The Kill Shot Read Free Page A

didn’t matter to me. But that was a lie I often told myself.
    In any case, my father didn’t hear my lack of response. Or anything else, really. His knees buckled and he slumped down on the sofa Barrett and I had just vacated.
    “Sir,” I asked, “are you all right?”
    Roger crossed to my balcony, shut the French doors against the night. My father laced his fingers together. His hands were shaking.
    “Jamie,” he said, “I need you to do a favor for me.”

Chapter 3
    In all the years of my life, I’d never heard my father request a favor from anyone. Not from his brothers-in-arms, not from the politicos who walked Washington’s halls of power, and certainly not from me. The idea that my father needed a favor—and was reduced to asking me for one—had the champagne I’d drunk churning in my stomach.
    My father didn’t look like he felt much better, but he forced his shaking hands into fists, shoved himself to his feet. He put one foot in front of the other and crossed my Savonerie rug as if he’d just dropped in to check the time on the antique grandfather clock ticking away in my stair hall. Like the exacting parent I’d always known, he peered into its antique face, consulted the Patek Phillipe on his wrist, and found my timepiece wanting.
    “No doubt,” he said, lifting the clock’s bonnet and poking at the minute hand, “you’re aware I serve on several congressional committees.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Well, one of my committees has been presented with an opportunity.”
    “What kind of opportunity?”
    My father’s hand began to tremble again. “An invaluable one.”
    From his reaction, I didn’t doubt that for a second. And a sneaking suspicion told me he wasn’t the only one who thought so. That suspicion made me ask, “Which committee are we talking about?”
    My father cleared his throat. “The Armed Services Committee.”
    Now it was my turn to sink into a seat. The twenty-six-member Armed Services Committee was Congress’s be-all and end-all when it came to the nation’s military. Every aspect of the country’s defenses fell within its purview. The committee kept tabs on the condition of our battleships, tanks, and aircraft. It judged the readiness of military housing, hospitals, and the troops themselves. A decree from the committee could reinstate Selective Service. And it was the committee who knew all the secrets of our nuclear stockpiles.
    As a seasoned senator and a former two-star general, my father was the ranking member on this committee. The others didn’t dare make a decision without consulting him. If he needed a favor, the entire country needed it.
    And if he needed that favor from me, how could I refuse to help?
    “In a few hours,” my father said, “a State Department courier named Katie deMarco is leaving for London. I want you to go with her.”
    But there had to be more to the favor than that. I looked to Roger for confirmation. He didn’t say a word, but he tucked a finger into his collar, ran it around his throat as if his bow tie were suddenly too tight.
    Meanwhile, my father read my mind. “I want you to protect this courier, Jamie. I want you to see her safely back to Washington.”
    “So this Katie deMarco is in some danger?”
    My father let loose with his slick, politician’s smile. “Probably not.”
    He crooked his finger and Roger slipped a fat envelope from the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He handed the envelope to me. It didn’t have my name on it. It bore no return address, either. I broke the seal, flipped through its contents.
    I found a First Class plane ticket for the last evening flight from Reagan National Airport, £2,000 in slightly worn notes, and a platinum credit card—already embossed with my name.
    I didn’t like the looks of all that loose cash. It suggested bribery would be expected of me. I didn’t like that the cash had probably come from some super-secret government slush fund, either. I really didn’t like