.

Finally and most important, he stayed in power as long as he wanted to. There were no silly term limits to fret about. A Supreme Court justice might rule for fifty years, while the president was lucky to hold office for eight. Obviously, the Founding Fathers considered the Supreme Court a more important piece to the government than the executive branch.

Well, the head of the executive branch rode around in armored limousines and flying fortresses. Why shouldn't the chief justice of the Supreme Court ride around in nice vehicles?

Bolger laughed harshly. He no more wanted to ride around in an armored limousine than he did on the back of a flea-bitten mule. He didn't need a limousine to justify his self-worth. He needed a 7 Series.

He took a deep breath of the rich leather scent permeating the inside of the car. No, driving this car was a much better plan. This was a little piece of heaven on earth, the ultimate driving experience.

President Dorn had asked him several times to start using a limousine, to start being more safety-conscious in general in these days of heightened terrorism. But Bolger wasn't about to give up his personal freedom or be told what to do in any facet of his life, even by the president of the United States.

Besides, in his opinion, limousines would only attract terrorist attention. And the 140-member Supreme Court Police did a fine job of protecting him while he was on the bench or in his office outside the most important courtroom in the world.

"David Dorn," Bolger muttered sarcastically as he pulled to stop at a red light on Const.i.tution Avenue. He liked the way the radio's volume automatically softened as the car decelerated. "What an arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You'd think he could have called me directly." The president hadn't called Bolger personally to request that he be more security-conscious. He'd left that ch.o.r.e up to his lackey, Stewart Baxter. "And that worm Baxter's even worse."

Bolger stepped on the accelerator the instant the light turned green.

He didn't see the truck careening through the intersection out of the fog until the vehicle's grill was three feet from his door. Even as he screamed in mortal terror, it occurred to him that he'd never heard the truck's horn.

Chief Justice Bolger was killed on impact.

CHERYL LAUGHED mostly good-naturedly but a bit in frustration as she followed Little Jack, who was darting down a sidewalk of the quiet Greenwich side street. She loved the boy as if he were her own, not just her grandson, and she'd been glad to take him in when his mother, Lisa Martinez, had died last year. G.o.d knows Troy would have been lost taking care of an infant. Besides, he was always gone, off in some distant corner of the world he could never disclose. How could he possibly have taken care of Little Jack? How could he take care of anyone?

So she'd become Little Jack's primary caregiver. And it had given her so much joy to do it, since Jack and Troy had been out of the nest for quite some time. She was being a mom again after a decade off. It was wonderful.

All that had been fine until L.J. learned to walk this past spring, and then learned to run soon after that. Now, just over a year old, he was already almost more than she could handle. The boy had Bill and Troy's athletic gene. That it had pa.s.sed right through to him was undeniable, even at this young age. It had been wonderful to take care of him when he wasn't mobile. Now it wasn't so wonderful, and she was feeling her years.

Yesterday, at the birthday party, she'd asked Jennie to help her with L.J. today while she ran some early errands in town. But Jennie had politely declined, which was unusual, and it had been without a good reason, too. Normally, Jennie was happy to lend a hand, and she had always seemed to adore the little boy as well. After all, he was family.

Cheryl had noticed Troy and Jennie not spending much time together at the party last night, not even looking at each other, really. Typically, they were over the top for each other, holding hands, kissing, but not last night. Cheryl hadn't asked Troy directly, but she was fairly certain she knew what was going on with them.

She shook her head as she ran after L.J. Troy never had a problem attracting women. Keeping them was his problem. When they finally understood that they'd forever place second to his career, they couldn't take it any longer, and they left him, completely bitter. They'd delude themselves for a while into thinking that they could handle the long absences and the secrecy. But in the end, they never could. Mostly because he wouldn't tell them what his career really entailed, so they were always suspicious.

She understood that, too. She'd fought those same doubts and suspicions when Bill had occasionally disappeared without explanation in the past. Now she was fighting it again, though this time she was worried he was gone for good. Before, she'd always known he'd come back. She wasn't sure this time, though. It was terrifying, but she was trying to stay strong, at least outwardly.

"L.J., stop running!"

As Cheryl grabbed the little boy's wrist to keep him from racing across the street, she happened to glance up, and her heart skipped a beat. She'd only seen the tall, dark man for an instant, and then he'd disappeared around the corner down the block. But it had looked so much like Bill. Could he possibly still be alive after nine months of hearing nothing from him? Would he really do that to her?

For a few seconds she actually considered picking up L.J. and risking a heart attack by running for that corner with the little boy on her hip. But then she closed her eyes and turned away. It hadn't been Bill any of the other times.

A van skidded to a stop in front of them, and Cheryl's eyes flew open. She screamed as two men wearing ski masks burst from the back, grabbed L.J. away from her, and tossed him into the back as he cried out in terror. She tried fighting the men, but she was no match, and one of them threw her roughly to the sidewalk after a short struggle.

"Stop, stop! Oh my G.o.d!"

Seconds later the van disappeared around the corner with the little boy inside, and Cheryl was left sprawled on the sidewalk with only her pathetic sobs and her pitiful screams for help.

a.s.sOCIATE JUSTICE Espinosa was in his study at home, gathering files off his Rockefeller desk and carefully arranging them in his leather briefcase. He made certain to put the files he would read in the back of the limousine on the way to the court into the briefcase last; the ones that would wait for his perusal at the office had gone in first. Maybe Chief Justice Bolger wasn't going to take the president's advice about becoming more security-conscious, but he was. Besides, Espinosa rather liked riding to work in a chauffeured limousine. It was a glaring and good example of how far he'd come from the days of trudging to school through the slums of East New York in all kinds of weather as he dodged the drug dealers on every corner.

Espinosa was a neatnik, always had been. Keeping everything in strict order had been a key success factor for him down through the years, and he wasn't about to change that habit now. Discipline built dynasties, and right angles everywhere were good things. They were words to live by. He'd taught them to his children well, and now they were successful, which justified all the ribbing he'd taken over time for his steadfast commitment to organization. So he took his time deciding which file to put where, never in the least bit self-conscious of or embarra.s.sed by his obsessive attention to detail.

He glanced around the room at the pictures hanging on the walls. He was relieved to see that all the frames were perfectly straight with all edges parallel to other frames, as well as to the ceiling and the floor.

As his eyes moved across the Persian rug beneath his black leather shoes, he noticed that somehow its borders had become slightly askew in relation to the walls. It was a few degrees off-angle and not quite in the middle of the room anymore. He made a mental note to fix it tonight. He wanted desperately to fix it now, but his limousine was waiting, and he didn't want to be late for his ten o'clock meeting with Chief Justice Bolger. They were discussing an upcoming p.o.r.nography case. And how ironic was that?

He gritted his teeth as he placed the last manila folder carefully into the briefcase, making certain that it fit just right. He'd allowed himself to stray from his lifetime commitment to discipline just those few times two years ago, and for what? A little physical pleasure, that was all. Now those simple digressions seemed terribly embarra.s.sing on so many levels. Worse, they could cost him his career and his marriage-perhaps even his freedom if things really broke badly enough. And how in the h.e.l.l had Baxter found out about them, anyway? That had to be what he'd mentioned he knew right here in this study the other night.

Espinosa looked up from the briefcase when he heard his wife, Camilla, running through the house toward the study. She was a slender woman, and after twenty-five years of marriage he would have quickly recognized her light step even if there had been others in the home.

Still, the pace sounded strange this morning. There was an urgency to it he'd never heard before.

"Henry," she called loudly as she burst into the study without knocking, which she normally did so as not to interrupt important telephone calls. "Turn on your television," she ordered, pointing at the screen on the wall, "turn it to CNN."

Espinosa detested watching news shows in the morning. There was always enough bad information to go around during the day, so there was no need to get a head start on it first thing. The sun always seemed to rise the next morning, he'd noticed, even when he wasn't up-to-the-second on everything going on in the world.

"What is it?" he demanded, glancing at Camilla as she stood in the doorway.

She was getting old and tired-looking, he hated to admit. She was prematurely gray; the lines at the corners of her eyes were deep, and the stoop of her narrow shoulders was becoming very noticeable. All that and she was just forty-six. He loved her, but he wasn't pa.s.sionate about her any longer. She never wanted s.e.x anymore, so how could there be pa.s.sion? She told him her lack of interest was because she was embarra.s.sed by her body, but that couldn't be it. Her body was still very nice.

Whatever it was, she didn't want it. And maybe that had been the straw that finally broke the camel's back and why he'd done what he'd done. Maybe it wasn't really his fault. Of course, that wouldn't matter to the ma.s.ses. The media would crucify him if they found out, and there could be an arrest. He might not end up being charged with anything, but the arrest and the involvement would spell doom for everything he'd worked for and held dear.

"Jesus," Camilla moaned with aggravation when he didn't move. She went to where the remote lay on the coffee table, grabbed it, pushed the power b.u.t.ton, and jockeyed the screen to CNN. "There," she said with a satisfied tone, dropping the remote so it clattered on the table. "See for yourself."

He grimaced as the remote struck wood. The table was a genuine seventeenth-century antique from Boston, and it had probably just lost ten percent of its value.

But he quickly forgot about the antique and zeroed in on the flat-screen when he heard the anchor using the terms "Supreme Court," "Chief Justice Bolger," and "dead in an apparent traffic accident on Const.i.tution Avenue."

"My G.o.d," he whispered.

"I told you," Camilla said triumphantly. "Maybe now you'll put the TV on in the morning."

As she turned away and headed out of the study, one of Espinosa's cell phones began to ring. A chill crawled up his spine when he looked at the tiny screen lying on his desk beside the briefcase. Stewart Baxter was already calling.

"h.e.l.lo."

"How are you this morning, Henry?"

"Fine, Stewart."

"Have you gotten the terrible news about Chief Justice Bolger?" Baxter asked.

"I just did."

"Awful stuff, but the business of running this country must go on. Don't you agree?"

Espinosa took a shallow breath. He didn't want Baxter to hear the nerves that were having their way with him. "Yes."

"I thought you would. Look, President Dorn wanted me to call and let you know that he'll be nominating you to replace Bolger as chief justice in the next few days, if not sooner." Baxter hesitated. "I'm a.s.suming you will accept that nomination." He paused again. "Henry? Henry?"

A few moments later Espinosa ended the call with Baxter. He'd just accepted the nomination from his president to be the most important jurist in the world. He should have been overjoyed and overwhelmed. But he wasn't. He was scared.

Scared like he was standing on a dark beach with a ma.s.sive tsunami racing at him and his feet were stuck in the sand with no way of running.

STERLING SAT in a comfortable chair of his Four Seasons Hotel suite overlooking the east end of Georgetown, supremely satisfied with how things were going. It had been just thirty-six hours since he'd left the jungles of Peru, but already, nine of his a.s.sa.s.sins had made it to Washington. Another four would arrive by noon, and the rest would be here by mid-afternoon. They would all meet tonight as a team to begin planning the most challenging and profitable mission he'd ever directed. By tomorrow morning the mission would be well under way.

Success of this mission would be so d.a.m.n satisfying. The incredible amount of money was undeniably the most important incentive in all of this. But knowing he'd pulled off the most incredible attack ever on the United States would end up running a very close second to banking three hundred million-plus-less, of course, what he'd owe his people. This attack would ultimately be exponentially more shocking to the world than 9/11. Vulnerable civilians were one thing. But to kill so many of America's highest-ranking officials in one day?

Years later, on his deathbed maybe, he'd finally admit to leading the attacks by providing a level of detail and insider knowledge of the operation that would prove he was in charge. He would be famous-or infamous. He didn't care which it turned out to be, as long as everyone knew his name, because that was the goal these days. It was all that mattered to the new generation, which he desperately wanted to be part of. Being "in the news" was the ultimate. And it didn't matter how you did it as long as you did. You could be a sports hero or a rock star. You could even be a serial killer, or idiot sisters who displayed their personal lives for all to see just for fame and fortune. It didn't matter as long as you were famous. The Kardashians proved that.

Sterling moaned loudly, grabbed a fistful of the prost.i.tute's long, soft, dark hair, and tilted his head back in bliss. She was kneeling in front of him on the floor, kissing and licking him gently one moment, then taking him deep down her throat the next.

"Holy s.h.i.t!"

The woman shrieked as Sterling rose up from the chair and pushed her roughly away. He'd been half-listening to the television, as he always half-listened to and half-watched everything going on around him.

"Holy s.h.i.t," he repeated as he stared at the anchorwoman, this time in a whisper. "Chief Justice Bolger is dead." His cell phone rang seconds later. "h.e.l.lo."

"Did you do this?" Gadanz demanded from the other end of the line.

"No, I did not. And settle down."

"Will it impact what we're trying to do?"

"I'm not sure," Sterling answered calmly. Gadanz was worried as h.e.l.l, and Sterling loved it, because that panic spelled opportunity, as any panic always did-as long as it wasn't yours. Maybe now was the time to demand even more money. "But I'll let you know."

JACK HELD on to Karen tightly as they moved slowly down the jetway. She could have used a wheelchair, but that wasn't her way. It wasn't that she would have felt self-conscious because everyone was watching her, he knew. It was that using a wheelchair would have been, in a small way, giving in. And Karen never gave in. She always fought as hard as she possibly could. She never retreated in anything she did.

Finally, he eased her into the wide seat 1B of the huge Airbus, which would be taking off for Paris in twenty-seven minutes. Then he moved past her and sat down beside her in 1A.

"May I get you something to drink?" the flight attendant asked.

"Grey Goose on the rocks," Karen answered.

"Nice," the young man said with an approving nod. "You, sir?"

"Same," Jack answered. "It's our honeymoon. A little delayed in coming, but we're going to have a great time."

"Awesome. Congratulations."

"Thanks." Jack reached over for Karen's hand. Two weeks in France. This was going to be wonderful. It would be a time for them to get away from everything, with just each other. "You okay?"

"I couldn't be better, sweetheart."

"Great, I-" As he reached for his cell phone, which had just started to ring, Karen rolled her eyes. "Sorry, honey."

"You told me you were going to turn that off."

"I will," he whispered just before he answered. "Hey, Troy, what's up?"

"Little Jack's been kidnapped."

A burst of fear-adrenaline rushed through Jack's body. "What?" It quickly turned to rage.

"It happened about thirty minutes ago," Troy explained. "Mom took him with her into Greenwich this morning to run some errands. They were walking back to her car to go home, and a van pulled up out of nowhere, two guys jumped out, they grabbed L.J., and that was it. It was over that fast."

Jack glanced over at Karen as the flight attendant leaned in and put their drinks down on the wide armrest between the seats. Karen was staring back at him. "Any word from the kidnappers?" he asked.

"Nothing. And did you hear about Chief Justice Bolger?" Troy went on quickly.

"No. What happened?"

"A truck slammed into his car early this morning as he was driving through DC. He's dead. It's being called an accident, and the driver checks out." Troy hesitated. "But I don't know. I've got a strange feeling about all this."

"I hear you."

"I need you, Jack. I've gotta get my son back." Troy took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about everything that happened last night," he said quietly. "I mean it."

"I know. So am I." Troy's sincerity was unmistakable.

"One more thing, just so you know."

"What?"

"Jennie and I broke up last night after the party."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. She just couldn't take me being away so much."

"I get it." It was for the best, Jack figured. The bad feelings between them had been palpable last night. "I'm on my way." After he ended the call, he glanced over at Karen again. "I've got to-"

"I heard," she interrupted, starting to pull herself out of the seat with a huge effort. "Let's go."