Page 110 of Edge of Honor

Senator Blackwood closed the tab on his computer and couldn’t help but smile. Coughlin’s quick social media take last night had been good, but today’s extensive takedown of the President’s national address had been absolutely perfect.

The only thing more perfect, and for which he had smiled even more broadly, had been Claire Bennet last night. It was like makeup sex, but without ever having broken up.

The woman was beyond incredible—not only in the physical realm, but also in the personal, or more to the point, the professional. He truly wondered if he would have been able to accomplish what he had, if he would have ever reached this far, without her encouragement and her incredible gift for strategy.

Quietly in the background, without desire for credit or recognition, she had helped him put his entire plan together. Her dislike for Mitchell, his abandonment of his principles, and for what Mitchell had done to him, had caused her to be his biggest champion.

She had seen angles he had never considered, had helped avoid pitfalls he didn’t realize could be coming, and had shored up his confidence when he had wondered if the plot was ultimately achievable. Claire Bennet had been his rock.

Which made her not being in D.C. for the next, most exciting phase of all extremely disappointing.

No doubt she would be watching it all unfold on a TV somewhere in Istanbul, but that wouldn’t be the same as having her here. There was nothing as erotic, no aphrodisiac as all-consuming, as power—and they were about to bring down an American presidency.

This week had already been one for the history books. Of course, history would never know, not for sure, who had been behind the events, but he and Claire would know, as would their coconspirators. By this time tomorrow, Mitchell’s administration would be on life support, if not completely over.

The fact that he wouldn’t have Claire to celebrate with was unfortunate, but perhaps it was for the best. With her irresistible pull out of his immediate vicinity, he could focus on being the stoic elder statesman others would expect him to be.

There was no telling who might call on him for advice and counsel—from advisors and Cabinet members, right up to James Mitchell him-self.

And if the President should reach out to him, Senator Bill Blackwood knew exactly what he would say. He had rehearsed and refined it a thousand times with Claire. “Mr. President,” he would begin, after taking a long pause, ostensibly reflecting on the seriousness of the matter he was being asked to consult on, “America elected you because you’re a fighter. But sometimes, a leader has to know when to step aside. He has to recognize that the fight is no longer his to win.”

He would tell Mitchell that resigning wouldn’t be a defeat and that no one would fault him. He would be doing the right thing, and in stepping aside, rather than clinging to power, he could shape the future from the outside, from a place of wisdom and respect, with the true appreciation of the American people for having put them and the country first.

While the delivery might have a certainBlackwoodianflare, the words were completely Claire’s. From start to finish, she had crafted every one of them.

But to walk out of the Oval Office and not be able to immediately share with her the excitement of helping convince Mitchell to step down felt anticlimactic.

Such a long and dangerous road, especially one so meticulously traveled, deserved a very special, mutual celebration upon its completion.

He had relayed this sentiment to Claire last night and she had agreed, promising they would celebrate when she got back next week.

Just the thought of it brought joy to his heart—celebrating the nation’s birthday, at the White House, with a brand-new president.

Even better, there was a very good chance thatPresidentChris Cates would have a plum Cabinet position waiting for him.

All he and his coconspirators had to do was to successfully get through tomorrow.

If they could do that, the American government would get a much-needed reset—and once that happened, the sky was the limit for what Bill Blackwood could achieve.

Friday couldn’t get here soon enough.

CHAPTER 56

ELKTON, VIRGINIA

FRIDAY, BEFORE DAWN

State police had established DUI “checkpoints” at both ends of the narrow dirt road along the South Fork of the Shenandoah River.

Plainclothes detectives, in unmarked vehicles, were positioned farther back in case anyone tried to turn around and avoid being stopped. The last thing they wanted was for word to leak.

In the meantime, agents from the FBI’s Richmond Field Office had assembled for the serving of a search warrant on the five-hundred-acre farm of a Paul Taylor Jordan—titular head of the Iron Tree movement. Based upon the chilling testimony of Ricky Russell, it was one of the fastest warrants to have ever been approved in the history of the state of Virginia.

The farm had been under surveillance for several hours. The plan was to launch the raid before dawn. The weather, however, wasn’t cooperating.

A front of thunderstorms had moved in and parked themselves over the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was pissing down rain.

Even worse, the claps of thunder were so loud that it had to be near impossible for anyone on the property to be sleeping.

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