“Andrew, what would I do without you?”
Forbes smiled. “Flounder?”
The President threw back his head, laughing. “You’re a riot; I love it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skinner slumping across his paper-strewn table. He turned and saw that the chief of staff had gone pale, sweaty, head lolling, a pile of briefing papers in front of him.
The President noticed. He stared across at his chief of staff. “What the hell is wrong with Skinner? Is he drunk?”
“Maybe tired,” Forbes said, trying to appear empathetic.
“Tired? If anyone should be tired, it’s yours truly. I’ve been up since four.”
Forbes leaned over and looked at Skinner, who was now drooling at the mouth. “Mr. President, he’s not well.”
The President touched Skinner’s forehead. “He’s cold. He’s completely cold.”
Forbes called for the doctor aboard. The doctor got up from his seat and checked Skinner’s pulse. He signaled over to a table of Secret Service agents playing cards. “I need help. We need to get Mr. Skinner to the medical suite! Now!”
The agents carried Skinner through to the medical suite. “Make way, please! Emergency!”
Forbes watched the whole thing play out. He struggled not to laugh as Skinner disappeared into the medical suite adjacent to the President’s office. He tried to put on his best concerned expression. He turned to the President. “Sir, is there anything I can get you? Anyone you want me to call?”
The President shook his head as he signaled two national security advisors. “I got this, Andrew, thanks. Good thing you spotted he had taken a turn for the worse.”
“Is he going to be okay, sir?”
The President sighed. “I don’t know, Andrew. I just don’t know.”
The rest of the flight, Forbes sat on a miniature couch, exchanging gossip on Skinner’s condition with a junior staffer.
“Was it something he ate?” she asked.
Forbes feigned quiet contemplation for a few moments. “Maybe. I’m surprised. He’s such a robust guy most of the time. He works longer hours than anyone I know, apart from the President. Tremendous work ethic.”
“I heard he has a heart condition.”
“Is that right?” Forbes said. “I hadn’t heard that. I know an uncle of mine who was a workaholic got heart palpitations and ultimately had to be put on beta blockers or something, and he also had stents inserted after a blockage. Chief of staff is a tough, tough gig. No letup.”
The minutes passed as it was decided to continue the flight to Orlando.
“Fifteen minutes to touchdown, people,” a Secret Service suit bellowed. “Can we buckle up? We need to get the chief of staff off without any delays.”
“Is he alive?” Forbes asked.
“Barely.”
Forbes shook his head. “How awful. What’s wrong with him?”
The agent had already turned and walked away.
Forbes stared out the window as the descent began. His ears began to pop. He closed his eyes as he smiled to himself, giddy at what he’d done.
Fifty-Four
The McNeal brothers sat in silence on most of the hour-long journey as they headed through the Lincoln Tunnel, westbound through New Jersey and back north across the state line into New York. Jack was getting progressively more nervous as they drove down the highway. He sensed he was being pulled, inexorably, toward his fate. Maybe it was always meant to be this way, next to his brother. His blood.
He checked the location of Nicoletti’s phone using a GPS tracking app. Graff’s henchman was fifteen miles from Warwick. “He’s at home.”
Peter headed down a back road. He pulled up one mile from the site, off the road and out of sight from anyone passing by. “There are no guarantees this will work, Jack. No guarantees at all. No guarantees this fuck will show up.”
“I think he will.”
Jack turned on Graff’s cell phone when they were in the middle of nowhere. He scrolled through the contacts and sent a brief message to Nicoletti.
We need to talk, face-to-face. Super urgent. Got a job for you. One hour. Not far from you. Head down Cascade Road and onto dirt road through woods. Then ten minutes on foot before the old entrance. A friend of mine will show you down the dirt path. H.
Jack took the battery and SIM card out of the cell phone.
“You think that’ll work?”
Jack shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”
“I’ve got my flashlight. And my gun.”