plastic bag and its immensely valuable occupant had fallen out and slid
down behind the nightstand.
Luther’s finger nudged the blade of the letter opener through the
plastic before secreting it in his duffel bag. He went quickly over to
the window and carefully peered out.
The limo and van were still there. That wasn’t good.
He went across to the other side of the room, took out his rope, secured
it under the leg of the enormously heavy chest of drawers, and ran the
line across to the other window, which would drop him at the opposite
end of the house, hidden from the road. He carefully opened the window,
praying for a well-oiled track, and was rewarded.
He played out the rope and watched it snake down the brick sides of the
house.
GLORIA RUSSELL LOOKED UP AT THE MASSIVE FACE OF THE mansion. There was
real money there. Money and position that Christine Sullivan did not
deserve. She had won it with her boobs and artfully displayed ass and
her trashy mouth that had somehow inspired the elderly Walter Sullivan,
———awakening some emotion buried deep within his complex depths.
In six months he would not miss her anymore. His world of rock-solid
wealth and power would hurtle on.
Then it struck her.
Russell was halfway out of the limo before Collin caught her arm. He
held up the leather bag she had bought in Georgetown for a hundred bucks
and was now worth incalculably more to her. She settled back down in her
seat, her breath normalized. She smiled, almost blushed at Collin.
The President, slumped in a semicatatonic state, didn’t notice the
exchange.
Then Russell peeked inside her bag, just to be sure. Her mouth dropped
open, her hands frantically tore through the few contents of the bag. It
took all her willpower not to shriek out loud as she stared
horror-stricken at the young agent. the letter opener was not there. It
must still be in the house.
Collin tore back up the stairs, a thoroughly confused Burton racing
after him.
Luther was halfway down the wall when he heard them coming.
Ten more feet.
They burst in the bedroom door.
Six more feet.
Stunned, the two Secret Service men spotted the rope;
Burton dove for it.
Two more feet, and Luther let go, hitting the ground running.
Burton flew to the window. Collin threw the nightstand aside: nothing.
He joined Burton at the window. Luther had already disappeared around
the corner. Burton started to head out the window. Collin stopped him.
The way they had come would be faster.
They bolted out the door.
LuTmm CRASHED nmouoh THE coRNFEaD, NO LONGER CONcerned with leaving a
trail, now only worried about surviving.
The bag slowed him down slightly, but he had worked too hard over the
last several months to walk away emptyhanded.
He exploded out from the friendly cover of the crops and bit the most
dangerous phase of his flight: a hundred yards of open field. The moon
had disappeared behind thickening clouds and there were no streetlights
in the country; in his black clothing he would be almost impossible to
spot. But the human eye was best at spotting movement in the darkness,
and he was moving as fast as he could.
THE Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS STOPPED MOMENTARILY AT the van. They
emerged with Agent Varney and raced across the field.
Russell rolled down the window and watched them, shock on her face. Even
the President was somewhat awake, but she quickly calmed him and he
returned to his half-slumber.
Collin and Burton slipped on their night-vision goggles and their view
instantly resembled a crude computer game. Thermal images registered in
red, everything else was dark green.
Agent Travis Varney, tall and rangy, and only vaguely aware of what was
going on, was ahead of them. He ran with the easy motion of the
collegiate miler he used to be.
In the Service three years, Varney was single, committed entirely to his
profession, and looked to Burton as a father figure to replace the one
killed in Vietnam. They were looking for someone who had done something
in that house.
Something that involved the President and that therefore involved him.