Chapter 26

Callie was still sound asleep, gone to the world, when I rose at five-thirty.

In the kitchen, with a mug of freshly brewed coffee, I got to work. Phone calls to acquaintances led me to Paula Tasker, only twenty-five, yet her reputation was already widely respected. I told her what I was looking for. We bargained over the fee. She accepted. Calls to acquaintances in Switzerland solved another part of my plan.

And, at six-thirty in the morning, Friday, I called the White House.

Lucas Smith answered the phone.

“The terms have changed and are non-negotiable,” I informed him without introducing myself.

He recognized my voice. “To what?”

“This morning, before noon, you will have five million dollars wired into Callie Hollister’s account in the Cayman Islands. The account number 231-22578-2287-35. Transit number 0452. Upon confirmation of the deposit, a FedEx package will be delivered to you containing the microdot and one memory stick so you can see the extent of the threat I’m going to hold over you, the President, the Director of the CIA, and the Secretary of State.

“A copy of the documents will be held by a third party. That person will check in with Callie every six months. If once, just once, she doesn’t respond, the contents will be emailed to all major news outlets. You’d better pray she doesn’t get run over by a car, because the documents will still be released.

“Callie has never seen the contents. She won’t either. My eyes and her father’s are the only ones that have seen the documents.”

“We don’t have five mill...” Lucas started saying.

“Shut up,” I interrupted. “I said non-negotiable. It’s your decision. Money is wired or documents released. The Panama Papers will look mundane next to these documents. Your administration will fall. You’ll all be indicted. You’ll cause a war to erupt in two parts of the globe. Five million is chump change.”

“You won’t get away with this, Lightfoot,” Lucas assured me. “You’ve killed three men now. You’re a murderer. The Hollister girl may be safe, but now you’ve got a target on your back and a shortened lifespan. I’m going to make it a priority. Enjoy your last few days alive.”

“By noon,” I reminded him curtly and cut the connection.

Checking, Callie was still sound asleep. I wanted to take a run to burn off restless energy but couldn’t risk her waking up alone. Instead, I emptied the Mercedes of all arms and cleaned them, storing them back in the basement gun safe, my mind mulling over Lucas Smith’s comments. I had no doubt he could carry a grudge and that created problems. I wrestled with it and, despite every bone in my body, I knew what I was about to do, what I’d understood last night that I had to do, was the right thing, no matter how hard.

“Where are you?” echoed down to me.

“Be right up.”

She was standing at the window looking out. Back in her faded slim jeans, a v-neck light blue sweater with nothing underneath, sleeves pulled up, her hair tied back into a bushy tail, and barefoot, she again reminded me of the painting in the Louvre. Turning, she smiled at me.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

She nodded.

I braced myself. Now came the hardest thing I had ever done, the part I’d been dreading. I had no choice. Callie’s safety came above everything. “We have to talk,” I said, and plunged into the explanation.

Callie’s face fell as I talked. She hugged her body. When I fell silent, she looked stricken, appalled, her blue eyes full of anguish. They suddenly glistened with unshed tears.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No. Please, Hunter. Please don’t do this to me,” she pleaded.

“I have a target on my back. They’ll never stop. It’s too dangerous for you to be with me.”

Her moist eyes dropped twenty degrees, now icy. She stood taller, determination emerging. God she was spectacular.

Her hand came up. A finger jabbed towards me, threatening. “NO! You DON’T get to run away from me, Lightfoot! I won’t accept it! I won’t allow it!”

Trying to make her see reason, I explained again. “You’re not safe with me. It’s better for you to get on with your life, live long, be happy. I have a great lady, Paula Tasker, who will live with you in Paris. It’s only for two years, Callie. You’ll be eighteen, free to pursue a dancing career. There’s no future with me. It’s the only way,” I reasoned.

“NO!” she yelled. “Fix it, Hunter! You can fix it! You HAVE to fix it! I know you can fix it!” she babbled, her tone full of growing desperation.

I shook my head and answered her quietly. “I don’t know how, Ayasha.”

Her face fell. Tears tumbled. “I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I’d rather have you. I can’t face a lifetime without you. Don’t do this to me, Hunter. Please. Don’t do this to me.”

“Ayasha, you can’t sacrifice everything, even your dancing. You were born to dance.”

My chest went tight, so tight breathing was hard. Callie broke my heart, silently crying, her eyes full of agony, tears tumbling. I felt my resolve waver and tried to steel myself.

“Please, Hunter,” she whispered, pleading. “I love you!”

I couldn’t take Callie’s agony. I hated the pain I was causing her and hated how I felt; as if I’d betrayed her.

I was angry, too. Why couldn’t I fix it? Why couldn’t I see a solution? Why?

Frustrated, I announced, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back later.”

“Let me come,” Callie pleaded.

“No! I need to be alone and think, Callie.”

Striding out, I headed into the forest. Dappled morning sun slanted through the canopy. The air was fresh and cool, full of the scents of hidden blossoms, dark tree bark, earthy composting leaves.

Without a destination, I walked, ducking under low branches and around trees. What the fuck could I do? Nothing. I’d killed. I’d blackmailed the American government.

Sure, I’d protected Callie, but at what cost to her? To me? The idea of running, of hiding, and Callie with me sounded better and better. But I was fooling myself. We’d never be safe, never find peace, never be able to relax.

Fuck! Come on, Lightfoot! Think!

Like a puzzle, I played with the pieces. Were the authorities actually searching for me now? Had they identified me? How? Had Lucas Smith told them?

In fact, what could he have said without implicating himself in the kidnapping of Callie? Was President Richards in on her kidnapping? Why? All he needed was for the documents to disappear forever. Anything we’d say to the media without proof would be considered wild ravings, we, conspiracy nuts.

What if the President wasn’t involved in Callie’s kidnapping? If not, Lucas must have taken the initiative himself. Could that an opportunity?

Walking faster in frustration, brushing by branches, I wondered how I could find out? Simple. Talk to the President.

No. Not so simple. It would have to be face to face, and I’d never get to Richards without Lucas knowing.

Shit!

Wait!

Maybe there was a way. Mike. Did he know anyone close to President Richards?

Pulling out the disposable cell phone, I dialed from memory.

“Mr. Lister’s office.”