Tess was on the screen, walking between two black-uniformed cops. Handcuffed. Samira’s throat dried. Whistle-blowing reporter arrested, read the scroll at the bottom. Then, Sen. Tristan Hyland cleared.
Feet operating automatically, she stepped inside the café, hardly able to absorb the words. The special counsel had announced there was insufficient evidence to prosecute Hyland, and had instead charged Tess with obstruction of justice for her sworn testimony. She’d been hauled off a plane on the tarmac at Dulles Airport in Washington, DC, “caught trying to flee the country,” according to the voice-over. The picture changed. Tess’s Legionnaire boyfriend, Flynn, surged through a churn of journalists, his face thunderous. “How the [bleep] do you think I feel?” he mumbled. “This is bullshit.”
Samira pulled her scarf away from her throat.
A family bustled into the café, speaking loud German, drowning out the news report. Suddenly another familiar face was staring out from the TV. Shit. Shit. Samira’s green-card photo—she looked so young. Warrant issued for arrest of Newell accomplice.
Samira yanked her beanie lower. The senator appeared on the screen, speaking to reporters in front of a plane. His daughter, Laura, rested a hand on his shoulder, almost protectively. As the German family retreated into the back of the café, his words became audible.
“...would like to thank the many loyal Americans who’ve supported us through these baseless and incredibly hurtful allegations. It’s been a long and tough road but we always had faith that the truth would prevail and the real villains would be exposed—those people in the media and my political opposition who would manufacture lies to destroy me, my family and my career, solely for ratings and profit and political point scoring.” He eyeballed the TV camera, as if he could see Samira standing there. “Today, the scales of justice rebalanced. For that I am grateful, if not surprised. God bless you, America.”
Applause.
Samira clenched her fists as the senator hushed the cheers and listened to a question. It was inaudible but a smile relaxed his face. Laura wiped away tears—real tears, going by the smudges in her heavy black makeup. The audio faded out and the network’s presenters began speaking over the footage, lamenting the millions “squandered on this witch hunt” and predicting Hyland would revive his presidential ambitions. The senator adjusted his tie and rolled his shoulders, drawing attention to his broad frame. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned, muscular forearms and his Marines tattoo. He laughed, like he was sharing a joke with the reporters.
How the hell had Tess and Latif ever thought they could take him on and win? The darling of American politics, with his boyish grin and blue eyes and square face and thick salt-and-pepper hair and insane popularity—JFK and Reagan rolled into one physically and politically attractive package. When he wasn’t being declared the sitter for America’s next president, he was being hailed the country’s most eligible bachelor. The next silver fox–in-chief. Heck, Samira had once thought him hot. Latif had teased her about it but she wasn’t alone. A meme cult had grown out of his good looks. And the senator knew just what he was doing when he brought his chic environmental crusader of a daughter to press conferences and functions—a reminder that he was a grieving widower and devoted father, and there was an opening for a future First Lady.
Teflon Tristan. When Tess and Latif had uncovered evidence that the military contractor he’d founded had orchestrated the LA terror attack, Hyland had argued it’d gone bad long after he’d sold it—successfully, it now appeared. Somehow he’d swum clear of the maelstrom that’d dragged down his former pals. But Latif, who’d worked for the contractor, had sworn that Hyland had still been calling the shots at the time of the attack, desperate to save the foundering company from liquidation and legal scrutiny by securing more war contracts. Latif had died searching for evidence to skewer his former boss.
The screen switched to the presenters, who moved on to another story. Eyes on the white tiled floor, Samira walked out robotically, hollow from her stomach to her toes. She no longer had anyone to meet. At a newsstand she picked up the Guardian. Nothing yet about Tess—or Samira. But on page three, a story about Hyland announcing a UK visit. Shit, he was coming here? She scanned the story. The secretary of state had fallen ill overnight, so Hyland was on his way to Edinburgh for a NATO meeting, and to observe a joint military exercise in Scotland.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Was he coming to supervise Samira’s capture and extradition? He always kept a private security team around him and Laura—was this an excuse to bring them to Britain? Had he known Samira was heading to London when she fled Tuscany? Did he know about Charlotte? What the hell did any of this mean?
Below the main story, another article zeroed in on controversy that Laura was traveling with him, having hurriedly arranged a book signing in Edinburgh for her memoir, which reportedly painted her father as a saint. A quote from the minority House leader: “This is yet another clear case of the Hylands profiting from the senator’s—”
“No free reads,” belted a voice from the stand.
Samira jumped, nearly ripping the paper. She shut it abruptly and tossed it back on the pile.
Tess wasn’t in London, wasn’t waiting in the square with Flynn. And Samira was officially a wanted woman. Thank God she’d turned down the special counsel’s offer of witness protection in the United States, or they’d have her now, too. Thank God she hadn’t used her own passport. Thank God she no longer looked like the naive, optimistic ingenue in her green-card photo. But the UK probably had a swift extradition agreement with the United States—if she survived long enough to fight a legal battle. What now?
Small steps. First, get out of the station. Fresh air. She needed fresh air. She slipped out of the atrium into a brick-walled space with a low industrial ceiling. Where was the damn tunnel to the square? Icy fingers from an invisible draft brushed her cheeks. Her camel coat was so thick it could stand up by itself, but the dry cold rushed into her lungs, chilling her from the inside.
Behind her, a man shouted. Indecipherable but panicked. She straightened, her spine prickling. Border guards, coming for her? More shouts. A clunk. Clattering. Hissing. Ahead, people began turning. People began running.
She swiveled, wheezing. Blue smoke gushed and fizzed from dozens of tin cans rolling along the floor. This was no arrest. It was an ambush. Urgent beeping bounced around the room. The smoke billowed, boiling across the low ceiling and pouring back down like a dozen waterfalls, lit by a strobing white emergency light. Screams, shouts. Shadowy figures darted through the thickening mist. Someone slammed into her arm, knocking her sideways. Her shoulder struck the floor first, then the side of her skull. The champagne bag swung out and smashed behind her. Coughing, she pushed to her feet. Bitter chemicals stung the back of her throat. Tear gas? She stumbled across the floor, her feet swallowed by a blue snowdrift. An alarm wailed. Dark smudges shunted her like a pin in a bowling alley.
“Attention, please.” A male voice, over a loudspeaker. “Due to a reported emergency, would all passengers leave the station immediately?”
Sure—if she could figure out where the exit was. She staggered like a zombie, one arm flailing in front of her. Wasn’t tear gas supposed to burn? Her hand scraped something rough. A brick wall. She swiveled and leaned back on it. She had to return to the atrium. If she just walked straight...or was it left...?
But if the smoke was cover for Hyland’s people to capture her, wouldn’t they be waiting for her to stumble out? Should she head for the Tube, try her luck in the maze of tunnels?
Yes. She pulled up her scarf, breathing into it as she inched along the wall, panic clamping her chest. Her arm fell through space. A doorway? Smoke cocooned
