sprawling onto the floor. "It didn't take much to bribe your secret service agents to take the rest of the night off, Briar. Couple bottles of Patrón . Maybe they blame you, too. Maybe they just wanted to get drunk."
"So hard to find good help these days," Carson said, crouching next to Briar, hauling him back to his feet. "Anyone else around?"
"No." The old man sounded defeated. "No, it's just me now."
"You'll forgive me if we don't take you at your word." Blake checked the revolver's chamber, giving it a spin. "Watch him. I'll check the kitchen."
"Look in the flour," Carson said. "My grandmother always used to keep emergency money in a baggie in the flour jar."
"Your grandmother was weird," Blake said, departing.
Carson couldn't argue with that. She carried the Depression-era attitudes she'd grown up with for the rest of her life, squirreling money away, never trusting the banks, never trusting much of anyone, never throwing anything away. She'd raised him, infected him with her own attitudes, and a healthy respect for the capabilities of the elderly. He kept one eye on the old congressman while his gaze cast across the rest of the study.
Shelves lined the walls. Books lined the shelves. The Representative Briar was infamous for his anti-intellectual stances. Before he'd chaired the House Subcommitte on Space, he'd been on the Subcommittee on Early Childhood, Elementary and Secondary Education, and gained national attention for broad budget cuts that had defunded public schools in low-income areas.
"You a big reader?" Carson asked. "Yeah, I bet you're a really big reader. It's your fault my little brother's school library hasn't gotten any new books since 1996."
He was acutely aware of the old man watching him. He tensed, but the old man's gaze wasn't anticipatory. It wasn't fearful.
Carson and Blake had brought their particular brand of justice to three other members of the committee before they'd mustered up the courage to come to Briar directly. The others had been junior representatives, worried by the riots, holed up somewhere secure, but relatively unprotected. Representative Summers had been terrified, crying the whole time -- though he supposed that was largely Blake's fault, and whatever it was he'd been saying while Carson had been raiding the pantry and kitchen. She'd been an absolute wreck when he returned to the bedroom, though Blake insisted that he hadn't laid a finger on her. Carson believed him, and somehow that made it worse.
Their second practice run, Carson had volunteered to watch Representative Simmons and his wife while Blake went scavenging. Simmons was a beefy guy, aggressive, but Carson had felt secure in his baseball bat. When the big man had made his move -- and Carson had just known that he would -- he reacted without thinking, swinging the wooden bat against the side of his skull. They'd left him there, unconscious but breathing, in the care of his hysterical wife.
Carson didn't know if he'd recovered. He didn't know if he was a murderer. He tried not to think about it.
Representative Briar, however, didn't seem afraid, and it didn't look like he was going to try and escape or attack. He just seemed... curious. His silent scrutiny made Carson more uneasy than the Simmons' hostility had.
"This your daughter?" Carson tapped a photo of the old man, an old woman, and a younger woman in a graduation gown.
"Melanie. My granddaughter," the old man said. "She's about your age."
"She live here?"
"Florida," the old man said.
Carson's lips drew thin. He hadn't really cared. He didn't want to humanize this man, this killer of billions.
The old man spoke again after a few moments of silence. "You've done this sort of thing before?"
"Oh yeah," Carson ran a finger along the spines of the books in front of him. "I'm a pro. Stone cold. "
"What did you do before this?"
"Worked in an office," Carson said, not sure why he was humoring the old man. He could handle the fear. He could handle the
"So hard to find good help these days," Carson said, crouching next to Briar, hauling him back to his feet. "Anyone else around?"
"No." The old man sounded defeated. "No, it's just me now."
"You'll forgive me if we don't take you at your word." Blake checked the revolver's chamber, giving it a spin. "Watch him. I'll check the kitchen."
"Look in the flour," Carson said. "My grandmother always used to keep emergency money in a baggie in the flour jar."
"Your grandmother was weird," Blake said, departing.
Carson couldn't argue with that. She carried the Depression-era attitudes she'd grown up with for the rest of her life, squirreling money away, never trusting the banks, never trusting much of anyone, never throwing anything away. She'd raised him, infected him with her own attitudes, and a healthy respect for the capabilities of the elderly. He kept one eye on the old congressman while his gaze cast across the rest of the study.
Shelves lined the walls. Books lined the shelves. The Representative Briar was infamous for his anti-intellectual stances. Before he'd chaired the House Subcommitte on Space, he'd been on the Subcommittee on Early Childhood, Elementary and Secondary Education, and gained national attention for broad budget cuts that had defunded public schools in low-income areas.
"You a big reader?" Carson asked. "Yeah, I bet you're a really big reader. It's your fault my little brother's school library hasn't gotten any new books since 1996."
He was acutely aware of the old man watching him. He tensed, but the old man's gaze wasn't anticipatory. It wasn't fearful.
Carson and Blake had brought their particular brand of justice to three other members of the committee before they'd mustered up the courage to come to Briar directly. The others had been junior representatives, worried by the riots, holed up somewhere secure, but relatively unprotected. Representative Summers had been terrified, crying the whole time -- though he supposed that was largely Blake's fault, and whatever it was he'd been saying while Carson had been raiding the pantry and kitchen. She'd been an absolute wreck when he returned to the bedroom, though Blake insisted that he hadn't laid a finger on her. Carson believed him, and somehow that made it worse.
Their second practice run, Carson had volunteered to watch Representative Simmons and his wife while Blake went scavenging. Simmons was a beefy guy, aggressive, but Carson had felt secure in his baseball bat. When the big man had made his move -- and Carson had just known that he would -- he reacted without thinking, swinging the wooden bat against the side of his skull. They'd left him there, unconscious but breathing, in the care of his hysterical wife.
Carson didn't know if he'd recovered. He didn't know if he was a murderer. He tried not to think about it.
Representative Briar, however, didn't seem afraid, and it didn't look like he was going to try and escape or attack. He just seemed... curious. His silent scrutiny made Carson more uneasy than the Simmons' hostility had.
"This your daughter?" Carson tapped a photo of the old man, an old woman, and a younger woman in a graduation gown.
"Melanie. My granddaughter," the old man said. "She's about your age."
"She live here?"
"Florida," the old man said.
Carson's lips drew thin. He hadn't really cared. He didn't want to humanize this man, this killer of billions.
The old man spoke again after a few moments of silence. "You've done this sort of thing before?"
"Oh yeah," Carson ran a finger along the spines of the books in front of him. "I'm a pro. Stone cold. "
"What did you do before this?"
"Worked in an office," Carson said, not sure why he was humoring the old man. He could handle the fear. He could handle the
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