First Family (60 page)

Michelle dropped the car keys on the kitchen counter. “Help yourself to a beer. I’m going to grab a quick shower and change into some fresh clothes. Then maybe we can get some dinner.”

“I’ll give Waters a call and check on Gabriel.” He smiled. “This dad thing isn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, that’s because you missed all the sleepless nights and dirty diapers.”

Sean opened a soda and sat down on the couch and called Waters. Gabriel was doing great, the agent said. When Sean talked to the little boy the happiness in his voice confirmed this. As he put the phone down Sean heard the shower turn on in Michelle’s bedroom. He tried to watch TV but the plot of the crime drama he
happened on was so flimsy and uninteresting compared to the events he’d just lived for real that he turned it off. He sat there with his eyes closed, trying to forget much of what had happened over the last months, at least for a few seconds.

When he opened his eyes, he noted that Michelle had not come back. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had gone by. He could hear nothing from the bedroom.

“Michelle?”

No answer. “Michelle!”

He muttered a curse, rose, and looked around. With all the crazy shit they’d been involved in, who knew? He pulled his pistol and slowly made his way down the short hall. He flicked a light on by hitting the switch with his elbow.

“Michelle!”

He eased open the door to the bedroom.

A small light was cast from the adjacent bathroom.

He said in a softer voice, “Michelle? Are you okay? Are you sick?”

He heard the hair dryer start up and then he sighed with relief. He turned to leave, but then he didn’t. Sean just stood there, looking at that crack of light from under the bathroom door.

A couple minutes later the hair dryer turned off and she came out wearning a long thick robe, her hair still damp. It wasn’t a sexy number like the one Cassandra Mallory had worn. Michelle was completely covered up. Not a trace of makeup. And yet to Sean, there was no comparison. The woman he was looking at was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“Sean?” she said in surprise. “Are you okay?”

“I just came back to check on you. I was worried.” He looked down, embarrassed. “But you look like you’re fine. I mean you look… great.”

He turned to leave. “I’ll be out front. Maybe some dinner—”

Before he could even reach the door she was next to him, took his hand in hers, and drew him farther into the room.

“Michelle?”

She took the gun from him and put it on the bureau.

“Come here.”

They moved to the bed and sat down next to each other. She slipped off her robe and started to unbutton his shirt as he ran a hand lightly over her bare hip.

“Are you sure about this?” he said.

She stopped unbuttoning. “Are you?”

He put a hand to her lips, traced them with his index finger.

“Actually, I think I’ve been sure for a long time.”

“Me too.”

Michelle lay back on the bed and pulled Sean down to her.

To Michelle, a first among equals in our first family.

To Mitch Hoffman: You’re still my editor, so you must like me, you must
really
like me! Seriously, thanks for another great job.

To David Young, Jamie Raab, Emi Battaglia, Jennifer Romanello, Tom Maciag, Martha Otis, and all at Grand Central Publishing who keep lifting me to new heights.

To Aaron and Arlene Priest, Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kenealy, and John Richmond, for all they do to help keep my life reasonably sane.

To Maria Rejt and Katie James at Pan Macmillan for taking care of me across the Pond.

To Grace McQuade and Lynn Goldberg for a great job helping people realize that I am not, in fact, John Grisham.

To Spencer and Collin, just because I love you more than anything.

To Dr. Catherine Broome, and Drs. Alli and Anshu Guleria, for technical medical support.

To the charity auction “name” winners, Pamela Dutton, Diane Wohl, David Hilal, and Lori Magoulas, I hope you enjoyed the ride. For those of you who unfortunately didn’t survive the book, my apologies, but thrillers are a dangerous business.

To my buddy Chuck Betack, for involuntary use of your surname. However, please note that I made you taller than you actually are, and I didn’t charge a dime extra for it.

To Steve Jennings for his experienced eye on government-contracting matters.

To Lucy Stille and Karen Spiegel for giving me excellent comments on the story.

To Ann Todd and Neal Schiff at the FBI for their technical help.

To my buddy Bob Schule for his wise input on issues both political and grammatical. Any leftover gaffes are mine alone.

To Lynette, Deborah, and Natasha for keeping the corporate and philanthropic sails full of wind and on course.

H
E HAD THE LOOK
of a man who was afraid that tonight would be his last on earth. And he had good reason to think so. The odds were fifty-fifty that it might be, and the percentage could go higher depending on how the next hour turned out.

The margin of error was that small.

The roar of the twin-engine boat moving at near full throttle wiped away the nighttime quiet on calm ocean waters. At this time of year the Gulf of Mexico was usually not so peaceful. This was typically the most active period of the hurricane season. While several storms were brewing out in the open Atlantic, none as yet had formed a firm center and entered the Gulf. Everyone on the coast was crossing his fingers and praying it would remain that way.

The fiberglass hull cut cleanly through the dense, salty water. The boat could hold about twenty people comfortably, but there were thirty folks on board. They were desperately gripping anything they could to keep from being bounced overboard. Despite the smooth waters, a boat carrying far too many people and moving at high speed was never very stable.

The captain piloting the boat did not care about the comfort of his passengers. His top priority was staying alive. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the dual throttles. He eyed the speed gauge with a worried look.

Come on. Come on. You can do this. You can make it.

Forty miles per hour. He pushed the throttles ahead and crept the speed stick up to forty-five. He was almost topped out now.
Even with the twin stern-drive engines he wouldn’t be able to muster more speed without unduly depleting his fuel. And there were no marinas around here to provide more gas.

Even with the breeze created by the boat’s movement it was still hot out here. At least one did not have to worry about mosquitoes, not at this speed and this far from land. The man eyed the passengers one by one. It was not an idle observation. He was counting heads, although he already knew the answer. He had four crewmen with him. They were all armed, all watching the “passengers.” In a mutiny it would be five against one. But the passengers did not have submachine guns. One clip could take out every one of them with bullets to spare. And the majority were women and children, because that was where the real demand was.

No, he was not worried about a mutiny. He was worried about timing.

The captain checked his illuminated watch. It would be close. They had been late leaving the last outpost. Then their chart plotter had gone haywire for thirty nerve-racking minutes, sending them in completely the wrong direction. This was vast ocean. Every bit of it looked the same. No landmass to aid in navigation. They were not in well-marked shipping channels. Without their electronic guidepost they would be screwed, like flying a plane without instrumentation in thick fog. The only outcome would be disaster.

But they had gotten the plotter straightened out, corrected course, and he had immediately pushed the stern-drives hard. Then he had pushed them some more. His gaze continued to flit to his dash, checking the oil, fuel, and engine temperature gauges. A breakdown out here would be catastrophic. They couldn’t exactly call the Coast Guard for assistance.

He futilely looked to the skies for eyes watching from up there. Unmanned eyes that would send back gigs of digital data about what they were seeing. He would never hear the response team until it was too late. The Coast Guard cutters would be on them before he could do anything. They would board, know immediately what was going on, and he would go to prison for a very long time, perhaps the rest of his life.

But he was not as scared of the Coast Guard as he was of certain other people.

He pushed the boat’s speed up to forty-seven and said a silent prayer that a vital engine part would not blow. He looked at his watch again. He counted the minutes in his head as he scanned the water ahead of them.

“They’ll feed me to the sharks,” he muttered.

Not for the first time, he regretted agreeing to this business venture. Yet the money was so good he could not turn it down, despite the risks. He had done fifteen of these runs and figured with a similar number in the future he could retire to a nice, quiet spot in the Florida Keys and live like a king. It beat the hell out of driving his boat for pasty tourists from the North looking to land a tuna or marlin but more often simply puking all over his boat in rough seas.

But first I have to get this boat and these people where they need to go.

He eyed the red and green navigation lights on the bow. They gave a solemn glow to an otherwise moonless night. He counted more minutes in his head at the same time as he scanned the boat’s gauges.

His heart sank.

His fuel was running low. The stick was dipping perilously close to reserve status. He felt his gut tighten. They had too much weight. And the problem with the navigation system had cost them over an hour, many nautical miles, and precious fuel. He always added a fuel buffer of ten percent to be sure, but even this surplus might not be enough. He scanned the passengers again. Most were women and teenagers, but some were beefy men, easily over two hundred pounds each. And there was one man who was a true giant. But dumping passengers as a solution to his fuel issue was beyond problematic. He might as well put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger.

He swiftly redid the calculations in his head, just as airline pilots did after getting a full passenger and cargo manifest. It was the same question regardless of whether your ride was in the water or thirty thousand feet above it.

Do I have enough fuel to get there?

He caught the eye of one of his men and beckoned him over.

The man listened to his boss’s problem and did his own calculations. “It’s gonna be tight,” he said worriedly.

“And it’s not like we can start throwing people overboard,” said the captain.

“Right. They have the manifest. They know how many we’re carrying. We start throwing them overboard, we might as well jump in too.”

“Tell me some shit I don’t know,” the captain snapped.

He made a decision and eased off the throttles, cutting their speed back to forty miles per hour. The dual props started spinning more slowly. The boat was still fully up on plane. To the naked eye there wasn’t a big difference between forty and forty-seven miles per hour on the water, but with the reduced fuel burn it could be the difference between running dry or making it. They would fuel up, and the return trip, with only five of them on board, would be no problem.

“Better to be a little late than not get there at all,” said the captain.

There was a hollow ring to his statement and the other man did not miss it. He clenched his weapon tighter. The captain looked away from him, his throat constricting as a cold dread gripped him.

To the people who’d hired him, timing was important. And being late, even by a few minutes, was never a good thing.

Right now the insane profit margin did not really seem worth it. You couldn’t spend money if you were dead.