The Jade Harrington Series: Books 1 - 3: The Jade Harrington Series

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in Seattle, Washington, United States of America.

For information address JAB Press, P.O. Box 9462, Seattle, WA 98109.

Cover Design by Damonza

First Omnibus Edition, 2019

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019913302

ISBN 978-0-9969772-8-9 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9969772-9-6 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-1-7354750-0-4 (EPUB)

Don’t Speak © 2016 by Julie L. Brown

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918331

ISBN 978-0-9969772-1-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9969772-0-3 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-0-9969772-2-7 (EPUB)

ISBN 979-8-9917654-0-4 (audiobook)

Rule of Law © 2017 by Julie L. Brown

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017901223

ISBN 978-0-9969772-3-4 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9969772-4-1 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-1-7354750-2-8 (EPUB)

The Divide © 2019 by Julie L. Brown

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018915314

ISBN 978-0-9969772-6-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9969772-7-2 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-1-7354750-1-1 (EPUB)

Few Are Chosen © 2017 by Julie L. Brown

ISBN 978-0-9969772-5-8 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-1-7354750-9-7 (EPUB)

First Edition: October 2019

CONTENTS

DON'T SPEAK

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PART II

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

PART III

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

AFTERWORD

RULE OF LAW

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PART II

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

CHAPTER EIGHTY

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

CHAPTER NINETY

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

PART III

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

THE DIVIDE

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PART II

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

CHAPTER EIGHTY

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

PART III

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

CHAPTER NINETY

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

EPILOGUE

FEW ARE CHOSEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To Audi, for everything

If we don’t believe in freedom of expression for people we despise, we don’t believe in it at all.

- Noam Chomsky

Prologue

Ten Years Ago, Chattenham, Pennsylvania

I waited behind the corner. The wind bit into my face as I glanced up at the wintry sky, clouds obscuring and then revealing the moon. Kyle would be wrapping up the evening broadcast. Always the last one to leave, he departed the radio station at 10:10 p.m. every day. So predictable.

Five minutes later, Kyle came out the back door right on time and walked toward his car. Bereft of lights and usually full when Kyle arrived for his 7 p.m. show, the lot was now empty except for his beat-up Honda in a far corner, alone, underneath a large, leafless elm tree. As I knew it would be.

Silence.

Kyle paused. Maybe he sensed me. I’m not sure. I stayed where I was, not moving, not breathing. He continued walking, fishing in his pocket for his keys.

I took long strides toward him, not trying to mask my footsteps.

He turned.

I smiled.

He smiled in return. Hey, man, what’s up? I thought someone was sneaking up on me.

I pulled a baseball bat from behind my back, the wooden handle smooth and comforting in my gloved hand.

Kyle’s eyes shifted toward the bat, a frown starting to crease his forehead. His eyes searched mine. What are you—

Kyle raised his right arm to block my swing, and the sound of wood meeting bone was like a two-base hit to center field. He screamed. His arm dropped and dangled by his side. He tried to throw a punch with his left, his weaker arm. I sidestepped and as he spun around, I struck his kidney next. Kyle staggered, then fell. I stood over him, cocked the bat back, and swung for the cheap seats. A sickening thud echoed as the bat’s sweet spot collided with Kyle’s head. He grabbed his head, curling into a fetal position.

I struck him again. And again. And again.

I stopped, my breaths heavy and visible and loud. I had thought I was in shape, but now I wondered. I scanned the parking lot and surrounding buildings to make sure my actions hadn’t been observed. My hands shook; I was nervous after all. Letting go of the bat, I bent and tilted my head. I studied Kyle, but didn’t touch him.

Yet.

His dark blond hair was now matted with blood and brains and bones and other matter. His eyes stared back at me, unseeing. Triumph surged through me in the silence. The taste of victory, sweet and satisfying.

I glanced at the bat and grimaced. What a mess.

I took out a knife I bought recently, the blade gleaming in the darkness. Kyle’s lips were parted, waiting for me. I opened his mouth wider and tugged at his tongue, pulling it out as far as it would go. I laid the sharp edge of the knife against the organ and began to saw. This was harder to do than I thought. It was my first time. They say you never forget your first time.

After I finished, I willed my fast-beating heart to slow.

Crickets chirped, but otherwise the night was quiet. Peaceful.

I needed to leave. The campus police patrolled this area and would be by soon.

I checked to make sure I didn’t leave any evidence. Something shiny lay on the pavement next to what was left of Kyle’s head. I peered closer.

A penny. Heads up.

My lucky day.

I already got my wish, though; I would never have to hear one of his broadcasts ever again.

Part I

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day, Arlington, Virginia

Jade Harrington stared down at her opponent. He was four inches shorter than she but built like a linebacker. For this Tae Kwon Do testing, she had already defeated six opponents—all men—and at one point, took down two fighters simultaneously. At the beginning of this final match of the day, a few onlookers stood outside the ring. As the match progressed, however, more spectators from around the arena gravitated from other contests to observe this fight between two highly ranked competitors.

Jade pushed up the front of her protective headgear, which had inched down again. Sweat streamed into her eyes, and her bulky sparring gloves could not wipe it away. The pungent mixture of sweat and the scent of Tiger Balm tingled her senses.

Five judges sat with stoic expressions at a table on the dais to her right. The senior judge, in a quiet voice, said, "Sijak," Korean for start, to begin the fifth round.

Jade’s opponent launched a rear round kick. She expected the move. He had been using the same technique for most of the match, and had landed a few blows with it. At first. But now she was on to him. She blocked his shin with her left forearm while jabbing a front kick to his stomach. It connected. He expelled a short breath, surprised, and hunched back to his sparring position.

They circled, breathing hard, eyes locked.

Jade had been training for this moment for three years, but after six matches and five rounds in this one, she was exhausted. She had to end this. Now.

He began to raise his back leg for another round kick. Doesn’t he know any other kicks? Jade didn’t wait. She jumped up, her lithe body coiling as she turned clockwise. At the apex of her twenty-inch vertical jump, her right leg straightened and whipped across her opponent’s head, connecting at his temple. As he fell, Jade completed the 360-degree spinning hook kick, landing softly on the mat in her original stance, her gloves near her head in a protective position.

She held her stance, then relaxed. He was not getting up.

Jade removed her headgear and released her ponytail. Her light brown hair, wet and clumpy, fell to her shoulders. Lovely, she thought, sarcastically. The spectators had been holding a collective breath, but they began buzzing when they realized she was a woman. The dobok (uniform) was not the most flattering attire for the female anatomy. As a biracial woman—thanks to a Japanese mother and a black father—her looks often drew the appreciative stares of strangers. Or, maybe this crowd just appreciated a good kick.

She crouched over her fallen competitor, concerned that she had hurt him. She offered her hand to help him up.

Are you all right?

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. He waved away her hand and struggled to his feet. Jade knew he was disappointed. This was his third time testing for this rank. Whatever. She had tried to be nice.

They both stood at attention, feet together, hands at their sides, facing the panel of judges.

Mr. Randall, said the senior instructor, Master Won Ho. I’m sorry. You didn’t pass. Not because you lost, but because you forgot our core tenet of courtesy. I would like to have a word with you after this testing.

He turned to Jade.

Ms. Harrington, by the power vested in me by the Tae Kwon Do Association, I now bestow upon you the rank of fourth-degree black belt. Congratulations.

Jade’s chest swelled, but she didn’t smile. The skin around Master Won Ho’s eyes crinkled, and he nodded at her. She nodded in return, the beginning of a smile creeping onto her face.

The spectators clapped. Jade surveyed the crowd, not recognizing anyone except for a few classmates. But she didn’t know them well enough to share in the glow of this accomplishment. Her past made it hard for her to make friends. Ever since she was a kid, after what happened, she found it hard to trust anyone. Still.

As she packed her gear, spectators came up to congratulate her and relive her spinning hook kick.

She thanked them and left the arena.

Alone.

CHAPTER TWO

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

I sat in a rental car across the street, watching.

They had already consumed several rounds of drinks at an Italian restaurant on the bottom floor of a downtown skyscraper that housed radio station KABC up on the top floor. The dinner rush was gone, except for seven station employees still going strong at a table near the front.

Most of the conversation was directed at a tall, broad-shouldered man. Whenever he spoke, his companions laughed as if he were a comedian. This funny man was named Randy Sells.

Sells stood and drained the rest of his beer before stumbling toward the back of the restaurant, bumping into chairs along the way. The restaurant didn’t have its own restrooms, so patrons had to use the ones in the office building. I had scouted that out earlier.

I got out of my car, and sprinted across the street and through the lobby. I had to beat him to the restroom. I turned right and then left down a long hallway. I won. I heard his footsteps echoing behind me.

He stopped. I stopped, too. He may have heard me, but he could not see me.

Sells started walking again. His footsteps rounded the corner, toward me. I slipped out the back door next to the bathroom and into the alley behind the building. I left the outside door ajar.

The stench of rotten food and urine hit me. Nauseated me. I kept my composure and remained silent. And I waited.

Sells entered the restroom.

A few minutes later he came out, shaking his hands dry.

I eased the door open, took two quick steps, and put my arm around his neck. And squeezed.

He brought his arms up to free his throat and began to writhe away from me. He was bigger than I thought.

What the hell do you—

I re-established my grip, took the stun gun out of my pocket, placed it under his rib cage, and fired.

I held him tight and close as the electrical current pulsed through his body. After a time, he stopped struggling.

I whispered in his ear, as if to a lover, There are consequences to what you say.

He sagged into me, and I dragged him outside and laid him on the pavement. I stared at the handsome face and reached for my trusted bat, where I’d hidden it earlier. Time for batting practice.

My swing was getting better.

CHAPTER THREE

Washington, DC

Whitney Fairchild, junior Democratic senator from Missouri, strode down the steps of the Capitol. Landon Phillips, her legislative director, struggled to keep up despite his long legs.

Landon briefed her on her remaining schedule for the day, reading from his electronic tablet as they crossed Constitution Avenue toward the Russell Senate Office Building.

You shouldn’t read that while crossing the street, Whitney said.

You’re right, Senator. Bad habit. He stopped reading and carried the tablet like a book. At three o’clock, you’re scheduled for a photo op with kids from the elementary school with the highest points under the new Missouri scoring system. This will give you a chance to say a few words about education reform.

Such as my plan to eliminate scoring systems?

Landon ran his fingers through his long hair. Uh . . . , that might not be appropriate for the occasion.

How about my plan to let teachers teach children how to learn rather than how to take a test?

Not enough time.

How about firing nonperforming teachers?

Ditto.

You’re no fun.

You’re having lunch today with Senator Sampson at the Four Seasons, Landon continued, ostensibly to discuss Agricultural Committee work, but really his goal is to convince you not to separate farm subsidies from your welfare reform bill.

He wants to break bread now after everything he’s been saying about me? Whitney said. Sampson was Whitney’s rival for the Democratic nomination in the upcoming presidential primaries. Turning serious, she said, Email his LD and work on a separate bill capping subsidies. The subsidies should be directed toward small- and mid-sized farmers only.

Will do.

Wait until after lunch.

A trim, fit man with black hair, a dark business suit and red tie, caught up to them.

Senator Fairchild, may I speak with you?

Of course, Senator Hampton. To Landon: Give us a moment.

Landon walked a few paces away, finding something, as always, to read on his electronic tablet.

She smiled at Hampton, his professorial glasses augmenting his self-proclaimed intellectual persona. What can I do for you, Senator?

I can deliver the votes on welfare reform, if you back off supporting the anti-personhood legislation.

You know I can’t do that.

The Virginia Republican smiled as if it pained him. But this is a state issue.

No, this is a civil-rights issue.

What about backing off the ERA? The deadline expired in 1982. It’s dead already, for God’s sake.

Whitney was shaking her head before he had finished speaking. That’s because most people think equal rights is already the law. Eric, you’re wasting your breath. Give me something we can work together on. What about education? Immigration? The deficit?

His lips parted to say something else, but he closed them.

Maybe. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch. Good day, Senator.

He walked away. Landon rejoined her.

What did he want?

She filled him in.

That’s not going to happen.

Not in my lifetime.

CHAPTER FOUR

Washington, DC

The biggest studio at the Patriot News Network was painted orange and yellow. Loud colors for a loud man. Cole Brennan sat behind the microphone during his fourth commercial break of the hour, watching CNN, ABC, FOX, CBS, and NBC on the TV monitors on the wall opposite him. There was no breaking news.

Cole surveyed the guest list, waiting for his music intro to fade out. He put on his headphones. His producer said, Our next caller is Frank from New York City.

Frank from New York City. What’s on your mind? Cole asked.

With all due respect, Cole, I disagree with what you just said. Income inequality isn’t a recent phenomenon. The difference in wealth between the haves and have-nots widened over the last forty years. The rich continue to migrate to gated communities, cutting them off from the rest of us. If something isn’t done, the divide will be permanent. The resentment between the rich and everyone else will only get worse. I believe . . .

Cole, the number one-rated radio talk-show host in the United States, sipped his ice-cold sweet tea while Frank jabbered on. He believed that when someone began a sentence with With all due respect, he wasn’t being respected at all.

Well, Frank, he interrupted, what you neglected to say is the so-called rich create the jobs and pay the most taxes in this country.

But that’s not true—

He hung up on Frank and spoke into the microphone.

He also neglected to say education makes a difference. Not for those people who graduate from college with philosophy or African-American studies degrees and wonder why they can’t get a job, default on their student loans, and stick us with the bill. I paid off my student loans, and so did you. Our kids can do the same.

The next caller asked about welfare reform.

Good question, Cole said. I believe it’s far more compassionate to help people become self-reliant rather than dependent on the government. Don’t you agree? The Commiecrats’ grand scheme is to expand the number of folks on welfare and working in Big Government, ensuring them two voting blocs for life.

His producer signaled him: five seconds left.

Well, everyone, we’ve run out of time. This is Cole Brennan protecting your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Join us again tomorrow for ‘The Conservative Voice.’

He stood.

That’s a wrap.

He left the studio. Great show, Mr. Brennan, said several of his young employees. He ignored them as he sauntered down the hall to his spacious office.

Cole sunk into the leather executive chair behind his desk and spun to remove a cigarette from the humidor on the credenza behind him. He didn’t light it because of the stupid regulations that governed the workplace. How could the government tell him he couldn’t smoke in his own office?

He scanned the walls lined with pictures of him with former Republican presidents, the current Senate minority leader and Speaker of the House, every important new person in the conservative establishment, and celebrities like Clint Eastwood and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Most celebrities were Socialists, but some, like Clint and Arnold, weren’t afraid to come out of the closet and stand up for American conservative values.

His eyes rested on the photograph of his hero, former President Ronald Reagan. Well, he was trying to win one for the Gipper, all right. Next, he settled on a picture he had taken with singer Gloria Estefan. Unlike some conservatives who preached family values, but lived quite the opposite, Cole believed in them and had never cheated on his wife. The singer was beautiful and charming, though. He smiled at the memory of meeting her.

Cole’s eyes landed on a photograph of himself with President Richard Ellison. He scowled and shook his head. Ellison needed to get with the program. He hit the speed-dial button for the White House residence.

The president came on the line. This better be good.

We need to meet.

Why?

I want to make sure we’re on the same page.

About what?

The game plan.

This isn’t a damn football game. Ellison exhaled. Never mind. When?

Tomorrow. I’ll leave instructions with your secretary.

Cole hung up, grabbed his jacket, and put it on over his pale green polo shirt. Ellison didn’t like being told what to do, but so what. Ellison owed Cole. Cole was the kingmaker. With the support of his millions of listeners, and his influence on the financiers of Republican candidates, he put Ellison in office. And he could take him out. Ellison sometimes forgot that.

He should take the stairs from the third floor, but he had never met an elevator he didn’t like. Yes, he needed to lose a few pounds—okay, maybe a hundred—but he was, as they say, fat and happy. Except when he thought about Ellison.

As the elevator car descended, Cole thought about ways to eradicate income inequality from the nation’s political discourse. The country had more important issues to address.

Correction: more important conservative issues.

CHAPTER FIVE

Arlington, Virginia

What’s that noise? Jade’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Ethan Lawson, said through the cell phone. What are you doing?

Jade glanced down at her gray Stanford basketball shorts and her black sports bra. The sweat glistened on her triceps and flat stomach. She stopped dancing.

Nothing, she said, muting Holiday by Madonna.

He hesitated. Okay . . . I hope you’ve been enjoying your vacation.

She looked around the living room of her two-story Arlington townhouse. Her collection of ‘70s and ‘80s albums were spread over the hardwood floor. A stack of books she planned to read this week towered high on the coffee table. She normally didn’t have time for her favorite things.

It’s a staycation, and it hasn’t started yet.

It’s already over, I’m afraid.

She sat on the sofa. What happened?

The Pittsburgh Police Department needs a consult on the murder of a local radio personality. You are it. I’ve booked you and Merritt on a flight out of Dulles. You leave in three hours. He hung up.

She moved to the kitchen where Card, her cocoa-colored cat, squatted, attacking the Purina ONE in his bowl, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Card was short for Cardinal, the nickname of her alma mater.

Jade wasn’t close to a lot of people, but she loved this cat.

She picked him up and stared into his eyes.

Sorry to interrupt our vacation, but I need to go. I’ll call your girlfriend to look after you while I’m gone.

She gave him a squeeze and a kiss and set him down. He rushed back to his bowl to resume eating, as if he had never been interrupted. Jade tried not to take it personally.

She called as she left the kitchen.

You rang? said a female voice, sleepy, playful.

I need you to check on him.

Card? Zoe, her best friend, asked.

Just for a few days.

You owe me one.

The sudden silence indicated she had hung up.

CHAPTER SIX

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

President Richard Ellison settled into his driving stance. Everyone around him remained library-quiet as he twisted his hips and raised his golf club high overhead. The whacking sound as the club met its target at the wrong angle was followed by the cracking sound of the ball slicing to the right and into the trees. A high-pitched squeal emitted from behind the president. The sound seemed incongruous with the big body from which it came.

Laughing, Cole Brennan said, You can’t drive worth a shit, Richard.

The rest of the foursome, Senator Eric Hampton and Representative Howard Bell, remained stoic as Ellison walked off the tee.

Cole swaggered up, placed the ball on the tee, and swung. The sound was true, and the ball sailed straight down the fairway.

Hampton and Bell took off in one cart. The president folded his tall, lanky frame into the passenger side, next to Cole. As he drove, Cole marveled at the championship golf course of Andrews Air Force base on this lovely spring day, basking in its military presence: the servicemen in uniform, the flags, order.

The Secret Service followed them in a cart at a discreet distance.

Ellison remained silent.

The president had the lean, sinewy build and handsome, rugged, weather-lined face of a cowboy. What one would expect of a man from Wyoming. Still sporting his tan, despite his many years in Washington, Ellison’s lined forehead illustrated his troubles. With the country’s deficit problems and the rising tensions with China, who could blame him?

Cole regarded the president. Richard, I’m glad you sliced the ball again, because I needed a little word with you. One on one.

Ellison continued to stare through the cart’s windshield.

Cole cleared his throat. Even though this is an election year, I feel you’re straying off the reservation.

Get to the point. Ellison’s Wyoming drawl was more pronounced when he was irritated.

Okay, then. You need to stop talking about this left-wing income-inequality bullshit. Why do we always let the other side frame the political discussion? The rich get richer, because they work harder. They deserve to keep the spoils from their efforts. I never saw my dad growing up. He worked on Wall Street. He worked all the time to provide his family a better way of life. He doesn’t owe anyone anything.

Interesting word choice, Cole. ‘Spoils’ means plunder, taken from an enemy in a war or from a victim in a robbery. Don’t say that in public or you’ll give some activists the ammunition to resurrect the ‘Occupy Wall Street’ movement.

Cut the shit, Richard. You know you’re not my first choice, but you were the only alternative at the time. None of the wingnuts could win the general election. But I put you in office, and I can take you out.

Are you threatening the president of the United States?

Cole realized he needed to tone it down. He stole a glance at the Secret Service men in their cart. One of them may have been a woman, but he wasn’t sure. I know you’re tired of Washington and want to retire to your ranch, but we need you for four more years. This election is bigger than you and me. The future of our country depends on you.

I’d stop pointing your finger at me if I were you.

Cole dropped his hand back on the steering wheel. No more income-inequality BS. Your constituents don’t care about it.

They should.

What’re you going to do? Raise taxes on the rich? Increase the federal minimum wage? Switch parties?

The president remained silent.

"Listen to me. I need you to be vocal in your support of pro-life issues. At least two justices will be named to the Court next term, and we’ll finally be able to overturn Roe v. Wade. We’re close on passing ‘personhood amendments’ in Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Montana, and Colorado. Why can’t you be more like Hampton? Cole smiled and waved at Senator Hampton standing near the green. The senator returned the wave. Richard, if you don’t get with the program, I swear I’ll support someone else."

Who? The uncontrollable billionaire businesswoman? The Libertarian wingnut? Or the governor who has destroyed his state, but has the saving grace of being a minority? He laughed. Although he doesn’t seem to remember he’s a minority.

The knuckles on Cole’s hand were white against the black steering wheel. He seethed inside, afraid to release his grip. He stopped the cart at the edge of the fairway.

Ellison was staring at him. Face it, Cole, you’re stuck with me.

Cole released his tight grip, glanced at Ellison, and then into the trees where the president’s ball had disappeared. This is your stop.

The president paused before alighting from the cart, turning to face Cole. You’re right. This election is bigger than you and I. Maybe we should cease pushing the social issues and focus on important things. Like the deficit and entitlements. Ellison’s jaw clenched. By the way, I’m a pretty good hunter. Next time, why don’t we go hunting? I don’t miss.

Ellison stepped out of the cart to hunt for his golf ball.

Ellison, Cole said. He waited for the president to turn around. Don’t make me run.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Miami Gardens, Florida

I am committed to helping the poor and the disenfranchised realize the American Dream. Yes, we will extend a hand in need, but the American ideal will not be handed to you on a silver platter. You must earn it.

Whitney scanned the huge crowd at Sun Life Stadium, home of the Miami Dolphins and the University of Miami Hurricanes football team.

"Welfare is not a permanent solution. All of us must take personal responsibility for our own lives. That’s the best way to strengthen our families, our communities, and our nation. Under the Fairchild administration, workfare programs will be created to help welfare recipients receive the training they need to facilitate their return to the workforce.

"My administration will not forget that creating legislation is the fundamental job of Congress. It’s appalling to me that every year this body is creating fewer and fewer laws. The role of lawmakers seems to have been forgotten among all the politics. Our major issues must be resolved, and the journey will not be easy. But as John F. Kennedy once said, ‘Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future.’

Ladies and gentlemen, as your president, I will accept the responsibility of restoring the United States of America to a country we can be proud of once again. A nation respected and admired by every other nation as the greatest and most powerful on earth.

The crowd stood and applauded. Whitney waved in its direction and left the podium. She shook hands with people lined up on either side of the red carpet laid down for the occasion. The hot Florida sun pressed down on her in her cream blouse and navy-blue suit. After posing for pictures, she walked into the coolness of the large, cavernous hallway of the stadium where her advance team waited. Sarah, her body woman, handed her a bottle of water.

Whitney gave her a grateful nod, took a long sip, and turned to her campaign manager, Ted Bowling.

That seemed to go well.

Ted shook his head. Well? Better than well . . . that was great! You were great!

Ted had the remarkable ability to cough and talk at the same time. He lit a cigarette, and lifted his chin to exhale.

They loved you! And your hair looked fabulous. The way the wind teased it, . . . it was majestic. Magnificent. We’ll poll it, but I think you should wear your hair down from now on.

And, perhaps, the speech resonated with them as well.

Ted missed the rebuke. He touched her elbow.

We need to get going. Xavi is meeting us at the next stop. Xavier Xavi Fernandez was the Independent governor of Florida.

They walked past the player locker rooms and headed outside to a Lincoln Town Car. Ted took a final puff on his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, and began to grind it with the ball of his shoe.

Whitney stopped. Pick that up.

Ted paused in mid-grind and bent to retrieve it.

Whitney turned and smiled and waved to the people seeking one last glimpse of her before ducking into the car. Ted climbed in the other side. She patted her forehead with a handkerchief and smoothed her hair before leaning her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes.

Her cell phone rang. She eyed the digital display before hitting the button. Yes?

Senator? Landon. Senator Sampson called. He has a proposition for you.

Did he tell you what it is?

No, but he wants to meet with you first thing when you get back from your trip.

Anything else?

We’re getting calls.

About my speech?

A lot of people aren’t too happy with the workfare program idea. Some are complaining you sound like a Republican.

Hillary Clinton once said, ‘I have a conservative mind and a liberal heart. I fight for change within the system.’

What do you want me to tell Sampson?

Tell Sean to set up a meeting. Sean was Whitney’s receptionist and scheduler.

Yes, Senator.

She hung up.

What did Mr. Perfect want? Ted asked.

Not now, Ted.

As you wish. Here are the talking points for your meeting with Xavi. He started to hand her a sheet of paper.

Whitney raised her hand to ward him off. Give me a minute.

She turned from him and gazed out the window at the bleak landscape. Florida had broken a record for its number of days without rain. The land was dry, everything brittle. Scientists attributed the lack of rain to global warming. She needed to develop a centrist global warming message for her platform.

As she continued to gaze out the window, she wondered, What was Senator Sampson up to now?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Pittsburgh Police Lieutenant John Cooper held the door for Jade and fellow special agent, Christian Merritt, as they entered Angelo’s. It was an Italian restaurant in the Golden Triangle, Pittsburgh’s downtown center.

Cooper, in his late forties, had an almost transparent complexion and a slight paunch. He nodded at the hostess.

We’re looking around.

She smiled and they headed toward a table close to the entrance.

The group sat at this table. Sells sat here. He put his hands on the back of a chair facing the front of the restaurant.

Jade removed a red peanut M&M from the small bag she kept in her gray slacks and slipped it into her mouth. She glanced through the window.

The UNSUB must have been watching him through the window. She scanned the restaurant, eying the waitstaff. Did you check out all the employees, Lieutenant?

Cooper stared at her longer than appropriate. Jade, accustomed to stares, ignored it.

He found his voice. Uh . . . , call me Coop. My friends do.

Was he blushing?

Yes, we did, Cooper continued. They were either working or had an alibi.

Were the alibis verified? Jade asked. Corroborated by others?

Of course, Cooper said, his words clipped.

Christian, his hair cut military-short, crossed his arms in front of his muscular chest. What was the radio show about?

The rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. Cooper shrugged. I’m not sure why that’s news to anyone.

What about the callers that night? Christian asked. Any that caught your attention?

None, yet, but we’re still checking. Most of them weren’t too happy with the topic of the show. Heck, Sells didn’t seem to want to talk about it, either. He was a pretty big deal around here. He was singlehandedly trying to revive conservative talk radio in Pittsburgh. Could’ve made some enemies along the way. After dinner, he told everyone he needed to use the john and to order another round of beers. He never returned. He cocked his head. This way. He led them toward the back. The restaurant doesn’t have its own restrooms, so customers use the ones in the building.

He held the door open to a hallway and turned right. They arrived at the bathroom at the end of a long hall. Cooper knocked on the door and peeked in.

Anyone here? He motioned for Jade and Christian to follow. We know Sells used the bathroom. We found a partial print on the inside door handle and a handprint on the wall over the urinal. His co-workers said he was drunk. We figured he needed the wall for support. No prints on the faucet; it’s automatic.

A man, who appeared as if he had had several drinks himself, entered the restroom. He stared at Cooper, Jade, and Christian. Then he muttered, Sorry, dudes, and stumbled out the door. Christian laughed. Cooper blushed again. Jade rolled her eyes. They went back out into the hallway.

We think he was incapacitated in some way here—maybe tased—and dragged outside. He pushed the release bar on the back door, which opened into an alley. The narrow alley stunk of trash and urine. Farther down, a large dumpster took up most of the narrow lane. When he didn’t return, his co-workers went looking for him. One checked the bathroom and then out here, thinking Sells may have come out to talk on his cell phone or grab a smoke. He didn’t see him. It gets pretty dark out here at night. Another co-worker checked the front of the building. After a while, they all figured he went home. You can leave the bathroom and go out the front of the building without going through the restaurant. He pointed to the pavement. The victim was killed here.

Jade bent down a few yards from the door. Flecks of blood still dotted the pavement. Cause of death?

Severe blows to the head. He lost a lot of blood.

Spatter?

Cast-off pattern on the wall and the ground.

So, you’re thinking he was most likely hit with a blunt instrument.

Cooper nodded.

Did you recover the murder weapon, Lieutenant Cooper?

Coop. And no.

Any defensive wounds?

Nope. The victim’s head looked like mush. He didn’t put up much of a fight.

Is this where you found him?

Not exactly. Cooper started walking down the alley. Jade and Christian glanced at each other and followed.

Cooper stopped at the dark green dumpster. We found him in here. Someone threw him away with the restaurant’s nightly trash. His tongue had been cut out.

*

Jesus, Christian breathed.

Jade stared down at the body on the stainless steel table at the Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s office. Although it had been cleaned up, the face of Randy Sells had been beaten beyond recognition. Was that the point? Sells would have a closed casket at his funeral.

No question as to the manner of death, Cooper said.

Jade scanned the length of the corpse and returned to his face. Almost all the damage had been inflicted to the right side of his face. The UNSUB is left-handed.

Christian nodded. And has anger management issues.

Jade’s eyes didn’t leave the victim. Sells was a big boy. Our suspect must be strong.

Or had help, Christian said. He turned to Cooper. Who found him?

One of Angelo’s busboys. He had started to swing the trash into the container when he noticed the vic. He dropped the bag, ran back into the restaurant, and told the manager, who called 911. The kid was shaking so hard during our interview, we had difficulty getting the story out of him.

Time of death?

Between nine p.m. and midnight. Sells’s friends were still drinking while he lay dying in the alley.

Jade continued to stare at Sells’s face.

Anything back on the tongue?

Sent to the lab. Results aren’t back, yet.

Cutting out someone’s tongue is extreme, Jade said. This seems personal.

We agree, Cooper said. We don’t think the victim was chosen at random. Nothing was stolen as far as we could tell. He still had his wallet and cell phone on him.

Christian pointed at the corpse’s bare neck. According to the autopsy report you showed us, the victim wore a necklace with a crucifix. Maybe this is connected to his religion or church. A hate crime. Did you check it out?

Cooper’s cheeks reddened, a vein throbbed on the right side of his pale forehead.

We’re in the process of checking it out now. We’ve just started this investigation. We haven’t even completed our interviews, yet. My boss called you in. Premature, if you ask me. He’s nervous because Sells was a rising celebrity in this town, and Pittsburgh is ranked as one of the safest big cities in the country every year. There’s a lot of pressure for us to solve this case quickly and protect our ranking. But this isn’t some damn TV show. We need more than forty-eight hours to solve the crime.

Jade touched Christian’s forearm before he reacted. She smiled at Cooper in apology.

I think we’ve seen enough here, . . . Coop. We need to catch a flight. Is there anything else you want to tell us?

Cooper broke his stare with Christian and turned to Jade. Yeah, about the tongue. When we arrived on the scene, the vic was clasping it in his own hands. Like a rosary.

CHAPTER NINE

Athens, Georgia

You sound tired, said Grayson, her husband.

Sometimes I wake up with no idea which state I’m in, much less which city. Whitney lay back on the king-size bed in her hotel suite, cell phone pressed to her ear. People seem to be receptive to our message, she said, though some of my base may be disappointed.

When are you coming home?

I thought we could meet in Ohio in a few days for dinner. A romantic dinner.

Grayson had always understood the demands of her career and never been resentful that she had to fit him into her schedule. As the CEO of Fairchild Industries, a St. Louis-based biotechnology and agricultural conglomerate, Grayson didn’t enjoy much free time either.

Sounds good to me, he said. I need to see you. Hold you. What’s wrong? He knew her.

Grayson was normally too busy to miss her. I could ask the same of you.

I just miss you. That’s all. He paused. Is it Hampton? The women’s rights bill?

Have you spoken to the children? Whitney asked. She didn’t want to talk about work.

I spoke with Chandler today. He decided to intern with us this summer. I’m not sure why he wants to work for the family firm all of a sudden. I rarely talked to him last semester. He only calls when he needs—

—money, they said at the same time and laughed.

And Emma, Grayson continued, is freaking out about her final exams, and they’re still three months away. Again, not sure why. She inherited her mother’s brains.

Whitney scoffed. Please . . . . She thought of her son, Chandler, a junior at the University of Missouri, his hair falling on his forehead no matter how many times he pushed it back and her daughter, Emma, a freshman at Princeton, whose nose was the same as Grayson’s. I miss my babies.

They aren’t babies, anymore.

I know. I talk to Emma every day about nothing at all, and those calls mean everything to me. She paused, sighed. Dear, I need to run. My audience awaits. I’ll call you tomorrow about dinner. I love you.

I love you, too. I’m so proud of you.

She held the cell phone next to her heart.

At the discreet knock on her door, she placed the phone on the nightstand. Coming.

Whitney rose, smoothed her shirt and skirt, and put her heels back on. She went out into the living room of the hotel suite. Ted Bowling and several others on her campaign staff sat on the beige sofas and chairs with laptops and papers spread out everywhere. Easels with white boards were placed throughout the room for a strategy session.

A presidential candidate was never alone, and the lack of privacy would only become worse when she became president. Yes, she was able to grab a few minutes on occasion, such as just now with Grayson, but most of the time she was surrounded by the individuals in this room.

Whitney sat, crossed her legs, as she thought again of the unusual anxiousness in Grayson’s voice. Scanning the faces of her team, she forced the thoughts of her husband from her mind. What’s the plan for tomorrow?

CHAPTER TEN

Washington, DC

Hey, Cole. This is Carl from Lubbock, Texas. Love your show. The reason for my call is I’m not too happy with Ellison. Why does he feel the need to compromise with the Socialist Democrats? Why isn’t he doing more to protect and promote our conservative values?

Good questions, Carl. Sometimes, and I think you would agree, some of the folks in our party aren’t ‘right’ enough for me. They don’t stand up for our conservative heritage. They’re either weak and willing to compromise with the Commies or they flip-flop as Romney did back in the day. Romney flipped more times than an Olympic high diver on steroids. I think President Richard Ellison sometimes forgets where he came from and who elected him to office. He may need help getting in touch with his ‘inner conservative.’ That’s what I’m here for.

Why don’t you run, Cole? We need a man like you in the White House.

Because my calling is to spread the word to you good folks. Thanks for the call, Carl. Next caller.

Cole, this is Fred from Nebraska. Senator Sampson is trying to keep the farm and welfare reform bills together. Do you support this?

Absolutely not. The federal government pays around thirty-two billion dollars per year to farmers, whether they grow crops or not. Our US Department of Agriculture—it’s not a coincidence its acronym is DOA, dead on arrival—also provides subsidized crop insurance and marketing support for the farming industry at a cost to American taxpayers of five billion dollars a year. Crop insurance guarantees eighty percent of their revenue. Most other businesses must pay these expenses out of pocket without government help and with no revenue guarantees. Why should farmers be the exception?

Yeah, but Cole, I’m a farmer. I need that money—

Listen, Ted. You farmers resisted subsidy reductions for decades. Subsidies made sense when we were a country of farmers, but now you all represent a small percentage of the population. These subsidies are costly and transfer income from general taxpayers to farmers, who then overproduce, resulting in lower prices, and more subsidies. It’s a vicious circle, Ted. Worse, these handouts hinder you guys from taking the actions needed to compete in the global economy. We want a free market, where those who invest and innovate reap the rewards. Prices should be set by supply and demand, not subsidies.

But—

Did you know the average farmer makes more than the average US industrial worker?

Uh, no, I didn’t, but—

Did you know millions of dollars in farm subsidies and crop insurance are paid to dead farmers? I’m talking fourteen million dollars per year of our money. Our government doesn’t know whether you’re dead or alive. It’s not capable of managing this.

But—

A fraud ring in North Carolina bilked the government for over one hundred million dollars. Listen here, Ted—

Fred.

Senator Sampson is pushing this bill because his family owns farming corporations. He and his cronies in Congress are all farmers or ex-farmers, and they’re trying to stuff their own pockets. Farmers need to be disciplined and self-reliant like the rest of us. Sorry, Fred, the subsidies must go. This is tough love, my friend. I’m not even going to answer your question about welfare reform. You all know how I feel about it. Next caller.

Yo, Cole, this is Adam from St. Cloud, Minnesota. What do you think of Senator Fairchild as a candidate?

"Well, Adam, from St. Cloud, Minnesooooooooooooota. I think she is the chick version of Mitt Romney. She was a bleeding-heart liberal when she was in the House. Now, all of a sudden, she is talking about compromise and making lazy people work? I don’t buy it, and the American people won’t buy it. Liberals think the public is dumb. That we don’t understand what’s in our best interest, so they need to make decisions for us. The Commiecrats love her, because the women’s libbers have been nagging them to death to nominate a female candidate. She doesn’t stand a chance.

"Before we go, remember to pre-order my book coming out this summer, Communism in Russia is Dead, but Alive and Well in the USA. Ain’t that the truth! You can also purchase my other books, newsletters, apparel, and DVDs on my website, www.theconservativevoiceonline.com.

This is Cole Brennan protecting your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Join us again tomorrow for ‘The Conservative Voice.’

*

The black limousine was at the curb in front of the studio, and the driver held the door open for him. Cole Brennan lifted his bulk and sat in the seat facing the front, a glass of cognac in the cup holder. On the short drive to his home in Bethesda, Maryland, he sipped the brandy as he made a quick call to his agent, who had been pestering him for the final manuscript of his new book. Cole had no problems pre-selling the book, but finding the time to write these days was proving problematic. He completed the call by assuring his agent it was almost finished—Not!—as the limo ascended the long driveway to his sprawling home. Before the car had stopped, five of his six children ran toward him. The oldest, Cole Jr., followed them, too cool to run.

Cole hugged each of his kids and held the hands of his youngest two as they strolled toward the front door. His wife, Ashley, still retaining the figure of the fashion model she once was, stood in the doorway, smiling, holding his second cognac of the evening.

He grinned and gave her a quick kiss, and stepped inside the massive foyer. They shuffled down the hallway and entered the large family room at the back of the house. Cole plopped on the overstuffed sofa. The kids gathered around him and all started to speak at once.

Dad! I got an ‘A’ on my test.

Dad! Don’t forget my game this Saturday!

Dad! Boys are gross.

Dad, watch this! another of his sons said, and he tumbled into a forward roll.

Cole laughed. Very good, Ronnie. One at a time. What was your test in, Madeline?

English.

Who are you playing this weekend, Sport?

The Spartans! Ryan, his seven-year-old, said.

Cole turned to his eight-year-old daughter. Kaitlin, I’m a boy, and I’m not gross.

She continued to stare at him with an expression as if she’d eaten something distasteful.

What is it, sweetheart?

Dad, some kids were talking about you at school today.

Sweetheart, people are always talking about me. Go on. What did they say?

Kaitlin hesitated, then said, They said you only like rich people and people who look like you.

Cole was stunned. What? That’s not true. I-

Ashley clapped her hands. All right, kids. Dad just got home. Let him rest for a minute. Go wash your hands for dinner.

Okay! the four youngest said, as they raced out of the room. The two eldest children sauntered after them.

No running! Ashley called after them. She glanced at Cole, uncertain. She tried her best to eliminate conflict in their home, since his job was stressful enough. He smiled and moved his hand holding the drink to the side, providing room for her to climb into his lap. She gave him a kiss.

He squeezed her to him.

Why do kids run everywhere? My last inclination is to run anywhere. Unless someone’s chasing me. He laughed, but it sounded forced even to him.

Kaitlin’s words didn’t bother him. He had heard worse many times before. Given his profession, he had grown immune to what people said about him.

No, it wasn’t what she said that hurt him. It was the expression on her face that tore at his heart. He was rich and revered in this country because millions of Americans agreed with his values and where he stood on the issues, while here in his own household, he saw doubt about his character on his daughter’s face for the first time.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Washington, DC

The headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation took up the entire block between Ninth and Tenth Streets on Pennsylvania Avenue in Northwest Washington, DC. The J. Edgar Hoover Building’s Brutalist architectural style, popular in the mid-twentieth century, was now listed by Washingtonian magazine as one of the Buildings I’d Tear Down. A travel website proclaimed it the ugliest building in the world. Although Jade Harrington agreed with the widespread assessment, her affinity was strong for the historical building and the twelve flags in front depicting the evolution of the United States flag since before it became a republic.

The first floor, built to accommodate commercial businesses that never materialized, remained empty—and now, for security reasons, always would. Two red barricades blocked the entry into the parking garage. Yellow chains and ten-foot high barricades cordoned off the stairs. Tours of HQ, once a popular DC tourist attraction, were canceled indefinitely for renovations. Those renovations would never be completed.

The building appeared to be a fortress. And it was.

The Monday after returning from Pittsburgh, Jade dropped her briefcase beside her desk in her fourth-floor office, grabbed her favorite FBI mug, and headed for the break room for coffee. On her way back, she stopped by Christian Merritt’s cubicle, or rather his pictorial shrine to his wife, four kids, and golden retriever. Hey. How was your weekend?

Christian shifted his solid frame in his desk chair. Good. You?

Watched the Wizards.

Why do you think they’re called the Wizards? I don’t understand why they don’t use their magic to win a game.

There’s always next season. What are you working on today?

The Morales case. You?

Doing some research on Sells. See if I can dig up anything to help Cooper.

Don’t you mean ‘Coop?’ Christian batted his eyes like a coquettish female. Uh . . . , ‘Call me Coop. My friends do.’

Shut up, Jade said, giving Christian a playful push. His rock-solid body did not budge.

She returned to her office and straightened the files and other items on her desk, making sure the stacks aligned with the desk’s edge.

An overpowering cologne announced the arrival of Special Agent Dante Carlucci. He leaned against her door frame, watching her.

A tidy desk makes a tidy mind?

Jade continued to straighten the items.

Something like that, she said, not looking up.

Dante had curly brown hair, a long nose, and one ear higher than the other. All of his features were a little off, but in combination made him handsome. And he knew it. He wasn’t her type, though. He knew that, too.

Dante had been a rising star at the Bureau. That is, until Jade arrived in the division. Since then, his star had fallen, while hers continued to rise. During her first week, he had also hit on her, as he did with every woman he met under fifty. He had not taken the rejection kindly.

How come you never ask me what I did on the weekends? he asked.

Why should I? You always do the same thing.

You’re jealous ’cause I’m getting some.

She booted up her computer. So you say.

How’s Zoe? Man, she’s fine. I sure wish she didn’t swing on the other side of the fence.

Jade ignored him and popped a red peanut M&M into her mouth. Dante couldn’t stay quiet for long.

Why do you eat one M&M at a time? Who does that?

Me. Jade began perusing her emails until Dante gave up and left. She typed Randy Sells in the search bar. Thousands of hits came up. She clicked on one.

Randy Sells, KABC Talk-Show Host, Murdered

Popular Pittsburgh talk-radio host Randy Sells was found dead Friday night behind a downtown restaurant in what police are calling a homicide.

The body of the 28-year-old Sells, a political conservative whose talk show aired the last three years on KABC-AM, was discovered in an alley behind Angelo’s Restaurant at 600 Grant Street at about 10:30 p.m. The body was beaten almost beyond recognition, according to police sources.

Jade read several more news items on the Sells murder but didn’t learn anything new.

She paused for a moment and then typed conservative talk show host into the Google search bar. Four million hits. Jade perused the first few pages, most of the links referring to Cole Brennan. She knew of Cole—everyone did, and everyone called him by his first name—but didn’t listen to his program.

Jade took a break, refreshed her coffee, and wandered over to Pat’s cubicle. Patricia Pat Turner, fiftyish and overweight, looked like someone’s grandmother. Individuals who met her were fooled by her appearance. Jade was not. Pat had been with the FBI forever. She could run the place.

What’re you up to? Jade asked.

Pat finished typing on her computer. Nothing now. What do you need?

Jade leaned against a filing cabinet. Looking into this Sells murder. She brought Pat up to speed on what she had