He hears the noise of the elevator, the rickety pile of rusted metal. It’s nearly ten o’clock, which
means Roger—who insists on being called Maverick （coal miners live for their nicknames）—will have several shots of Jim Beam in him.
The doors to the elevator rattle open. Nico hates that contraption. It’s going to be the death of someone, he’s convinced. Oh, wouldn’t Davis love that? The ratings would go through the roof.
The figure moves toward him.
Holding up the flashlight, Nico says, “Geez, Roger, what’s with all the cloak-and-dagger? Your text said—”
Nico stops when the figure clicks on the lamp of a miner’s helmet. It’s a blinding beam, stronger than a typical head lamp.
Nico squints, holds up a hand to shield his eyes. He can make out that the figure is shorter than six-two Roger. His danger antenna starts sending signals, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
“This is private property,” Nico says in a firm tone, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I know the sheriff, so you’d best be on your way before—”
He stops when the figure’s lamp turns off, leaving Nico’s eyes spotted by the afterglow. He hears gravel crunching, the figure running at him, then hears a strange sound like a hydraulic pump.
Then there’s a fire in his shoulder. He’s on the ground.
It’s only a millisecond before he scrambles to his feet and hauls ass. After years evading the leg breakers when he couldn’t keep up with the vig, he knows what’s coming.
Nico races down the tunnel and dives onto the handcar. The beam from the miner’s helmet is on him again, his own shadow skittering ahead. He turns quickly and sees the figure walking slowly toward him, Jason from the horror movie, carrying something that looks like a baton or cylinder.
What in the holy fuck? The light is getting closer as he settles into the handcar, his shirt damp with blood and sweat. Nico grabs the lever and tugs down with everything he has. His other arm feels like it’s been branded by a cowpoke.
The railcar pushes forward. He needs to get the fuck out of there, crank that lever harder.
He ducks low, puts his weight on the lever, the ray from the assailant’s helmet bathing him in light. Nico cranks harder, the railcar picking up pace. He uses his good arm and marshals all his strength to pump the crank. The light behind him is getting dimmer as the car bumps along the tracks.
He thinks he hears footfalls behind him, but he keeps cranking, moving faster. They fixed the brakes on this thing at least, but the tracks will end soon. He’ll have to turn and fight if the attacker follows. He does not intend to die in this shitty mine, that’s for sure.
He cranks and cranks until the light mercifully disappears.
Deep in the tunnel now, darkness envelops him. He yanks out his iPhone. It won’t work down here, but there’s a flashlight.
No, it will draw the figure to him. He keeps gliding down the tracks, letting the cart slow, knowing there’s a dead end. He doesn’t want to plow into the bumper.
His heart continues to pound, he’s drenched in panic sweat, but the car finally comes to a stop.
It’s pitch-black. He listens, fear and blood loss making him tremble.
More silence.
Then, a joyous sound. The rattle of the elevator’s motor. The attacker is leaving. Thank. Fucking.
God.
He feels a wave of relief, but adrenaline still has him wired. He clicks on the phone’s flashlight, gasps at his blood-soaked shirt.
All is quiet, the elevator up top now. He needs to get out of there, get to a hospital, but he decides to wait a little longer to give the attacker time to leave the mine site.
Then he hears it.
A deep, loud boom.
The railcar shakes and a snapping sound comes from above.
In a split second, he realizes the grim reality. An explosive detonated.
There’s a loud rumble, a cloud of black dust fills the tunnel, and everything goes dark.
CHAPTER FOUR
JENNA
Jenna doesn’t want to do this. But she has no choice, she knows. She prays the target is a bad guy. She used to tell herself that they were all bad guys. But the truth is, she had no idea. And the harder truth: The longer she was on the job, the more difficult it became to tell the bad guys from the good. Wealth and power can hide monsters in plain sight.
This isn’t happening. She was supposed to be out.
But it is happening. The woman’s voice tackles her thoughts: You’d better. For Simon, Willow, and Tallulah’s sake.
If she ever meets that woman again, she will kill her.
She separates the hotel room’s drapes an inch and looks outside. It’s a direct line of sight to the outdoor deck of the Capital Grille.
The deck is empty, which is unusual for the power-lunch hot spot. It’s usually packed when Jenna leaves spin class. Perhaps her target reserved the entire seating area.
She looks at the burner phone again.
Cap Grille, outside table, bald man.
Her thoughts drift to her family at breakfast—to her wonderfully normal husband kissing her goodbye, to her wonderfully angsty teen slamming the door, to her wonderfully adorable five-year-old sneaking food to her wonderfully loveable dog. Then Jenna imagines losing them all by the time she returns home if she doesn’t do this.
She examines the rifle, checks the scope. The hotel window presents a problem. She usually would have a two-person team, one to shoot out the glass, the other to take out the mark. But she notices that someone has disabled the suicide-deterence mechanism that ordinarily would prevent the window from opening more than a few inches. She pulls the latch and the window opens far enough to avoid obstructing the shot. She looks for something to take a wind reading and sees that a flag planted on the roof of an office building is limp.
She gets in position.
It isn’t long before the restaurant’s host leads a small cluster of men to an outdoor table. The men are muscular and seem uncomfortable in their business suits. Ex-military. They examine the area, look up and down Massachusetts Avenue. The target is someone important—important enough to have an
advance team, anyway. But not so high-value that he’s forbidden from eating outside on a beautiful spring day. One of the advance guys says something into his sleeve, then the target appears. Jenna can’t see his face, but he’s the only bald head. It might as well be painted with a bull’s-eye.
Still, it won’t be an easy shot. The bald man sits with his back to her. The bodyguards surround the table. She’ll need the perfect opening. Jenna hopes he’ll need to use the restroom.
She waits. Still as a stone, like she was taught. She once waited thirteen hours, frozen in place.
She shudders, remembering the weight in her chest and, worse, peeling off the adult diaper, its smell somehow shocking.
A bottle of something expensive is brought to the table.
She waits.
Sweat slides down her side. Can she still do this? Physically, yes. She’s rusty, but it’s a skill that never goes away. Emotionally, though … can she do it?
Yes, you have to.
At last, the bald man stands. Throws his napkin on the table. The guards change position, ready to escort him to the restroom.
Through the scope, Jenna gets the first look at his face.
And her heart plummets.
She pulls back from the rifle’s scope.