William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

He raced down an aisle of perfumes he didn’t have time to sniff. Bottles and display items crashed and exploded all around him. He’d been lucky so far, but he knew that couldn’t last forever. The two men were stalking him, and at least one of them knew what he was doing. Loving would never make it to the parking garage at this rate. He had to take them down or get the hell away from them. The trouble with taking them down was—there were two of them, and they had guns. The trouble with getting away from them was—

A bullet creased Loving’s thigh. Searing pain radiated through his body. He cried out, stumbled, then rolled to the floor. He clutched his leg and took another roll, dodging behind a makeup counter. The wound didn’t feel serious, but it would make it seriously difficult for him to outrun two thugs determined to kill him, regardless of who got hurt along the way.

In one of the overhead security mirrors, Loving saw the two men round the corner. They were barely twenty-five feet away. A panicked shopgirl came too close and Pretty Boy whipped the butt of his gun across her jaw. She screamed and fell to the floor.

Loving clung low to the carpet, gritting his teeth. That was unnecessary. She was no threat to them. Pretty Boy was not only unprofessional—he was cruel.

That made Loving mad.

No more running. Not that he could anyway, with his leg screwed up. He tore a strip off his T-shirt, wrapped it around his hand, found the largest shard of shattered glass on the floor, and waited.

He was still somewhat hidden by the makeup counter, and Leon and Pretty Boy had their attention focused upward, still looking for an upright runner. They’d figure it out soon enough, but with a little luck, not until…

When they came parallel to the opening between the wall and the makeup counter, Loving lunged. He jabbed the jagged glass into Leon’s stomach. He knew Leon was the pro, the tougher of the two; he had to take him out first. Pretty Boy whirled and fired, but in his haste his aim was far off the mark. While Leon reeled from the blow, Loving grabbed his gun and pounded the butt against Pretty Boy’s hands, making him drop his own gun. Loving followed with another blow to his face, shattering his nose. Blood spurted in all directions. Loving raised his wounded leg and kicked the man in the solar plexus, sending him crashing to the floor, unconscious.

Leon grabbed Loving by the throat, knocking the Sig Sauer out of his hands. Loving had known glass in the gut wouldn’t stop a pro, but he had hoped it would buy him more time than this. The man had him in a perfect elbow lock that Loving couldn’t break. He tried to jab backward with his elbow, without avail. He tried to shake loose—no dice. Leon pinched harder, cutting off Loving’s air. He was beginning to feel light-headed.

It was now or never again.

Loving reeled forward, flipping Leon over his head. Leon crashed into a display counter, sending more glass flying. Loving recovered the gun, but it wouldn’t fire. Probably damaged when he used it as a battering ram against Pretty Boy. He could leap on top of Leon while he was down, but in his heart he knew that, tough though he was, he was unlikely to win a fistfight against a man who killed for a living.

And that left him with his original option. Run.

Running was a lot harder now. His leg was aching even more than it had before; all the fighting had inflicted wear and tear on the wound. He forced himself to ignore the pain and keep running. He made it out of the department store and into the parking garage. For once, he actually remembered where he had parked. He found his van and started it.

The engine coughed, and for a brief moment he panicked, thinking he was going to be stuck, just waiting for Leon to show his ugly face. Come on, damn you! The second time he tried, the engine turned. He backed out and straightened the van.

Leon was standing in the middle of the lane, not fifteen feet away. And he was holding Pretty Boy’s automatic weapon.

Loving didn’t have time to think. He lay flat across the seat and floored it. The van shot forward. A spray of gunfire riddled the windshield. Loving kept driving, trying to keep the steering wheel steady.

A second later he felt the thump. He sat up in time to see Leon’s body fly over the hood and roll off the roof. A second later, the van smashed into a stone pillar, bringing it to a dead halt.

Hard to steer when you’re lying down across the front seat.

Still weak, Loving crawled out of the wreckage and hobbled to the side until he could find a wall to support him. He was breathing like an asthmatic, his heart pounding out of his chest. As the adrenaline rush faded, he began to realize just how badly hurt he really was.

After resting another moment, he flipped open his cell and called the police. Then he hobbled over to the approximate area where he thought Leon’s body must have landed.

He found the bloody wet spot that indicated the point of impact, but Leon was gone.

Loving shook his fists at the ceiling. What had Ben gotten him into this time?

11

Senator Robert Hammond’s office had the largest and most well-appointed conference room of any save that of the Majority Leader himself, so that was where they all met, even though the number of people who had been chosen to attend was small and select. Thaddeus Roush was the center of attention, and the amalgamation of talent was gathered to make sure his nomination was not derailed by partisan politics, anti-gay fervor, or murder.

An image consultant named Gina Carraway held color swatches next to Roush’s face. “No, red,” she said finally. “Definitely a red tie.”

Roush squirmed. “A bit flamboyant, isn’t it?”

“You wore red in the Rose Garden.”

“The President’s staff insisted. They even gave me the tie. I typically favor earth tones, myself.”

Carraway wrinkled her nose. “Won’t play on television. Recedes into the background. You need something bright, something bold, something that emanates confidence.”

“Maybe a pair of Bermuda shorts,” Ben said—then immediately regretted it. No one was laughing.

All in all, the mood was somber. In the wake of the disastrous press conference, the general consensus in the political world was that Roush was a dead nominee walking. Many people in both parties had called for him to resign to prevent any further embarrassment to the President, or for that matter, to himself. No one gave his nomination any chance of success. What had initially been seen as a breakthrough advance for gay rights was now looking like a tremendous setback for them. Almost every lobbying group in town had taken a position, and almost all of them were opposed. Even some of the gay rights organizations had removed their support after the murder—support that was fairly tepid in the first place. After all, Roush might be gay, but he was still a Republican.

“I think we’ve fussed about the man’s tie long enough.” This came from Bertram Sexton, a high-powered D.C. attorney Hammond had recruited to act as Roush’s “advisor” during the confirmation hearings. Sexton had represented various nominees and appointees at congressional hearings almost a dozen times in the past. “We need to craft a good opening statement, then strategize how to control the questioning.”

“I’m not finished,” Carraway protested. “I have to match skin tones. He’ll need to wear a good foundation during the hearings.”

Roush twisted his shoulders. “I am not wearing makeup.”

“If you don’t, you’ll look hideous under the bright lights. You’ve got circles under your eyes and tend toward a five o’clock shadow. Plus, you’re likely to sweat.”