Wildcard. Rachel Lee
needs men like Grant Lawrence. I don’t always agree with him, but I can’t question his convictions or his courage.”
Edward shook his head. “You’re not talking to the press here, Harrison. It’s me. Don’t tell me a part of you didn’t jump for joy when you realized he was out of the race.”
“Of course it did,” Rice said. “And that part of me makes me sick. I don’t like to think I’m the kind of man who could feel that way.”
“None of us does,” Edward agreed. “But we are. At some level, we’re all looking out for number one.”
“So what are you saying?” Rice asked, anger rising in his belly. “That I should be celebrating because a friend of mine was shot? Sorry. I can’t do that. It was wrong.”
“Whoa,” Edward said, holding up a hand. “I’m not saying that at all. All I’m saying is, you didn’t pull that trigger. You didn’t make it happen. And yes, it’s a damn shame. But it’s also an opportunity.”
“A curse, you mean. Even if I win, I’ll be living under his shadow. Every decision I make will be weighed against what people think Grant Lawrence would have done. It’s almost not worth it.”
“That’s bullshit, Harrison. And you know it.” He paused for a moment. “Look, remember that high school game you told me about, the one where you finally got to play because the starting quarterback got hurt?”
Rice nodded. It was the only time he’d played in three years of high school football. Homecoming game. Junior year. Brad Mellows had sprained an ankle halfway through the fourth quarter, and the coach had nodded to Rice. He remembered the churning in his stomach as he’d strapped on his helmet and jogged onto the field. They were three points behind and driving down the field. On the first play, he’d almost tripped over his own feet as he’d handed the ball to the fullback, but big Buck Ledger had bulled his way to a first down.
Rice had called an option on the next play, and as he’d swept around the right side and prepared to pitch the ball to Gary Thomas, he’d seen a crease form in front of him. He’d tucked the ball in, turned upfield and burst into the open. Seventeen yards later, he’d crossed the goal line, winning the game and, briefly, Debbie Mays’s heart.
“Nobody said, ‘What would the other guy have done?’ then, did they?” Edward asked. “No, they talked about what you had done. Stepping up to make a play when the team needed you.”
“Yes,” Rice said.
“So it’s the same thing here, Harrison. You have to step up and make a play for the country. And not the play Grant Lawrence would have made. He might be a great guy, but he’s not always right and you’re not always wrong. You have to make your play, just like you did in that game.”
Rice nodded. “Well, you’re right there. I’m not going to stand by while these damn terrorists blow up our bases and murder our ambassador. They’re not going to kill our people and get away with it.”
“Nor should they,” Edward agreed. “That’s an issue where you were right and Lawrence was wrong. We do need to continue what we’ve started in the Middle East and create a real peace. And if you do that—put an end to those fundamentalist fanatics and let those people have peace and hope and prosperity again—I guarantee you, no one will be talking about what Grant Lawrence would have done. They’ll be talking about what Harrison Rice did.”
Rice nodded slowly. Trust Edward to get him out of his funk and back on the right track. It was time to step up and make a play.
Later that night, after Rice had left, Edward picked up the telephone and dialed.
“How did it go?” a voice asked, without a greeting.
“He was feeling guilty, like you said.”
“No reason he should,” the man said. “He’s the right man for the job.”
“Yes, of course,” Edward said. “But I understand his feelings. He and Lawrence are friends, after all. Anyway, he seemed to be feeling better when he left. More like his old self.”
“And he’s on board?”
“Yes. I think we can count on him.”
“Make sure it stays that way,” the man said, then disconnected to end the conversation as abruptly as he had begun it.
Edward Morgan was no fool. His own life was on the line here, as well. Failure was not acceptable. There was too much at stake. Harrison Rice would be president, must be president. The men Morgan worked for could count on Rice to do the right thing. American resolve in the war on terror was wavering in the absence of concrete progress. Left to their own devices, the people would want their sons and daughters to come back home. Grant Lawrence had already laid out his proposed policy for disengagement, and even the Republican nominee was backing away from his predecessor’s rhetoric.
Only Harrison Rice was resolved to stay the course. A course that, day by day, brought Morgan’s colleagues closer to their goal. No one could be permitted to stand in their way. Harrison Rice must be president. And, once elected, he would do his masters’ bidding.
5
Fredericksburg, Virginia
Tom sat propped up in bed, the reading lamp on the nightstand competing with the flickering light of the muted television. On the screen, Bruce Willis was using a POW camp murder trial as cover for a mass escape, even if it cost a black pilot his life. Down the hall, judging by the quiet murmurs since the ring of the telephone ten minutes ago, Miriam was talking to Terry. Tom tried to ignore the movie, the barely audible sound of Miriam’s voice and the all-too-audible noise in his own head, as he paged through the files he’d brought home.
Colin Farrell, the black pilot’s attorney, had just discovered that the court-martial was a ruse, and that his client was to be sacrificed to protect the escape. The pain of betrayal was evident on the actor’s face. Tom didn’t need the dialogue to know what was happening. He had seen that look before.
“It’s a DEA operation, Lawton. All you have to do is stay out of the way.”
He’d read somewhere that it was possible to be an honest drug dealer but impossible to be an honest undercover cop. It had taken him months to gain the trust of a midlevel trafficker, and over the next two years, Tom had been able to pass along intelligence that had allowed LAPD detectives to close three homicides, and DEA and Customs officials to seize a half-dozen shipments.
And all without compromising his cover—or the twelve-year-old girl who had become his best informant.
She was his subject’s daughter, an only child, just as Tom had been. One of the homicides he’d closed had been the murder of the girl’s mother, cold retribution by a rival trafficker. Tom had seen his own childhood mirrored in the bond between the girl and her father. He’d watched them work through the grief, just as he and his father had done. Like Tom, she’d seen enough of Daddy’s “business” to know he did bad things. Unlike Tom, she’d had a kindly uncle figure to talk with and share her concerns. Someone she thought she could trust.
“The DEA thinks they’ve gotten all they’re going to get, Agent Lawton. This guy has killed two people that we know of. Including your partner, John Ortega. Carlos is bad news, and they’re taking him out. And you will get out of the way. Understood?”
John Ortega. He’d been Tom’s best friend at Quantico and probably the reason Tom had stuck with the difficult training rather than giving up. Whenever he’d felt low, John was there to cheer him up with an ancient Cheech & Chong imitation that kept Tom holding his sides too tightly to bang his head against the wall. John Ortega, who’d been sent to L.A. two months before Tom had, and had been the first to penetrate Carlos Montoya’s L.A. network.
When Tom had heard he was being transferred to L.A., he was elated. He had looked forward to working with his old Quantico buddy. When he learned that John was in a deep cover