Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission) Read online

  Carly’s sleepy eyes focused on him, and he wanted nothing more than to fall back into bed with her. But he had commitments he needed to keep. “Home first, if the FBI and the ATF will let me inside,” he explained in a low voice. “I showered last night, but I need a change of clothes this morning, if possible. Then I have a breakfast meeting scheduled for seven-thirty before hitting the Senate floor at nine o’clock.”

  She stretched sinuously beneath the covers, and somehow Shane knew it wasn’t for his benefit. Unfortunately. Everything about Carly was unconsciously arousing—even when she’d been impersonating his fiancée in the hospital to get a story, she’d exuded what the French called je ne sais quoi, the indefinable certain something that set some women apart. Carly had it in spades, although she seemed to be largely unaware of it. Sexy? Hell yes. Quietly beautiful in a classy way? Assuredly. But neither of those things held a candle to her charm. She might be a tiger shark when she got her teeth into a story, but getting that story in the first place was due in large part to the charm that came as naturally to her as breathing. She’d be charming the socks off someone in pursuit of a story when she was old and gray—looks had nothing to do with it.

  Shane’s thoughts in no way impeded his dressing, so by the time he’d reached this point in his silent assessment he was knotting his tie as he stepped into his loafers. He leaned over and pinned Carly to the bed for a quick kiss. A quick kiss that soon threatened his good intentions to keep to his itinerary no matter what. A bomb scare wouldn’t derail his schedule, but Carly might.

  Despite already having taken the edge off his hunger for her earlier this morning, desire came surging back when Carly returned his kiss. He was three heartbeats away from chucking his commitments and sliding back into bed beside her when she turned her head and broke their lips’ connection.

  “You have things to do, Marine,” she breathed. “And so do I. Sleeping,” she added. She sighed suddenly, a sound that said he was a temptation she was determined to resist, and her hands gently pushed at his shoulders to remove him from her proximity.

  Or to remove her from mine, Shane thought with a stab of humor. He stole one last kiss before heading out of the hotel room.

  * * *

  As he drove toward the Francis Scott Key Bridge that would take him back to Virginia—tailed by a vigilant FBI agent—Shane’s thoughts returned to the woman he’d just barely managed to leave. He hadn’t wanted to. Temptation and Carly went hand in hand, and he craved her like a chocoholic craved chocolate. Problem was, he didn’t want to be cured.

  And he loved the way she called him Marine. It seemed more intimate than calling him Senator, which she’d started out doing. It even seemed more intimate than calling him by his name. He’d been a US Marine for half his life when he’d been forced to accept a medical discharge at age thirty-six, and he still thought of himself as one, even though he’d been retired for five years now. Major Jones—he’d been on the promotion list at the time of the incident, so by law they’d retired him as a lieutenant colonel even though he’d never served as such—had laughingly joked to his baby sister he bled marine blue...right before the explosion that had proved he bled bright red just like every other human being.

  Traffic going into DC was starting to build up, even this early in the morning, but Shane was driving against traffic, so he made good time. As he turned off North Fort Myer Drive, out of habit he rubbed the fingers of his left hand against the long white scar on the side of his head. It didn’t hurt anymore. And it was barely visible—if he wore his hair longer, it wouldn’t be visible at all. In fact, if not for the medical discharge, there would have been times he completely forgot about it. But he could not forget he’d never serve as a major again. Or a lieutenant colonel. Colonel. General. Commandant of the Marine Corps. He’d never make his onetime ultimate goal—which he’d only shared with his brother Niall—of serving as one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Not that being a US senator was anything to sneeze at. It was service to his country, too, just in a different way. And if he couldn’t be a marine, this was the next best thing.

  But he still loved it when Carly called him Marine.

  * * *

  “The chair recognizes Senator Jones from Colorado,” the president pro-tem of the Senate intoned. “Senator Jones, you have the floor.”

  Shane rose to his feet. He had notes, but he didn’t need them. “I agree with my esteemed colleague from Texas,” he began, nodding in the direction of that senior senator, who’d just given a long-winded speech in favor of the proposed pipeline under discussion. “The vote on this pipeline bill has been postponed long enough. But I must beg to differ with him in one crucial way—I cannot, in good conscience, vote for a bill that would rape—yes, rape,” he repeated sternly when a gasp went up from the press and the public following this debate from the gallery, “rape our environment and the public coffers the way this pipeline will do if this bill is passed.”

  A chill struck him with no warning whatsoever—the way it always did—and Shane could have sworn aloud. Now? A damned seizure was happening now?

  He glanced at his notes, pretending he’d paused for effect, and counted the seconds until the chill and the goose bumps disappeared. Then he continued smoothly from where he’d left off, as if he’d never stopped. “As usual, the battle cry is jobs—this pipeline will bring well-paying jobs that are desperately needed in every state the pipeline will pass through, including my own state of Colorado.”

  His lips formed a thin line. “The pipeline is needed, I don’t dispute that. But this bill,” he said, hefting the voluminous document for a moment before dropping it with a disdainful thud on his desk, “isn’t the way to go.” He tapped a finger on the offending bill. “This reads as if it was drafted a hundred years ago, when no one worried about the environment. When no one cared about the world their children and grandchildren would inherit.

  “We know better now. This bill as written, with all the riders and amendments that have been shoehorned in, is a short-term solution to a complex problem, but a solution with disastrous long-term results.”

  He breathed deeply. “And there’s more. This bill is rife with potential for corruption and greed at the expense of the American taxpayer. There’s big money backing this pipeline. Fortunes are riding on it. I can’t speak for every senator here, but I can tell you this—I was approached months ago by several different lobbyists seeking my approval on this bill. I was offered ‘campaign contributions’—a euphemism for bribes, in my opinion—if I would give the bill my tacit support. And even bigger ‘campaign contributions’ if I would openly support it.”

  Enough on that issue, Shane reminded himself. He wasn’t going to belabor the point about who had taken the money because it didn’t matter. All that truly mattered was garnering enough votes to defeat the bill. To make his fellow senators vote their consciences and not their wallets.

  “And so I urge each and every one of you here today to examine your conscience—as I have done—and vote against this bill when it comes to a vote. Not just for the environment and your children’s children. But for the average American taxpayer, as well, struggling to make ends meet and pay his or her fair share toward the common good. Don’t add to the taxpayers’ burden by allowing the beneficiaries of this bill to feed unchecked at the public trough. Thank you.”

  He sat down abruptly. Sporadic applause from the gallery—strictly forbidden, as the pounding gavel wielded by the president pro-tem indicated—followed Shane’s impassioned speech. He glanced up at the gallery to acknowledge the applause without openly acknowledging it with a raised hand, and was surprised to see Carly seated up there in the first row, a short distance from one of the C-SPAN cameras.

  She was too far away for him to see her expression, but she nodded. And in that instant he knew she agreed with him about the pitfalls of the pipeline bill. It sounded
good...until you delved into the details. Until you followed the money trail. Until you ferreted out how this bill would circumvent both federal and state environmental protections that had been put into place over the years to guard against the very thing this pipeline would bring about—deregulation on a massive scale.

  Carly’s reaction warmed him. Not that he hadn’t meant every word he’d said. Not that he wouldn’t have argued vehemently against this bill even if Carly hadn’t agreed with him. But it felt good to know he’d earned her approval. Again.

  * * *

  Carly couldn’t believe it when Shane stood up to oppose the pipeline bill. She’d been following the bill for months as it made its way slowly but inexorably through committee hearings and onto the Senate docket for this legislative session. Like Shane, she’d read every word of it, including the riders and amendments. And like Shane, she was appalled.

  She’d done a preliminary piece on the bill back when it was still in committee. It had been bad enough when it had first been introduced, and had only gotten worse with everything that had been tacked on to it. But nobody—and by that, Carly meant the TV-viewing public—had seemed to care. The ratings on that segment had been abysmal. So J.C. had shelved the idea of a follow-up story, although Carly still had hopes of convincing him otherwise, which was why she was here today.

  Now if only J.C. didn’t get it in his head that because Shane had openly opposed a bill sponsored by other senators, and Carly was involved with Shane, that made her incapable of being objective where the bill itself was concerned. Maybe some reporters couldn’t be objective under those circumstances...but Carly wasn’t one of them. “This is my story, J.C.,” she muttered under her breath. “I’ll be damned if you’re giving this one to Pearly White.”

  * * *

  Carly returned home, accompanied by the FBI agent who’d shadowed her footsteps all day, but who wouldn’t be replaced when he went off duty. The yellow crime-scene tape that had festooned her front door was gone, and the police cordon around her town house was gone. But even though she could stay here if she wanted to—which she didn’t—the FBI and ATF had warned her against it earlier, when they’d told her they were releasing her town house as a crime scene. The man who’d set the bomb yesterday had managed to disable her alarm system as if it were child’s play, so she wasn’t safe. Carly didn’t need the FBI and ATF to tell her that.

  Which meant she had two choices. She could stay in a hotel for the duration—however long that was. Or she could stay in the cabin on Lake Barcroft she and Tahra had inherited from their parents years ago. They’d inherited the family home, too, which Carly had maintained until Tahra went off to college, after which the sisters had made the decision to sell it.

  But the cabin was a different story. While they rented it out through an agency during the summer months, it was usually vacant in the winter...as it was now. It was roughly ten miles southwest of her Georgetown town house, but would add more than an hour one way to her daily commute during rush hour.

  Carly had just reluctantly decided the commute wasn’t worth it—“It’s not as if you can’t afford a hotel,” she murmured under her breath as she packed two suitcases—when her smartphone dinged for an incoming text.

  Shane.

  Need a place to stay? the text asked.

  She texted back, Hotel.

  Better idea, was the response. If your offer still stands.

  “What in the world?” She didn’t get it at first, then realized Shane was referring to the “just sex” offer she’d made him last night, and she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. “Oh, Shane.”

  Carly no longer believed she could maintain an emotional distance if she continued seeing him—that had been nothing more than a last ditch effort on her part to justify doing what her body wanted, to sleep with him again, when her heart warned her she was stepping into quicksand.

  She could get hurt. Badly. The question was, was she willing to risk it?

  Her phone dinged for another text. Carly? was all it said, but she knew he was waiting for her answer.

  Yes, she typed. Her fingers weren’t quite steady, but she hit Send anyway.

  Pick you up in 30.

  K.

  * * *

  “If you don’t take care of the problem soon, it will be too late. It might already be too late.”

  Marsh knew his employer was referring to the speech the senator had given today. And he knew the man was right—it might already be too late. The truth stuck in Marsh’s craw, but he couldn’t hide from it. “I know,” he admitted.

  “You came highly recommended,” the voice on the other end of the phone said, in a tone that indicated skepticism of the recommendation, and that flicked Marsh on the raw.

  “I’ve always delivered,” he said harshly. “Always.”

  “See that you do.”

  The dead air at the other end told Marsh his employer had disconnected. He didn’t bother to curse the man, though he wanted to, because Marsh had only himself to blame. “No more excuses,” he muttered. “No more failures.” His reputation was on the line. Which meant his livelihood was on the line.

  Which meant the senator had to die. Before it was too late.

  * * *

  Shane put Carly’s two suitcases down and fished a key out of his pocket. He inserted it in the lock, then punched in a digital code. He waited five seconds, then punched in a second code before turning the key. A faint bell-like sound told him he’d been successful, so he twisted the doorknob and opened the door.

  “Hang tight,” he told Carly as he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He didn’t turn on the lights, just moved swiftly to the lighted panel on the wall near the door. He keyed in the code his brother had given him, then waited.

  After a few seconds a green light flashed. “Code confirmed,” said a computerized voice. “Thumbprint, please.”

  Shane pressed his thumb against the touch screen.

  After a few seconds a second green light flashed on beside the first. “Thumbprint confirmed. Name, please.”

  “Shane Thermopolis Jones.” Thermopolis wasn’t his middle name. It actually belonged to his youngest brother, Liam. Shane’s real middle name was Breckenridge, because his mother had named him for the place he’d been conceived—which she’d done for all her children, to their secret and not-so-secret embarrassment.

  But Niall had used Liam’s middle name deliberately, in case someone had forced Shane this far at gunpoint. All Shane had to do was use his real middle name, and the silent alarm would go off, notifying the alarm company, the police and Niall’s agency.

  After a few seconds a third green light flashed on, making three in a row.

  “Name confirmed,” the computerized voice said. “Welcome, Senator. Please make yourself at home.” The hallway and living room lights came on automatically, and the lights on the panel turned off.

  Shane opened the door. “Come on in,” he told Carly, picking up her suitcases and bringing them inside, then bolting the door behind her. Carly was carrying Shane’s one suitcase, which she put down when she reached the living room. She turned in a circle, taking everything in with wide-eyed astonishment before asking, “What is this place?”

  Chapter 11

  Shane couldn’t blame Carly for her reaction. Niall’s condo was like something out of a futuristic sci-fi movie, with sleek chrome and glass tables, white leather modular couches and recliner, and techno-geek gadgets everywhere. Shane had been here a few times before when his brother was in town, but it still amazed him. And it seemed as if every time he visited, something new had been added.

  The high-tech security system was just the beginning. Shane picked up a remote from the coffee table and pressed a button. White enamel-coated vertical steel blinds parted smoothly, electronically, in the center
of the south wall, revealing a picture window that took up most of that wall and presented an incredible view of the DC skyline, albeit a slightly muted one.

  Carly was drawn to the window at first, then turned, a puzzled expression on her face. “The glass,” she began, but Shane anticipated her question.

  “Double-paned. And each pane is an inch thick. Tempered glass.”

  She touched one of the blinds, obviously testing its weight. “This is steel,” she stated, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

  “Yeah. The glass will stop most bullets, but when the blinds are closed this place is like a fortress.” He smiled faintly. “The walls are reinforced concrete and rebar. Both doors are steel, too.”

  “Who lives here?” She glanced around again before meeting Shane’s eyes. “Not you.”

  He shook his head. “Not my idea of home. Too sterile, for one thing. And though it’s more comfortable than it looks, I’d hate being constantly reminded that violent death is only a heartbeat away.” He pressed another button on the remote, and the blinds slid closed as quietly as they’d opened.

  “So if this place isn’t yours, who does it belong to?”

  “My brother Niall.”

  “The black-ops warrior?”

  Shane stiffened and his smile faded. “What do you know about Niall?”

  “I have my sources,” she said with a smile that warned him not to ask for specifics...because she wasn’t about to give them. “But they couldn’t tell me much. I know he’s a year younger than you. I know he served four years in the Marine Corps, just like your other brothers and your sister. When he left the Corps he joined a federal organization that operates in the shadows. Even their federal budget is buried.” This was obviously a sore point with Carly, but she didn’t elaborate on it. “Other than that, I know nothing. He’s a blank slate.”