Page 3 of Deadline

She glowered but didn’t say anything.

Twiddling his thumbs, literally, he took a long, slow survey of the corner office, his gaze pausing to appreciate the panoramic view through the wide windows. By craning his neck just a bit, he could see Old Glory hanging limp atop the capitol dome. Coming back to her, he remarked, “Nice office.”

“Thank you.”

“Who’d you blow?”

Under her breath, she cursed him. He’d heard her say those words out loud. He’d heard her shout them down the length of the conference table during editorial meetings when someone disagreed with her. Apparently with her new position came a certain restraint, which he immediately made his personal goal to crack.

“You just can’t stand it, can you?” she said, gloating smile in place. “Deal with it, Dawson. I’m above you now.”

He shuddered. “God spare me an image of that.”

Her eyes shot daggers, but she obviously had a speech prepared, and even his insulting wisecracks weren’t going to rob her of the pleasure of delivering it. “I have editorial control now. Full editorial control. Which means that I have the authority to approve, amend, or decline any story ideas you submit. I also have the authority to assign you stories if you don’t come up with your own. Which you haven’t. Not for the two weeks since you’ve been back in the States.”

“I’ve been using up accumulated vacation days. The time off was approved.”

“By my predecessor.”

“Before you took his place.”

“I didn’t take anything,” she said tightly. “I earned this position.”

Dawson raised one shoulder. “Whatever, Harriet.”

But his indifference was phony. The recent corporate shakeup had measured a ten on the Richter scale of his professional future. He’d received an e-mail from a colleague before the official blanket notification went out to all NewsFront employees, and even the distance between Washington and Kabul hadn’t been enough to buffer the bad news. A corporate asshole, somebody’s nephew, who knew slim to none about news-magazine publishing, or news in general for that matter, had named Harriet Plummer as editor-in-chief, effective immediately.

She was a disastrous choice for the position, first because she was more corporate animal than journalist. On any given tough editorial call, her top priority would be to protect the magazine against possible lawsuits. Stories addressing controversial topics would be watered down or canned altogether. Which, in Dawson’s opinion, amounted to editorial castration.

Secondly, she was a card-carrying ball breaker who had no leadership qualities. She harbored a scornful dislike for people in general, an even stronger antipathy toward the male of the species, and big-time loathing for Dawson Scott in particular. As humbly as possible, he recognized that her animosity was largely based on jealousy of his talent and the respect it had earned him among his colleagues at NewsFront and beyond.

But on the day she was appointed editor-in-chief, the source of her hostility had ceased to matter. It was there, it was robust, it was enduring, and she was now in charge. That sucked. Nothing could be worse.

Or so he’d thought.

She said, “I’m sending you to Idaho.”

“What for?”

“Blind balloonists.”

“Excuse me?”

She pushed a file folder across the desk toward him. “Our researchers have done the heavy lifting for you. You can acquaint yourself with the program on the flight out there.”

“Give me a hint.”

“Some group of do-gooders started taking blind people up in hot-air balloons and showing them the ropes. So to speak.”

The cheeky add-on didn’t get a smile out of Dawson, who kept his expression impassive. Leaving the folder where it lay, he asked, “And this is hard news?”

She smiled sweetly. Or tried. On her face, coyness didn’t quite work. “To the blind balloonists it is.”

Her smugness made him want to vault the desk and wrap both hands around her neck. Instead, he mentally counted to ten and looked away from her, toward the windows. Four stories below, the broad avenues of Washington, DC, baked under a midday sun.

“Despite your belittling description of the program,” he said, “I’m sure it’s worthy of

national notice.”