Page 24

W ASHINGTON , D.C.

T he luxury four-bedroom penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton Residences belonged to one of Senator Bill Blackwood’s biggest donors. The wealthy couple, who rarely made it to D.C. anymore, was happy to have him use it whenever he wanted.

Spanning almost ten thousand square feet, with floor-to-ceiling windows, the apartment boasted some of the best views in the city.

In addition to in-room dining, housekeeping, and private chef services, Blackwood was able to avail himself of private access to an on-site, members-only health club, as well as key-card access to pass directly through to the Ritz-Carlton hotel and the use of an underground parking facility completely removed from the view of the passing public.

The security and exclusivity of the property were superb. It was the perfect location for Blackwood to entertain his six clandestine guests.

They had gathered in the opulent dining room and had been seated around a long Christofle designer table under a $2 million Chihuly chandelier.

Despite the expensive wines and cognacs that had been poured for them, not a single one of them had been happy. The recriminations had come fast and furious.

They had all been struck by the visceral nature of last night’s attack. War, he’d been forced to remind them, was a bloody business, and they were most definitely at war.

Drilling down, he finally got to what they were most upset about. All that time, all that planning, and most importantly, all that risk—only to have President Mitchell come out looking like the hero, a leader .

His visit to the victims in the hospital, his remarks to the press, everyone had lapped it up.

They had actually made him stronger politically.

It was the exact opposite of what they had intended and they were pissed.

Blackwood, however, had his talking points ready and, thanks to his visit with Chuck Coughlin, knew exactly what to say.

It had taken a few minutes to sink in, but his guests had eventually come around to his way of thinking.

To be successful—to “out media” Mitchell—the Vice President needed to get to the microphones first and come out with such force, that anything the President tried to follow up with would look like weak tea in comparison.

He reminded them to trust the plan. The wheels were in motion and what was coming could not be stopped.

They needed to hang together or, as Ben Franklin was alleged to have said after signing the Declaration of Independence, they would assuredly all hang separately.

After a final round to stiffen their spines, he had sent them on their way.

It had been risky bringing them all together in one place like that so soon after the attack.

Secrecy was the sine qua non of their operation. None of them wanted to be arrested for treason, but they were fighting for the future of the nation.

President Mitchell had been given a once-in-a-generation opportunity and he was squandering it.

He had assembled an army of Americans, citizens wholly devoted to him, who would do anything he asked.

All they had asked of him was that he put the nation first. He had promised that he would and in exchange for that promise, they had voted for him.

But as they watched his first one hundred days in office, as those days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months, he had disappointed them at practically every turn.

He had not only abandoned his principles and the voters who had swept him into office, but he had also allowed himself to be co-opted by the establishment. He had become the thing he had campaigned against—a creature of D.C.

Plenty of voters, out of slavish devotion and an inability to believe that he had turned his back on them, had stayed faithful.

No matter how many examples they were presented with his showing infidelity to the movement, they refused to give up on him.

In their eyes, the young, charismatic president could do no wrong and his detractors were simply “jealous” or incapable of realizing his brilliance.

They were convinced that Mitchell was playing a sophisticated long game, intent on driving his enemies mad, and which would, inevitably, deliver for all Americans—especially his most devoted supporters.

Bill Blackwood and his junto knew better.

After the last of the guests had left the penthouse, Blackwood removed his coat and tie, poured himself a Double Eagle Very Rare twenty-year-old bourbon, and stepped out on the terrace.

The air was still humid, but with the sun having set, the temperature had fallen a few degrees and a slight breeze had picked up. It was almost agreeable.

Sitting down on one of the outdoor couches, he kicked off his shoes, put his feet up on the table in front of him, and closed his eyes.

Like Paris or New York, D.C. was a city that didn’t sleep. It had a heartbeat, a thrum, that could be felt all night long.

He was taking it all in when he heard the unmistakable sound of a bottle being slid from a half-melted bucket of ice inside.

Without opening his eyes, he knew that she had joined him on the terrace.

The breeze had shifted slightly and it carried with it the faint scent of her perfume—refined with just a touch of mystery.

It was called Black Orchid and even its name suited her so perfectly, simple yet elegant, with a hint of something deeper beneath the surface.

Claire Bennet was the most intoxicating woman he had ever met.

She was a partner at a successful D.C. lobbying firm, and her confidence was unmistakable. It was one of the things that had instantly intrigued him about her. Her looks were another.

All of his wives had been blondes. Claire, however, was different—her long, chestnut-colored hair a striking contrast. But it wasn’t just her hair that set her apart.

Her long, thin neck, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and doe-like eyes, which seemed to see right through him, added a level of allure he had never experienced.

And then there was the fact that she was thirty-six, and on their second evening out, she’d casually admitted that she found him incredibly sexy—and to his delight, utterly irresistible.

She had been in the back bedroom, listening to, and recording, everything that had been said. It was their “insurance” in case any of Blackwood’s guests had second thoughts and attempted to go rogue. Her commitment to the cause all but rivaled his own.

“You did well tonight,” she said, sitting down next to him, a glass of Krug, Clos du Mesnil in her hand. “Very well.”

Blackwood opened his eyes and looked at her.

She had gotten rid of her jacket, as well as her heels, and was wearing just a tight black pencil skirt and a white blouse, unbuttoned far enough that he could see the tops of her breasts.

She was well aware of the power she had over him and always seemed to enjoy wielding it.

On the outdoor speakers, he could hear that she had queued up some Etta James.

As the slow, sultry notes of “I’d Rather Go Blind” began to play, she took a sip of her champagne and set the glass on the table. Hiking up her skirt, she crawled onto his lap and started moving her hips to the music.

“Tonight wasn’t the hard part,” he replied, enjoying her effort to seduce him. “It’s what comes next that I’m concerned about.”

Leaning in, she gave him an even better view of her breasts as she unbuttoned the third and fourth buttons of his shirt.

“Is the Vice President going to be where we need him to be tomorrow?”

Blackwood looked up at her—that swanlike neck, those beautiful lips, those eyes—and nodded.

“Good,” she responded. “Then there’s nothing else that you can do.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, she leaned the rest of the way in and kissed him. And with the taste of champagne still fresh in her mouth, she took his hand and guided it to the zipper on her skirt.