Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (17 page)

And it
had. He was now the clear front-runner, running away with it in the polls,
voters on both sides of the political spectrum actually responsive to his
message of rolling back the increased surveillance of Americans and instead
focusing on the real enemies.

And
polling had told him his own distrust of Russia was shared by a majority of his
fellow citizens, resulting in his latest foreign policy speeches that
apparently had pissed off Moscow.

Like
I give a shit.

Russia
was a joke now, to call itself a democracy was an insult to its people, yet
unfortunately its people were as well informed now as they were under the
Communist regime, the vast majority of their media once again state controlled,
the rest too scared to print the truth. Opposition party leaders were jailed
and murdered, and now the Kremlin had just signed a law allowing them to shut
down any “undesirable foreign organization” to further silence the truth.

Jones
draped his arm across the back of the couch. “Please, tell me what’s on your
mind.”

Quaid leaned
forward. “I need you to tone down the rhetoric on Russia, specifically the
sanctions.”

Jones’
eyebrows popped slightly, his practiced control failing him for a split second.
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I beg your
pardon?”

Quaid smiled
slightly, the sleaze his wife had referred to oozing out. “I need you to stop
talking about Russian sanctions.”

“But
why? They’re a vote winner, and I happen to personally believe in them.
Russia’s renewed aggression needs to be stopped, and next to military action,
the next best option is economic.”

“I’m
afraid your benefactors must insist.”

Jones
felt his blood pressure rising, his face flushing. “And I’m afraid I don’t
care. If you choose to pull your financial support of my campaign, then so be
it. I’d hate to lose you, but like I told you from the get go, I won’t
compromise my ideals for your money. All it does is buy you access to my ear,
not my pen. We’re going to win, Pete, and people want to back a winner.
Replacing your money won’t be a problem.”

Quaid’s
smile never wavered, it one he had used himself in the past—when dealing with a
useful idiot, their naïveté so obvious it was painful to listen to.

And
Jones was no idiot.

“I don’t
think you understand the situation, Mr. Jones.” He pulled an envelope from his
breast pocket, removing a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and smoothed out the
creases, pushing it across the table toward him. Jones glanced at it without
picking it up, recognizing it as a list of his major campaign donors, all but a
few highlighted in yellow. “Every single one of those highlighted are backing
you because of
me
. If
I
pull out, they all pull out. And they
will make certain their friends hold on to their wallets as well. Mr. Jones,
you are burning through cash at an incredible rate. Running for President is a
billion dollar proposition now. People with that kind of money talk to each
other, and if so many names pull out now, publicly, your campaign will find
itself out of money before the month’s end.”

Jones
rose, his fists clenched.

Calm
down!

He took a
slow breath. “I refuse to believe that.” He motioned toward the door. “I’ll
kindly ask you to leave.”

Quaid rose,
his smile finally turning into a frown. “I see we’ll have to do this the hard
way.”

Saunders looked at his watch. It had barely been five minutes, yet
it felt like an eternity. He hated being out of the loop, though he was pretty
sure that would be temporary, Jones always filling him in on everything.

If I
can’t trust you, who can I trust?

The
words had meant a lot to him when Jones had first said them, and he had done
his best to deserve that trust, though sometimes it had proven difficult,
politicians at times their own worst enemies. But he had run a good campaign—an
excellent campaign—and they were most likely going to win the ticket, and he
was confident, ultimately, the Presidency.

It was
incredibly exciting to think about, and he found himself lying awake at night
in his bed, usually in some overpriced hotel, fantasizing about what it would
be like.

It was
easy to forget that
he
wasn’t running.

Eventually.

He was
young and had been made certain assurances. A life in politics was definitely
in his future, and if he played the game right, with the right backers like
Jones had now, the sky was the limit.

Just
keep the backers happy.

The
elevator chimed to his right, his pacing halted as two Secret Service agents
positioned themselves at the doors to see who was arriving. The doors opened
and several popping sounds were heard, the agents dropping in heaps. Somebody
shouted, a scream, then six men exited the elevator, their weapons raised and
firing.

Saunders
stood frozen for a moment then ducked behind one of the volunteers, a young
woman from Oklahoma named Kitty. She took a shot, falling backward into him,
and he held her up as a human shield as the attackers eliminated the agents at
the far end of the hall.

A loud
crack of gunfire from behind erupted and he dropped to the ground, Kitty
collapsing atop him. One of the attackers went down but the others responded
with a hail of muted gunfire. He turned to look behind him and saw the two Secret
Service agents down, all resistance eliminated within seconds of their arrival.

He
struggled to get out from under the deadweight that was Kitty but before he
could one of the attackers stood over him, his expressionless face more
terrifying than any gangsta sneer.

He
fired, a sharp pain radiating from Saunders’ chest as the door to Jones’ room
opened, Mr. Quaid standing there calmly.

“Let’s
get this over with, quickly.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Quaid felt
himself drifting away as somebody grabbed him by the pant leg, dragging him out
of the hallway.

Tammy Clavin sipped her venti-sized Starbucks
Iced Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino, a 600 calorie monstrosity responsible
for her pants being a little too tight these past few weeks. They were terrible
for her, but she was sucking down three or four of them a day when on the road,
which seemed to be almost every day now. She had never had a sip of coffee
before joining the campaign—actually, that wasn’t true. She had
exactly
a sip of coffee before joining. One sip. It was all she needed to know she
hated coffee.

But she
had to stay awake. She hated anything carbonated and energy drinks like Red
Bull scared her.

Everyone
drinks coffee, so it must be safe.

It was
logic that worked, yet she couldn’t get over the taste, and knew she never
could.

Until
she had seen Kitty with one of these delicious iced creations from the barista
gods.

She had
become addicted almost immediately.

It
wasn’t until she had to lie on her bed, battling to get her skirt done up, that
she found out how many calories were in the darned things. It was Kitty who had
mentioned the count.

It had
stunned her.

Yet it
hadn’t stopped her.

I’ll
stop when I get home.

She
looked at herself in the mirror, stifling a yawn.

Come
on, do your magic!

She took
another sip.

Then
another.

She
looked at her watch and jumped.

Where’s
Kitty?

The
lineup at the Starbucks across the street had been longer than expected, but
Kitty was supposed to collect her when Mr. Jones was ready and she hadn’t yet.
Which was odd, Kitty always very punctual, and it now about five minutes past
when she had expected the final meeting of the day to start.

Maybe
I’d better go up myself.

She took
one last glance in the mirror, frowning at the slight midriff bulge, putting
the hideous concoction on the dresser, resolving to lose the weight, starting
now.

She
frowned, eyeing the drink.

You’re
so weak!

She
grabbed it and her bag, heading for the door.

Tomorrow
you go down one size on the coffee. Wean yourself off, girl, wean yourself off!

She
never ceased to amaze herself at how she could rationalize bad habits.

Or bad
boyfriends.

Ugh.
Men!

She was
in the wrong business for meeting nice men. It wasn’t that they were bad, it
was just that almost everyone she met was so driven to succeed, that they were
either entirely focused on their career, so had no time for a relationship, or
entirely focused on their career, so looking for a wife that could make them
look good to the public ten or twenty years down the road.

She
wasn’t going to be arm candy.

She
pressed the button for the elevator, looking at herself in the brushed chrome
doors, the blurred image somehow slightly more satisfying than the real thing.

She eyed
the coffee.

Caffeine
pills?

She
shook her head as the doors opened.

No
way am I becoming a pill popper.

She saw
it too often, especially among the younger staff like herself. The lifestyle
was too alluring, too many wanting to work the long hours then take advantage
of the social life as well, leaving little to no time for rest.

Pop a
couple of pills, problem solved.

Not
really.

The
doors opened to Jones’ floor, Tammy stepping out.

That’s
odd.

The
usual Secret Service detail wasn’t at the doors, nor were they at the opposite
ends of the hallway like normal. In fact, the hallway was completely empty.

She felt
her chest tighten.

This
isn’t right.

Her
steps were tentative, unsure, as she slowly crept down the hall toward Jones’
suite, listening intently, hearing nothing but the rush of elevators and a dull
drone of the HVAC system.

No
voices, no laughter, no snoring, no coughing.

She was
about to knock on the door when she stopped, instead pulling out her cellphone.

She
dialed Saunders’ number.

On the
other side of the door she heard his America the Beautiful ringtone.

So
they
are
here.

She
knocked as she held the phone up to her ear.

Nothing.

She
knocked again and tried the door as the call went to voicemail.

She
killed it, knocking again, this time harder.

Something’s
definitely wrong.

She
stepped back from the door, suddenly afraid of what might be on the other side.

What
do I do?

She
inched down the hall, never taking her eyes off the bottom of the door,
watching for some sort of shadow from the other side.

That was
when she noticed the drag marks on the hallway carpet, coming from various
directions, all leading into the room, all in sets of two.

Heel
marks!

She ran.

Dawson looked at his cards. It was a shit hand. A pair of deuces and
nothing else to build on.

“Three.”
He tossed the cards on the pile, Niner dealing out three new ones from the
well-worn deck, this particular set more travelled than most people, it having
seen action in most of the world’s hellholes.

“Three
for the Big Dog, looks like he has a shitty hand.”

Dawson
picked up the cards, one at a time.

No
help.

No
help.

Ahh!

Another
deuce. Three of a kind. Three of a shitty kind, but three of a kind
nonetheless.

Why
oh why are nines always wild when Niner deals?

Atlas
took two and Spock sat pat with what he was dealt.

Bastard.
Watch the eyebrow.

Spock’s
tell when he was excited was the eyebrow creeping up just a hint.

It
wasn’t creeping.

So
he’s not excited.

Or
he’s figured out his tell.

Dawson
looked at Atlas, his muscular frame betraying him, his jugular pulsing a little
quicker than normal.

He’s
got something. Poor bastard should wear a turtleneck.

He
glanced at Niner with his tacky starfish Hawaiian shirt only half-buttoned,
cigar jammed in one side of his mouth—unlit since smoking wasn’t allowed in the
room—dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, a tacky Las Vegas lime green croupier
visor completing his ensemble.

I
think he does it to distract us. At least I hope that’s why.

Nickels
started to be tossed into the pile, the bets quickly up to the massive twenty-five
cent limit within moments.

“Too
rich for my blood,” said Spock, tossing his cards after the last raise,
apparently having nothing after all.

Niner
lowered his sunglasses slightly, giving the man a look. “We seriously need to
discuss your finances.”

“Hey,
don’t judge me. Maybe I’m just a penny pincher.”

“Penny
pincher my ass. I’ve seen your new car.”

Atlas’
impossibly deep voice joined the conversation. “Maybe
that’s
why he
can’t afford a high stakes game like this.”

Niner
grunted as he eyed his cards. “Yellow Camaro convertible.
Please
tell me
you don’t have that lame Transformers decal on the back.”

Spock
said nothing, leaning back in his chair as he took a swig from a can of Diet
Pepsi.

Niner
shook his head. “Christ, you do, don’t you?”

Spock
shrugged. “I bought it used and it was already there. I didn’t want to mess up
the paint job trying to take it off.”

“Bullshit!”
coughed Atlas, he doing Iceman proud.