Bloody Politics (21 page)

Danny kissed me lightly on the lips. “We won't be seeing him again. He's made a bunch of really badass enemies. And they will take care of Trask. Either before he leaves the country, or more likely, once he lands abroad somewhere. He won't last forty-eight hours.”

“Promise?” I said, realizing how bloodthirsty I sounded. I didn't give a damn.

“Promise,” Danny said, then leaned down and gave me a real kiss.

Monday evening

Larry Fillmore walked down the hallway to the office door bearing the nameplate,
Spencer Graham Associates.
He licked his dry lips twice, then tried the door. It was locked. So he knocked lightly, twice.

Within seconds, the door opened and a man he'd never seen before at Spencer's office appeared. An Asian man. He stared impassively at Larry.

“I—I'm Larry Fillmore. I had a text message from Spencer Graham that I was to meet his associate here at six this evening.”

“You may come in,” the man said, stepping back and opening the door for Larry to enter.

Larry looked around Spencer's office, hoping to see him, but he was nowhere. “Is … is Spencer here?”

“No, he is not,” the man said, walking toward the door to Spencer's inner office. “His associate is expecting you.”

Larry obediently followed the man into Spencer's office. That luxurious inner sanctum Larry had only been privileged to visit once. Instead of the savvy, hard-drinking lobbyist and manipulator sitting behind the mahogany desk, a slender Asian man sat there, smoking a cigarette. Gray streaked through this man's jet-black hair. High cheekbones, thin face, and dark eyes. Larry could spot expensive tailoring even behind the desk. Gold cuff links also caught the light from the decorative hanging light above.

“Good evening, Mr. Fillmore,” the man said as Larry approached the desk. “Thank you for coming. I am an associate of Spencer Graham and will be handling this transition.”

“And you are?” Larry ventured.

The man gave a small, cold smile. “I am one of his associates. Spencer won't be returning, I'm afraid. He suffered a health crisis after he left Washington a few days ago. He's resting abroad.”

Larry got a bad feeling, hearing the words “health crisis.” “Uh, I'm sorry to hear that. Please … please convey my sympathies.”

The man took a long draw on his cigarette, then blew out a stream of white smoke. “I'll be sure to. The reason my associates and I asked you here, Mr. Fillmore, is to convey the message that we expect you to act with the utmost discretion if asked about Spencer's whereabouts. We request that you relay only the information conveyed to you. A health crisis prevents Spencer's return to the United States, and his company is presently being liquidated. Do you understand, Mr. Fillmore?”

Larry tried to swallow around the large lump of fear that had risen in his throat. It started when the man raised his hand to his mouth with the cigarette. Larry recognized the huge gold ring with an enormous diamond on the man's left hand.

Spencer Graham's ring. An original, custom-design, that Spencer once said: “Never leaves my hand.”

Ice formed around the lump in Larry's throat now, so it took a couple of tries to find his voice. “Y-y-yes … I understand. His health is bad. Can't return.”

The small, cold smile returned. “Excellent. We appreciate your cooperation. You may show Mr. Fillmore out now.”

The other man simply walked over to the office door and held it open. Larry bobbed his head once—in obedience, submission, whatever—backed up a couple of steps then turned and walked from the office. It was all Larry could do not to run.

Wednesday afternoon

I felt the warmth of a tropical breeze brush against my bare skin and it felt good. Danny and I were both lying in our swimsuits on a chaise lounge beneath the shade of a palm tree. The gorgeous turquoise blue-green water of Turks and Caicos Islands stretched before us. Practically deserted because it was still officially hurricane season, the island was perfect. Peaceful and quiet, sunny and warm. Exactly what Danny and I needed. Fresh seafood and tropical fruits awaited us. Delicious, fruity libations already brought a welcome drowsiness as we lay in each others' arms.

And, yet … my eyelids couldn't stay closed for long. I let the turquoise water lull me and the tropical birds perched above squawked their melodies, and I tried again. Resting my face against Danny's bare chest, I felt his heart beating beneath my hand.
Thank God
.

“You still haven't relaxed. I can feel it beneath your skin,” he said quietly.

“I can't help it. I try. But it doesn't work.”

“I know.” He kissed my forehead. “It'll get easier.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. We just have to do this more. Practice.”

“Practice. Okay.”

I watched a seagull ride the air currents above the ocean, floating on the breeze, before he folded his wings and dove like an arrow into the surf. That gull might have looked like he was relaxing on the breeze, but he wasn't. He was always watching the busy surf below.

“Can we ever really relax, Danny? I mean, like not worry?”

Danny sighed beneath my hand. “That's different. We can learn to relax but still pay attention. Then we don't have to worry … so much.” He kissed the top of my head.

That made sense, I supposed. As much sense as we were ever going to have from all of this. It was over. Danny showed me the photo he received of Trask's dead body—shot through the forehead. Then he assured me the rest of the rats had headed for their hideouts. I didn't care where they went, as long as it wasn't around me … or my friends.

“Close your eyes, Molly. We're safe.”

Safe
. That felt good. So good, I did what he suggested. I closed my eyes and let the warm tropical breeze, the sound of the sea, and the vestiges of the fruit and rum drink bring back the delightful drowsiness. So easy to drift off. Simply drift off. Away. Breathing slowing down, feeling Danny breathe beneath my hand. Drift away … slip away … sleep.

And then … my eyes blinked open again. As if they had a will of their own. So I lay beside Danny and gazed out at the sea. The beautiful, tranquil, turquoise sea.

the end

about the author

Bestselling mystery author Maggie Sefton was born and raised in Virginia. She grew up in Arlington, a stone's throw across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. Maggie's hometown has al
ways had a special hold on her, which she blames on her lifelong fascination with Washington politics. Maggie swears she's been watching politicians since she's been old enough to read the
Washington Post
. Author of the bestselling Colorado-based Kelly Flynn mysteries (Penguin), her books have spent several weeks on the
New York Times
bestseller list and the Barnes and Noble bestseller list.

Author photo by Tom Koetting.