pointed at the way out. By the time they reached the saloon-type exit doors, the Swede had found his voice. “Do you have your ID?”
Drake nodded.
“We can drive straight there.”
Again Drake nodded as a dark maelstrom of scenarios whirled through his head. They knew Gates had been seeing Sarah Moxley at the Hotel Dillion tonight, but what the hell had happened? Outside, the streets were strangely quiet, eerily so. The population of Washington, it seemed, were clustered around their TVs. Dahl led the way to their parked car and set off at pace.
“He was a good man,” Dahl said into a thick silence broken only by the car ’s purring engine. “The kind of man you could admire. The type of politician you could follow. A rare leader.”
“Who would do this?” Drake blurted without expecting any kind of answer. The list was endless—from an opportune civilian whacko to a disgruntled general to the more likely terrorist scenario.
“We ’ll find out,” Dahl said, slowing the car as he approached a road block. “And then we’ll stuff their fanaticism so far down their bloody throats it’ll hopefully choke ‘em.”
****
They ended up running half the way to the restaurant. Both men checked their phones, but although Drake had received a missed call from Hayden, neither of them could raise the rest of the team. It was most likely because the SPEAR HQ was going crazy and being run ragged, but Drake didn’t like it and neither did Dahl. They would have kept trying, but the checkpoints grew more regular the closer they came to the restaurant, each one more stringent than the next. When they finally reached the scene, Drake stood back, appalled.
The whole façade of the famous, respected restaurant had been blown out. Shattered glass littered the sidewalk all the way to the curb. Tables were upturned and broken. The two men didn’t enter the restaurant, but lingered on the fringes, eyes drawn toward the two inert bodies lying in the center of the room.
Drake took one more moment to grieve, then packed it away. He swallowed hard and began to look around. “That’s odd,” he said.
Dahl nodded. “ I saw them on the way in. Secret Service. Two of them.”
“I thought they only protected the President.”
“They do. But Coburn was speaking across the road.” Dahl rolled his eyes to the right, surveying the ground in between. “I don’t like the look of this, Drake.”
Drake cast his eyes over the bodies. The woman sitting in a chair near the bar, held there along with other witnesses, looked familiar.
“Sarah?” he called. “Is that you?”
She looked up, and a wave of gratitude swept across her face. She hobbled painfully as she tried to walk over.
A cop walked up to her. “Wait right there, miss.”
“Could we just have a moment?” Drake picked his way through the debris and tapped the cop on the shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?”
The Yorkshireman flashed his badge. “Part of Gates ’ team.”
A look of respect entered the cop ’s eyes. “Alright. Sure. Take your time. But she ain’t gonna be cleared to leave for a while.”
Drake enfolded Sarah Moxley in his arms. The sobs that wracked her body brought his own grief bubbling back to the surface. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
“He . . . he was a good man. He didn’t deserve this. There are so many others—”
Drake put a finger to her lips. “Don ’t finish that thought,” he said. “You might regret it later. Do you know the assassin’s identity?”
“They ’ve told us nothing.”
“ Once we get going on this,” he said, “The bastards who planned it will have nowhere to hide. Trust me.” He didn’t care that he’d told himself he’d never make that promise again. Not after this.
But Moxley suddenly pulled away. Tears streaked her face and her lipstick was smudged, but her eyes bored into him with a mix of intellect and fear. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“The Blood King
Drake nodded.
“We can drive straight there.”
Again Drake nodded as a dark maelstrom of scenarios whirled through his head. They knew Gates had been seeing Sarah Moxley at the Hotel Dillion tonight, but what the hell had happened? Outside, the streets were strangely quiet, eerily so. The population of Washington, it seemed, were clustered around their TVs. Dahl led the way to their parked car and set off at pace.
“He was a good man,” Dahl said into a thick silence broken only by the car ’s purring engine. “The kind of man you could admire. The type of politician you could follow. A rare leader.”
“Who would do this?” Drake blurted without expecting any kind of answer. The list was endless—from an opportune civilian whacko to a disgruntled general to the more likely terrorist scenario.
“We ’ll find out,” Dahl said, slowing the car as he approached a road block. “And then we’ll stuff their fanaticism so far down their bloody throats it’ll hopefully choke ‘em.”
****
They ended up running half the way to the restaurant. Both men checked their phones, but although Drake had received a missed call from Hayden, neither of them could raise the rest of the team. It was most likely because the SPEAR HQ was going crazy and being run ragged, but Drake didn’t like it and neither did Dahl. They would have kept trying, but the checkpoints grew more regular the closer they came to the restaurant, each one more stringent than the next. When they finally reached the scene, Drake stood back, appalled.
The whole façade of the famous, respected restaurant had been blown out. Shattered glass littered the sidewalk all the way to the curb. Tables were upturned and broken. The two men didn’t enter the restaurant, but lingered on the fringes, eyes drawn toward the two inert bodies lying in the center of the room.
Drake took one more moment to grieve, then packed it away. He swallowed hard and began to look around. “That’s odd,” he said.
Dahl nodded. “ I saw them on the way in. Secret Service. Two of them.”
“I thought they only protected the President.”
“They do. But Coburn was speaking across the road.” Dahl rolled his eyes to the right, surveying the ground in between. “I don’t like the look of this, Drake.”
Drake cast his eyes over the bodies. The woman sitting in a chair near the bar, held there along with other witnesses, looked familiar.
“Sarah?” he called. “Is that you?”
She looked up, and a wave of gratitude swept across her face. She hobbled painfully as she tried to walk over.
A cop walked up to her. “Wait right there, miss.”
“Could we just have a moment?” Drake picked his way through the debris and tapped the cop on the shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?”
The Yorkshireman flashed his badge. “Part of Gates ’ team.”
A look of respect entered the cop ’s eyes. “Alright. Sure. Take your time. But she ain’t gonna be cleared to leave for a while.”
Drake enfolded Sarah Moxley in his arms. The sobs that wracked her body brought his own grief bubbling back to the surface. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
“He . . . he was a good man. He didn’t deserve this. There are so many others—”
Drake put a finger to her lips. “Don ’t finish that thought,” he said. “You might regret it later. Do you know the assassin’s identity?”
“They ’ve told us nothing.”
“ Once we get going on this,” he said, “The bastards who planned it will have nowhere to hide. Trust me.” He didn’t care that he’d told himself he’d never make that promise again. Not after this.
But Moxley suddenly pulled away. Tears streaked her face and her lipstick was smudged, but her eyes bored into him with a mix of intellect and fear. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“The Blood King
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