Amelia Autin - Killer Countdown

When she answered the phone he said, “I want you to find out everything you can on a reporter, Carly Edwards.” He listened for a minute, a frown forming. “No, nothing like that. This is personal, Dee-Dee, not professional. So only work on this if you have nothing else to do.”

“Hah!” Dee-Dee responded. “As if I ever have nothing else to do.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, of course, you’re serious. That makes all the difference,” she said drily.

For the umpteenth time Shane wondered why he kept Dee-Dee as his executive assistant when she never gave him the kid-glove treatment he got automatically from the rest of his staff. Even though she called him Senator, she still acted as if she remembered him with a dirty face and untucked shirttails, sneaking cookies when his mom’s back was turned.

But then for the umpteenth time he remembered that was exactly why he kept her—she brought a touch of reality to the sometimes stultifying protocol he was usually surrounded with. She was a whiz at keeping him organized, too. And besides, she needed the job. Her husband had left her little but debts when he’d passed away years earlier...and his mother would kill him if he fired her best friend.

“Don’t worry,” Dee-Dee said, “I’ll have a complete dossier on Ms. Edwards by the time you get back to DC. You are coming back tomorrow night, right? That’s what you said. They’re discharging you tomorrow morning?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. I know you’ve been keeping up on pending legislation even in the hospital—your mom didn’t raise any slackers—but I’ve fielded calls from a half dozen senators, including the president pro-tem and both the majority and minority leaders, wanting to know how you’re planning to vote on their bills when the Senate is back in session. Especially that pipeline one—the news agencies are calling you ‘the swing vote.’ Not just because of your own stance on the issue, but because others will follow your lead and vote their consciences, not their pocketbooks—if you weren’t already aware. And since you haven’t clued me in on where you stand, Senator,” she added with a touch of acerbity, “I wasn’t able to answer for you.”

“As if you don’t know where I stand on every issue.”

“Yes, but you haven’t officially told me how you plan to vote, so my lips are sealed.” That had Shane laughing silently. Dee-Dee’s lips were always sealed...when it came to guarding him and maintaining the integrity of his office. Another reason he couldn’t possibly do without her. He was just preparing to disconnect when Dee-Dee said out of the blue, “You do know her nickname, don’t you?”

Shane was familiar with the way Dee-Dee’s mind jumped back and forth between topics, so he knew she was referring to Carly Edwards. He cast around in his mind but came up blank. “No, can’t say I do.”

“Tiger Shark.” Heavy silence. “Keep that in mind.”

* * *

Marsh Anderson walked outside the Mayo Clinic lobby and a little distance away before pulling out his disposable cell phone—one he’d bought specifically for this job—and punching in a number he already knew by heart. “Just checking in,” he said when the phone was answered. He listened, nodding his head in agreement even though he knew the person on the other end couldn’t see him. “Not a problem,” he said finally. “When will he be discharged?”

“He has plane reservations for tomorrow,” came the clipped response. “Whether the clinic is ready to discharge him or not, he’s flying out Saturday evening. The Senate will be back at work come Monday, and he has never missed a debate or a vote. He’s not about to let that happen now—especially not with what’s at stake this time around.”

Marsh grunted. He knew what was at stake, even though his contact thought him nothing more than a hired gun. He was a hired gun...as far as that went. But he was a very smart one, and he’d figured out a hell of a lot more than the men who’d hired him realized. He called them the Agenda Men, because they had a concrete agenda and would stop at nothing to achieve their goal.

He knew just how much money was behind the effort to push one piece of legislation through. Not bribes. You couldn’t call them bribes. Campaign contributions was the polite euphemism, and the Agenda Men were very good at it. But their money had availed them nothing where Senator Jones was concerned. He could not be swayed as other politicians were. So they had no choice but to contract Marsh’s services.

Marsh admired Senator Jones for his integrity. But that didn’t impact his willingness to carry out his job. One was personal. The other was business. And Marsh never put anything above business.

“So he’s leaving tomorrow, but you don’t know exactly what time he’s leaving,” Marsh said now. It wasn’t a question, but the voice on the other end of the phone answered anyway.

“No. You’ll just have to play it by ear.”

“Okay,” Marsh said. “I know what I have to do. Just make sure you do your part.” Then he hung up. My money, he thought to himself. You just have my money ready.

* * *

Shane was the happiest man in the world when the clinic finally got around to discharging him Saturday, right after lunch. So happy he didn’t even cavil at another hospital policy—wheeling him out to the waiting limousine in a wheelchair. God forbid I trip over my own feet walking out and hurt myself on hospital property, he thought with a touch of mordant humor.

The limo wasn’t his first choice for transportation because he hadn’t wanted to draw that kind of attention. But it made sense since it had to transport not only him to the airport but the four staff members accompanying him, as well—his deputy chief of staff, senior legislative assistant, legislative correspondent, and press secretary. So when Bobby Vernon, his deputy chief of staff, told him they’d arranged for a limo, he’d merely accepted it.

As his staff crowded into the elevator after him, Shane joked with Laney, the nursing assistant wheeling him out. He’d come to know Laney casually during his nearly week-long stay at the clinic—she’d even shown him pictures of her grandchildren. All his staff were dressed as casually as he was, in jeans and a Henley, because he’d been adamant he didn’t want to draw too much attention by making them look like Secret Service agents guarding a public figure. But his little group did draw eyes as they made their way across the multistoried lobby to the front door, and Shane mentally winced, hoping no one would recognize him. Not that he was ashamed—well, maybe just a little—but because he’d already dodged one bullet where Carly Edwards was concerned, and didn’t feel up to answering questions from the idly curious or from another reporter.

He’d just been rolled out the front door, where the limo was drawn up to the curb, when Carly appeared out of nowhere, across the curving drive to the right. “Senator Jones,” she called out, lengthening her stride to catch him before he entered the limo. “If I could just talk to you for a minute,” she began.

Shane’s eyes were drawn to her, but out of the corner of his left eye he saw something glint in the early afternoon sun from the brushy knoll in the center of the horseshoe-shaped circular driveway.

“Get down,” he yelled to his entourage as he leaped from the wheelchair, grabbed Laney and flattened her on the sidewalk just as rifle shots rang out, shattering the sliding glass doors behind them. Shane rolled Laney and himself toward the limo, using that as a shield against a further barrage of bullets.

Screams were coming from everywhere—from the people inside the clinic’s lobby and those who had been eating lunch on the cafeteria’s outside patio. Shane couldn’t see a damned thing from his position on the ground, but he was praying no one had been hit. Laney was whispering something in a breathy little voice, but it took him a minute to focus on what she was saying.