Well… and him.
He knew.
Suddenly he didn’t feel like skipping anymore.
He resumed his place behind the lectern. As he did so, Monroe Mason gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. He glanced at his father. Preston, for once, was nodding his wholehearted approval. He would agree with Smilow. Let it drop. Accept the job. Do good work and the misbehavior would be justified.
He was a shoo-in. He would win the election in a landslide. He probably wouldn’t even have an opponent. But was the job, any job, worth sacrificing his self-respect?
Wouldn’t he rather tell the truth and have it cost him the election than keep a secret? The longer the secret was kept, the dirtier it would become. He didn’t want the memory of his first night with Alex to be sullied by secrecy.
His gaze fastened on hers, and he knew in an instant, by the soft expression in her eyes, that she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was the only one who knew what he was thinking. She was the only one who would understand why he was thinking it. She gave him an intensely private, extremely intimate smile of encouragement.
In that moment, he loved her more than he had ever thought it possible to love.
“Before I proceed… I want to address an individual whose life has been unforgivably upended this week. Dr. Alex Ladd cooperated with the Charleston Police Department and my office at the sacrifice of her practice, her time, and most importantly her dignity. She has endured immeasurable embarrassment. I apologize to her on behalf of this county.
“I also owe her a personal apology. Because… because I knew from the start that she had not murdered Lute Pettijohn. She admits to seeing him that afternoon, but well before the time of his death. Certain material elements indicated that she might have had motive. But I knew, even while she was being subjected to humiliating interrogations, that she couldn’t have killed Lute Pettijohn. Because she had an alibi.”
Nobody knows. Really only a technicality. Why be a Boy Scout? You’ll do far more good… Nobody gives a damn anyway.
Hammond paused and took a deep breath, not of anxiety, but relief.
“I was her alibi.”
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Journalist Dawson Scott knows well the horrors of war.
But when he investigates a pair of domestic terrorists, his true ordeal begins…
Please turn this page for a preview of Deadline.
Prologue
Branch, Oregon—1976
The first hail of bullets was fired from the house shortly after daybreak at 6:57.
The gunfire erupted in response to the surrender demand issued by a team of law enforcement agents.
It was a gloomy morning. The sky was heavily overcast and there was dense fog. Despite the limited visibility, one of the fugitives inside the house got off a lucky shot that took out a deputy U.S. marshal whom everybody called Turk.
Gary Headly had met the marshal only the day before, shortly after the law enforcement team comprised of ATF and FBI agents, sheriff’s deputies, and U.S. marshals met for the first time to discuss the operation. They’d congregated around a map of the area known as Golden Branch, reviewing obstacles they might encounter. Headly remembered another marshal saying, “Hey, Turk, grab me a Coke while you’re over there, will ya?”
Headly didn’t learn Turk’s actual name until later, much later, when they were mopping up. The bullet struck half an inch above his Kevlar vest, tearing out most of his throat. He dropped without uttering a sound, dead before landing in the pile of wet leaves at his feet. There was nothing Headly could do for him except offer up a brief prayer and remain behind cover. To move was inviting death or injury, because, once the gunfire started, the open windows of the house spat bullets relentlessly.
The Rangers of Righteousness had an inexhaustible arsenal. Or so it seemed that wet and dreary morning. The second casualty was a redheaded, twenty-four-year-old deputy sheriff. A puff of his breath in the cold air gave away his position. Six shots were fired. Five found the target. Any one of three would have killed him.
The team had planned to take the group by surprise, serve their arrest warrants for a laundry list of felonies, and take them into custody, engaging in a firefight only if necessary. But the vehemence with which they were fired upon indicated that the criminals had taken a fight-to-the-death stance.
After all, they had nothing to lose except their lives. Capture meant imprisonment for life or the death penalty for each of the seven members of the domestic terrorist group. Collectively the six men and one woman had chalked up twelve murders and millions of dollars’ worth of destruction, most of it inflicted on federal government buildings or military installations. Despite the religious overtone of their name, they were wholly without conscience or constraint. Over the relatively short period of two years, they had made themselves notorious, a scourge to law enforcement agencies at every level.
Other such groups imitated the Rangers, but none had achieved their level of effectiveness. In the criminal community, they were revered for their audacity and unmatched violence. To many who harbored antigovernment sentiments, they had become folk heroes. They were sheltered and were provided with weapons and ammunition as well as with leaked classified information. This underground support allowed them to strike hard and fast and then to disappear and remain well hidden while they planned their next assault. In communiques sent to newspapers and television networks, they’d vowed never to be taken alive.
It had been a stroke of sheer luck that had brought the law down on them in Golden Branch.