Chapter 66
Genevieve
The news of Henry’s body being pulled from the Potomac has been all over the news for the last couple of days, every outlet speculating on his murder and the fact that there aren’t any leads on a suspect.
What I haven’t been able to figure out is why Percy York hasn’t outed Henry’s ties to Kazakhstan.
It can’t be because he didn’t want to sully the reputation of a dead man.
A man willing to extort someone isn’t concerned with their honor.
Which has led us me to deduce that York is avoiding the mention of Kazakhstan to allow the conflict there to die down, so no one notices that he’s still in their pocket until it’s too late.
But by then, war will have been declared, innocent lives will have been lost, and Percy York can be as outspoken about the conflict as he likes, and no one will notice that he was taking money to ensure that things escalated.
Dropping into the vacant chair, I smile. “Thanks for meeting me in person.”
He nods, his kind brown eyes sparkling. He looks different than he does in my playroom, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s fully clothed. The powerful, polished aura that radiates from him whenever he’s on television emanates from him now like a glowing vapor.
I didn’t want to do this at my office, but now that I’m sitting across from Elliott Leplee, I regret that, even if there’s a chance my office is bugged.
Although, Marcus has assured me that he’s removed any and all bugs the FBI left behind after Ford disclosed to him the location of those.
I tend to believe him since no one has slapped cuffs around my wrists for killing Henry.
A waitress appears to take our drink order. The moment she’s gone, I pull the paper from my purse and slide it across the table. His eyes scan the page, a shrewdness pinching his eyebrows.
When his gaze hits mine again, he shakes his head. “Why did you bring this to me?”
“This isn’t just a scandal, it’s treason.” Sure, I’m a criminal, too, but this is different.
Percy York made an unfortunate enemy in me, and it’s a silver lining to stop someone that’s scamming the citizens from multiple countries into a war that will bankroll him for life.
He sighs. “I don’t disagree, but I think you underestimate my reach, Allison.” Lowering his voice an octave, he adds, “He’s my boss.”
The waitress reappears, delivering a ginger tea for me and a black coffee for Elliott. When she’s gone once more, I tell him, “You’re friends with the president. You have political capital, others don’t.”
“I’ll try,” he says, lifting the coffee cup to his lips. “But Percy York is still in charge of the Justice Department. It won’t be easy taking down the person tasked with prosecution.”
“Thank you, Elliott,” I tell him as we get to our feet, a smile on my lips.
He nods, slipping his phone back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “My deputy director’s been notified.”
I fall in step with him as we make our way to the door, his hand finding my back. It’s an intimate gesture, but not one that makes me uncomfortable, given our…relationship.
He chuckles roughly just as the bright sunshine hits my face, and I turn to face him now that we’re on the busy sidewalk, a lunchtime crowd bustling around us. “Remind me not to become your enemy.”
I grin, leaning into him and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He blushes, his pale complexion pinkening.
“You’re such a good boy,” I murmur, for his ears only. His neck and cheeks shift from pink to red, and my smile widens. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The moment I take a step back, a thunderous crack booms through the sunshine like a bolt of lightning and hands grip my shoulders from behind. I’m tossed to the ground as Elliott’s body jerks, a full-body flinch that tosses him against the wall of the bistro as if he’s a ragdoll.
Something partially blocks my vision, but I still catch sight of the white bricks now stained bright crimson as streaks drip down the wall, pooling around Elliott’s slumped body that’s now on the ground. My eyes triple in size, my stomach churning as my throat constricts.
A volcano of noise erupts around me, and I think I cry out, scream maybe, adding to the cacophony. I attempt to move, but the strong bands holding me down tighten.
“I’ve got you, Gen. You’re safe. James is bringing the car around.”
The words settle around me like snow, the deep, smoky sound cocooning me in peaceful protection. Seconds later, my husband’s arms lift me into the air as I’m whisked toward the street.
Over Ford’s shoulder, I watch as first responders gather around Elliott, but their bodies block his face from view so I can’t tell if he’s alive. Based on the amount of blood on the sidewalk, it doesn’t look good.
Ford shoves me into the backseat of the SUV, and James pulls away from the scene before Ford’s even shut the door behind him. It’s not until I curl into his body, my hip jammed against something harder than muscle that everything off about this situation slams into me.
“Why are you dressed in full tactical gear?” I ask as I rear back, glancing at the gun wedged between us. “And what the fuck was that back there? Why were you even there?”
I was meant to be doing this on my own. He wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t wearing a wire, so how did he know something was going down? Unless—
“Drake and I were…monitoring the situation.”
I want to be mad at him for watching me, but how can I be angry about that? Besides, I don’t want to be upset with him. Not when he was looking out for me; not when he saved my life…
After all, he didn’t actually intervene in my meeting with Elliott, only when I was actually in danger. He loves me.
My heart leaps as if a ballerina is performing in my chest just as it did when he told me the first time. The words almost hurt, spreading through every cell in my body like an inflammatory disease. But the kind of plight that I wouldn’t mind succumbing to. I want his love, covet it.
“I don’t think that bullet was meant for Elliott,” he mumbles. A bubble of silence fills the car, the muted sound of heavy traffic and air conditioning unable to pierce the quiet stretching between us.
There’s a stern set to his eyebrows, his lips pressed into a firm line, and he appears aggravated, angry even. Then he stretches his fingers, the veins in his forearms bulging, before fisting them tightly.
“Where’s the shooter—”
“We’ll talk later, in private,” Ford interrupts me, but it’s his sharp glare that shuts me up, and I zip my mouth closed.