“What’s that?” I ask.
“Well, shortly after the president received the email, a phone call went out of the West Wing. By reverse scanning the staff directory, it looks like it was one of his senior aides, Deputy Chief of Staff of Operations, Winston Carnes.”
“So?” I push. That could easily be coincidental.
“Then, not long after the call ended, some type of code was deployed on the servers that sent out a ping.”
“A ping?”
“A beacon… one that can reverse crawl the same pathway the email to the president had taken.”
“Back to the source,” Kynan mutters.
“Right to Marjorie Island,” I add, shaking my head in bewilderment. It doesn’t make sense. “I don’t believe President Alexander is involved in this. He’d never do anything to harm Barrett.”
“You might be right,” Kynan says, obviously choosing his words carefully. “But we can’t discount it.”
“No,” I say adamantly. “It’s not him. It’s Winston Carnes. That’s who’s responsible.”
A choppy vibration rumbles overhead. With a long-suffering sigh, I rise to a standing position. “The chopper’s here,” I say.
“We’ve got a private jet on the runway in Virgin Gorda to bring you here,” Kynan replies.
“Not to Pittsburgh,” I say. “Straight to D.C. You can meet me there.”
Kynan curses under his breath before saying, “I’m not sure you’re in the best position—”
“Just fucking meet me in D.C.,” I snap. “And bring me some clothes.”
“You were shot, for fuck’s sake,” Kynan growls. “You’ve been under extreme duress. I can handle—”
“Not up for debate,” I bark over him. “Meet me in D.C.”
I don’t give him a chance to reply before I disconnect the satellite phone. Picking up Barrett’s laptop and notepad, I head out the front door and maneuver down the path to the beach where the chopper will land to pick me up. I don’t bother with our belongings or any of my equipment. Kynan can send someone back for that.
I don’t believe President Alexander is involved in this in any way. I know the man as well as most people close to him do, even better yet since spending time with Barrett over the last few days. I’ve heard enough about how he stepped in after her parents died to be a surrogate father and mentor to her. The man loves her unconditionally, and she feels the same.
He’s not involved.
But Winston Carnes must know something. And because time is of the essence—because every precious minute that ticks by means Barrett could be a minute closer to death—I’m going to make sure I get the truth from him as quickly as I can.CHAPTER 20CruceIf there is any other proof I’d need that President Alexander isn’t connected in any way to the kidnapping of his niece, him cancelling his afternoon meetings—including one with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff about current operations going on in northern Syria that have been dominating the news lately—assures me of his innocence.
“You need to keep your cool,” Kynan advises me as we follow an aide down a corridor in the West Wing.
“I’m fine,” I mutter as I roll my left shoulder, which feels like it has been pounded with a wrecking ball.
Kynan met me at Dulles where my charter flight landed after a quick refuel in Miami. He not only had a change of clothes for me, but he also had Dr. Corinne Ellery—our resident psychiatrist—in tow.
While I was anxious to get changed and head to the White House, Kynan insisted I let her treat my wounds.
I grumbled about it the entire time, as did Dr. Ellery.
“This was not part of the job I was hired to do for Jameson,” she had complained. “I’m a psychiatrist. I treat the mind, not the body.”
“But you went to medical school,” Kynan had replied, “and until such time as I can hire someone else, you’re just going to have to step up. And besides… I don’t get what the problem is.”
She had grimaced as she checked my wounds, applying some betadine and clean gauze to them front and back. “Because you’ll start me off with cauterized gunshot wounds. Then, next thing I know, it’ll snowball and you’ll want me to perform an emergency amputation or something.”
“I just need you to give him some antibiotics, so it doesn’t get infected,” Kynan muttered in response. “And make sure he won’t bleed to death until we can get Barrett back.”
Which is exactly what she did, administering a shot of Levaquin with a Prednisone booster in the top part of my ass cheek. She also handed me a bottle of oral antibiotics to take. I’d shoved them in the pocket of my cargo pants and promised I would take them, but, frankly, it wasn’t my main priority.
The aide reaches the Oval Office and gives a sharp rap on the door, entering without waiting for an answer. It’s clear we’re expected and with all haste.