under his breath. He’d planned everything so carefully. He’d waited nearly an hour in the little park across from the entrance to the Mayo Clinic, moving around a little from spot to spot so as not to draw attention to a man lying in wait. He’d assembled his AS50 sniper rifle even earlier, secreting it between a boulder and a large aloe plant—close enough to retrieve at a moment’s notice, but out of sight. He’d known when the limo had pulled up in the driveway in front of the hospital, that was his signal the senator would be down shortly. He’d surreptitiously retrieved the rifle and had moved into position—a hidden vantage point he’d scouted and tested two days previously.
But everything had gone wrong from that point forward.
He’d followed his original plan regarding the disposal of the weapon he’d used and the clothing he’d worn, too, just as if he’d been successful in his assassination attempt. He’d immediately and without a qualm dumped the AS50 in a ravine in the Phoenix Mountains Preserve southwest of the Mayo Clinic—after he’d wiped it clean of prints, of course, and had rammed a metal rod down the barrel. That would ensure no one could match the rifling marks to any of the bullets it had fired—in case any had been recovered in usable form.
He’d also changed clothes in one of the restrooms there and had trashed what he’d been wearing in a Dumpster in Paradise Valley. Then he’d returned to his motel west of Phoenix to shave off the beard he’d grown specifically for this job.
But Marsh hadn’t tried to book a flight out of Phoenix—he’d kept his original ticket for this morning. He was too smart to try to skip town right after the shooting because he knew law enforcement—the Phoenix police and the FBI—would be watching closely for that. He’d holed up in his motel room instead, watched the news, then had taken the trim attachment on his electric razor to his somewhat shaggy hair—which he’d also let grow for this job—to make sure no one would recognize him from the video that damned reporter had managed to capture.
No beard and short hair matched the picture on his driver’s license, the one he’d displayed when he checked in for his flight in the early-morning hours.
Now he was home—almost home, he amended with a slight smile as he exited the freeway. But his smile faded as he acknowledged he had a hell of a lot of work to do once he arrived there. In addition to his contracted job on the senator—and the clock was ticking on that one, as the man who’d hired Marsh had reminded him last night—he also needed to take care of the witness, that damned reporter. The video she’d shot wasn’t good enough to conclusively identify him—she’d been too far away and the camera hadn’t been completely steady, although she’d tried. But in the unlikely event he was ever pulled in for questioning and forced to take part in a lineup, it was possible she could pick him out, despite his disguise that day. And that was not going to happen. Not if Marsh had anything to say about it.
* * *
Carly dialed the number J.C. had given her, identified herself to the press secretary then waited, yawning, for the senator himself. She was still several hours short of the seven to eight hours of sleep she needed every night, and she had to fight her body’s demands that she go back to bed. There was a time when she could go night and day with only a few catnaps, but she’d been a lot younger then. She wasn’t over the hill at thirty-five—not by a long shot!—but she didn’t have the stamina she’d had at twenty-five, and she was smart enough to know it. She hadn’t lost an ounce of drive—they didn’t call her Tiger Shark behind her back for nothing—but she knew her physical limitations. Usually. Senator Jones might not believe that, not after yester—
“Shane Jones,” said a voice in her ear. “Ms. Edwards?”
“Yes. You asked me to call you?”
She heard a slight sound, as if the senator had heaved a sigh, before he said, “Yes. About what we discussed two days ago? The assassination attempt has made it impossible to keep my presence at the Mayo Clinic secret. And I have no intention of lying about it. So I’m keeping my word—if you want the exclusive now, it’s yours.”
If she wanted it. If she wanted it? “Of course I want it. And given the sudden interest in you, the sooner the better. I can come to your home or office, but I’ll have to bring a crew with me. Easier if you come to the television studio.”
“Sounds good. What time? I’m meeting with the FBI at ten and with my entire staff at eleven, but I’m free from noon until four. I have a cocktail party I’m supposed to attend at five...” He mentioned the name of the president pro-tem of the Senate. “And I’ve been invited to a reception at the Zakharian embassy that starts at seven, which my executive assistant already accepted on my behalf once she knew I’d be back in time. I don’t like to blow off prior engagements, but I will if—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Carly said quickly. “Noon to four works for me.” She gave him the address of the studio. “They’ll pull you in for makeup first—”
“Oh, cra—I mean crud. Is that really necessary?”
Carly smiled to herself. “It is if you want to look healthy. And I think you do, Senator, especially given what you’re going to reveal. The lights wash all the color out of your face—trust me, I know—so in order to look natural, you definitely need makeup.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t take too long,” she assured him. “Oh, and wear a light blue shirt, red tie. The cameras love that combination.” She didn’t wait for his assent before adding, “I’ll have a list of questions prepared by the time you show up, and I’ll review them with you while they’ve got you in the makeup chair.”
He chuckled. “That’s unusual.”
Carly was surprised by the touch of anger that darted through her, and she wanted to leap to her profession’s defense. But...there was some truth to his statement. “No surprises, Senator. This isn’t an adversarial interview.”
“Shane. If we’re not going to be adversaries, just call me Shane.”
“Shane,” she agreed. “And my friends call me Carly.”
“Thanks, Carly.” Her name sounded different coming from him. Or was that sexy undertone just the way he spoke normally?
Out of the blue she remembered her chaotic dream earlier this morning. Something about Shane and her and a tropical island. But just as they’d been about to make love a platoon of US Marines had landed on the island with one of those landing craft from WWII and swarmed Shane to protect him. He’d immediately ordered the marines to protect her, not him.
But I’m not targeted for assassination, she’d protested as the marines promptly shifted at his command. Think again, Shane had said in that deep voice that sent shivers down her spine. You saw him. You can identify him. He’ll be coming after you—count on it.
* * *
Shane glanced apprehensively at the array of cosmetics, brushes and spray cans on the counter before him, then at the makeup artist draping a large cotton bib over his chest and tucking a towel around his throat, pushing the edges into his shirt collar to keep it from accidentally getting smeared. “Do your worst,” he said in the resigned voice of a man going to the guillotine.
The fiftysomething woman chuckled and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m the best in the business. When I’m done, you won’t look as if you’re wearing makeup at all.”
Shane
