Aground on St. Thomas by Rebecca M. Hale Page B

I mean, I haven’t . . .” she protested and then cut short her remark.
    Another set of footsteps sounded outside the closet door, this time moving directly toward the senators’ hidden position. The rubber soles on the agent’s black combat boots squeaked, ever so slightly, against the tile floor.
    Bobo gripped Sanchez’s arm, squeezing it tightly.
    Scrunched down in the closet, her leg muscles cramping and her head swimming from the proximity of Bobo’s hair oil, Sanchez decided she’d had enough closet foolishness. It was time to put a stop to this nonsense.
    She hadn’t received any bribes during her short term in office. She would simply step forward and proclaim her innocence. Wincing, she released herself from Bobo grasp and prepared to stand.
    Before she could move, a voice called out, “Hey, you!”
    It belonged to Gilda, the guard from the Legislature’s front entrance. The woman had worked in the building for decades and was a stickler for protocol. No matter a person’s rank or seniority within the senate, Gilda insisted that everyone abide by the full set of security procedures, each and every time they entered the building.
    In the few months since Sanchez had taken her senate seat, she had been subjected to Gilda’s stern lectures more times than she cared to remember. Any deviation from the established protocol was met by rigid rebuke. She could only imagine Gilda’s rage at the sight of federal agents running roughshod over her domain.
    Gilda moved in front of the closet and gestured down the hallway.
    “I saw them run around the corner,” the security guard said in a convincing tattletale tone. “The two you’re looking for—they went that way.”
    The rubber-soled boots jogged off toward a separate wing of the building.
    “Stupid pasty boy,” Gilda grumbled under her breath. Then she rapped on the closet door. “Hurry up. You can’t stay in there forever.”
    Bobo pushed open the door and leapt into the hallway, nearly knocking over Sanchez in the process. “Can you get us to the side exit?”
    The guard nodded grimly. “Come with me.”
    Sanchez stumbled out of the closet. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
    The guard put her hands on her hips. “You think that matters? You want to end up like the rest of your lot? They’ve got ’em hog-tied in the main meeting chambers. Every last one ’cept for you two. I heard ’em hollering for their lawyers, but the pasty boys aren’t letting anyone in.”
    “Hog-tied?” Sanchez repeated, in obvious disbelief. Surely, Gilda was exaggerating.
    But suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so willing to announce her presence to the arresting agents. Maybe it would be best to slip out of the Legislature Building and regroup. She could make herself available for questioning at the courthouse—accompanied by her lawyer.
    “All right,” Sanchez sighed, relenting. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Sanchez slipped off her heels and crept barefoot down the hallway, her painted toenails treading behind Bobo’s worn huaraches. Following the guard’s hand-waving instructions, they made their way toward the building’s north flank.
    Gilda strode about ten feet in front of the senators, casually glancing from side to side, jauntily swinging her baton. It was a good act, Sanchez thought wryly, but the guard was perhaps enjoying her role in the subterfuge a little too much.
    At several points along the way, they picked up snippets of the ongoing protests in the meeting chambers. While it didn’t sound as if anyone had been tied up, the captured senators obviously weren’t happy about their confinement.
    For Sanchez, the raucous audio confirmed her decision to flee. The Legislature was a contentious decision-making body; discussions over the most mundane policy matters could evolve into shouting matches. She cringed at the thought of being cooped up with the other thirteen accused. She’d made the right decision to sneak out.
    Now all she had