“History of violence?”

“Not that we could find, other than some run-ins from his college days that were chalked up to fraternity shenanigans.” Stark put the word shenanigans in air quotes and shook her head. “The kind of thing that gets pushed under the rug, but I bet if we dig we’ll find out there was some racial or other bias behind it all.”

“Easy to overlook until there’s a reason to dig.” Cam sipped the very good coffee. Traveling with the president always guaranteed excellent food and drink. “How did he get through into the hall?”

Stark winced. “His press pass had never been deactivated. We didn’t check back far enough.”

Cam nodded. Stark was shouldering part of the blame, although it hadn’t been her job to screen individuals with potential access to the principals. Her protectee had been targeted, and that made the fault at least partly hers. Cam would have felt the same way. All the same, these were the kinds of things you prepared for, but could never completely eliminate. Anywhere along the line something might have popped up to raise suspicion about this guy, but it all could just as easily happen as it did—a string of coincidences that allowed a deranged individual to get too close. At least the metal detectors had prevented him from entering with a gun. She didn’t bother saying that. They both knew weapons could be fashioned from substances that would not trip a metal detector, including ceramic guns and knives. He could have had a knife in his hand when he lunged at Blair. He could have shot her from point-blank range.

“He never would’ve touched her,” Stark said as if reading her mind.

Cam met her eyes across the width of the car. “He already did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Cam shook her head. “Not your call. You did what needed to be done. How is Brock?”

“He says he’s good to go.” Stark grinned a little bit. “But I made him go see the medic.”

“Ah. Good call.”

Stark studied her coffee. Sighed. “Do you dislike this trip as much as I do?”

“Probably more. At least you’re not on camera.”

Stark laughed. “That’s a point.” She tossed her paper plate and bagel remains into a nearby waste can. “To make things even more pleasant, communications tells me we’re headed right into a big storm. Ought to hit by morning. Our schedule is likely to go to hell.”

“Par for the course,” Cam said. “Keep me updated, though, will you?”

“You’ll be at the briefing in the morning?”

Cam nodded. “I was about to call Renée.” She glanced at her watch. “I didn’t think about the time difference.”

“I just talked to her. She’s working,” Stark said. “Everybody’s going twenty-four seven on this one. You want me to give you some space?”

“Not necessary. You’ve been read in on all of this.” Cam pulled up Renée Savard’s number and tapped it in. Two rings and Renée answered.

“Savard, FBI.”

“Renée, it’s Cam Roberts.”

“Director,” Renée said briskly. “What can I do for you?”

“Help me follow a hunch.”

Renée laughed, a bright, brittle sound laced with frustration. “A hunch would be more than what I’ve got right now. Jennifer Pattee appears to have sprung full-grown from a mushroom patch. We can’t find any trace of her before college. The deep background info was completely fabricated, but really well done. Standard checks turned up nothing. That took some money and a hell of a lot of advance planning.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I want you to look into military records. Augustus Graves has to be ex-military, and he’s in the Armed Forces database somewhere. We’ve got a face, we’ve got a general locale. My guess is Idaho is his home territory. Men like him always go back to their roots, where they have connections within the local population and know the terrain. He might have purchased the land for his camp decades ago under another name. Track the land purchases back as far as they go, search facial ID in all the military and civilian databases, and filter for men of his age in special-ops units. Vietnam and the Gulf Wars.”

“You think he’s the key?”

“I think he’s one of them. Someone else was providing the money, but he was providing the soldiers.”

“We’ve already started some of those checks, but you know what the military’s like. Even for us, getting redacted records is tough and slow-going.”

“Then use my name and squeeze.”

She laughed again, this time sounding truly happy. “I’m on it.”

“And, Renée, when you find something, call me anytime. Just me.”

“Understood. How’s everybody handling the train ride?”

Cam glanced across the car. Stark had gone back to flipping cards onto her solitaire game. “We’re loving it.”

*

Jane pulled into a Motel 6 outside Colorado Springs a little before two a.m. The snow had thickened into a solid wall of white as she’d been driving, and a subzero wind sent swirls of flakes blowing against the windows like mini-tornadoes. She cut the engine and looked at Hooker. “I’ll get rooms.”

“We could share.”

“If for some reason there’s only one, you can sleep in the Jeep.”

He laughed good-naturedly. “It’d be smarter for the two of us to be in the same place. Maybe nobody’s looking for you, but maybe they are. Maybe they got a photo by now. Maybe your ID’s out on the airwaves. We can sleep in shifts. And if we have to clear out quickly, it’ll be better if we were together.”

She thought it over. He was right. The Homeland Security and FBI agents had seen her face. If one or both were still alive, they could be circulating sketches to local law enforcement. Some of the weaker militia who’d been captured might even have given her up in exchange for a lighter sentence. They wouldn’t know her true identity, but they might have photos. And they’d know whose daughter she was. She hated being forced into accepting Hooker as a partner, but he’d done nothing threatening. Her father had worked with him, which meant he trusted him to some degree, at least as far as anyone could trust a mercenary who owed no allegiance to anyone or anything. She didn’t for a second think he would risk himself for her, but they both wanted to stay alive and out of custody. “All right.”

She climbed out of the truck, pulled her collar up against the icy blast, and tramped through foot-deep snow to the only light she could see in any of the rows of rooms. The lighted sign announcing Office over the door flickered valiantly against the snowy dark. Inside, a skinny clerk in his twenties wearing a T-shirt with a band logo she didn’t recognize regarded her with flat, bored eyes. “Help you?”

“I need a room.”

“Eighty-nine dollars.”

She counted out the cash and pushed it over to him.

“Sign here.” He handed her a clipboard with a form to fill out. She made up a name for herself and fabricated the model and license number for her vehicle. She left Hooker out completely. The clerk would never check in this weather. She passed the form back to him, and he gave her a plastic key. “Ice machine’s outside.” He laughed sharply. “Course, it’s probably frozen and won’t work.”

“Is there a convenience store somewhere nearby?”

“Gas and snacks a quarter mile out the driveway to the right.” He looked at the plain-faced, dirt-streaked clock on the wall. “They won’t open until six, though.”

“Thanks.”

She’d just reached the door when he called, “There’s a vending machine down the other end of the building. You get to it from the hall outside your room.”

She nodded and went out without answering. Hunched against the snow, she rapped on the front of the Jeep to signal Hooker to follow and let them into a twelve-by-twelve room that smelled of cleaning disinfectant, old smoke, and stale food. Two twin beds with worn gold covers stood on a stained gray carpet along with a dresser and a fifties-style yellow vinyl chair with cigarette burns on the arms. A closet standing open with a few hangers dangling at odd angles and a bathroom tucked into one corner with a shower stall, a minuscule sink, and a toilet completed the picture. Only one door in and out. One window with drapes and blinds, closed. Warm and dry. It would do.

She took off her jacket and put it on the chair by the door. She transferred her gun from the pocket to the waistband of her pants. She turned, saw Hooker watching her. “When do we meet your contact?”

“I’ll call in the morning, set something up. What’s your timetable?”

She smiled. From here she had another three-hundred-mile drive. But first, she needed to go to the FedEx office and pick up a package due in the morning delivery. Hooker didn’t need to know any of that. “I want to be on the road tomorrow night.”

“I can’t guarantee that.”

“I’ve got thirty thousand reasons that say you should.”

“I might be more inclined to be helpful with a little more incentive.”

She shook her head. “I promised you the rest on delivery. And you’ll get it. I keep my word.”

“I’m going with you when you leave here.”

“I don’t think so.”

Hooker shed his jacket and tossed it on the end of the bed nearest the door, somehow knowing she’d want the one against the wall with the best sightline to the door if anyone were to come through. He sat on the side and started unlacing his boots. “Let’s face it, whatever you’re planning, you’ll need a little help. Like you said, I’m for hire.”

“Don’t you mean you’re for sale?”

Hooker grinned. “Is there a difference?”

“That’s why you’re not coming with me.” Jane stretched out on the bed with all her clothes on. She didn’t expect to sleep. They’d never turned the lights on and the dense snow outside blocked the weak glow from the parking lot and office lights. In the dark she could hear Hooker’s faint, raspy laughter.

Chapter Eighteen

Close to dawn, Blair lay alone in the berth after Cam quietly left the room while it was still dark. She’d gotten used to the rhythm of the train, kind of like swinging in a hammock as she used to do light-years ago when her mother was still alive and they’d escaped the big house—the governor’s mansion—for her mother’s family home in the Adirondacks every July. The log-cabin-style lodge overlooked Lake George north of the village, with a rolling lawn that ended in a dock where they’d kept an outboard motorboat and a canoe. She’d been eleven, she remembered, that last July, and she spent hours in the hammock strung between two pines reading, swimming when the heat finally drove her from her nest, and still believing life was an endless summer.

She hadn’t yet realized freedom was an illusion and life was often far shorter than she imagined. Her mother hadn’t been sick then, or if she had been, it’d been a secret. There’d still been guards around, but they were always in her father’s shadow and only distantly in hers. She wasn’t bothered by their presence when she went to school, and she only realized years later how much her mother had shielded her from the press and the public scrutiny that even a governor and his family attracted. Especially a young, handsome, dynamic governor from a political dynasty, who everyone assumed would soon be headed to the White House. That last, long summer might have been the happiest time of her life, until now.

She smoothed the sheets in the spot where Cam had slept, imagining she could still feel her warmth. Heat lingered, but that might be more the connection she felt in her heart than anything real. But then, the warmth and certainty Cam stirred in her heart was perhaps the realest thing in her life.

With a sigh, she swung her legs from beneath the covers. She wasn’t going to go back to sleep, and Cam would be gone for the briefing with Stark and Tom Turner for hours. They might be on a train, but the work continued.

She pulled on sweats, scuffed into her UGGs, and dragged on an old woolen sweater. Having some of her favorite clothes around when traveling helped dispel the feeling she was a bit of a performing seal. And on that cranky note, she decided coffee was definitely in order.

Luce was alone in the staff lounge, dressed as always for the day’s work in a crisp emerald green suit with a champagne-colored shirt, a gold necklace with a few discreet dark green stones, and earrings and bracelet to match. A cup of coffee sat by her right hand and half a muffin by her left. She glanced over at Blair and smiled. “Good morning.”

“I’ll grant you the good part,” Blair muttered, “but morning it isn’t.”

Lucinda laughed. “You never were much of a morning person.”

“That’s not true.” Blair poured herself a cup of steaming black coffee and shook her head when a steward appeared and offered her a menu. She snagged a bagel, scooped peanut butter onto a china plate, and carried everything over to Luce’s table. “I’m very good in the morning, as long as morning starts at nine a.m.”