Page 76 of The Night Of
Steven smiled. The sun caught on his salt-and-pepper hair, on the rounded curves of his happy face. All the long years they’d had, all the time they’d shared, were rushing past Jonathan, the memories and years slipping through his fingers like water. He couldn’t grab hold, couldn’t hold on to Steven or the past.
Steven wiped Jonathan’s tears away. He kissed Jonathan’s forehead again. “I’m a part of you, Jonathan,” he whispered. “Always.”
“No, Steven—”
* * *
Jonathan’s eyespopped open as he gasped. He tried to sit up, fighting against the sedatives and his body’s weakness. All he managed was a sort of flail and a roll to the right.
I was out of my chair in a second, guiding him back and grabbing his hands. “Jonathan,” I murmured. “Jonathan, it’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here. I’m here.”
“Steven,” Jonathan moaned. His eyes squeezed closed. His breath shuddered. “I was with Steven…”
I smoothed his hair back. Laced his fingers in mine as I sat on the edge of his hospital bed. My thumb rubbed over the back of his hand, avoiding the IV.
Jonathan had been unconscious for almost two days after coming out of surgery at Bethesda. He’d been deathly pale when they’d wheeled him into the presidential recovery suite, his eyes sunken into the hollows of his face and his skin pulled taut over his already severe features. I’d thought, for a moment, that he was gone.
He’d lost so much blood. The Oval had been flooded with it, giant puddles that glistened on top of the presidential seal. Yekaterina had sliced his carotid. Not all the way through, but far enough. Now, a thick bandage covered the side of his neck, concealing the stitches that ran halfway across his throat and behind his jaw.
She was dead. Keith, Nguyen, and Silva had brought her down. The First Black Widow of the United States had been shot dead inside the Oval Office after trying to assassinate a second president.
Yekaterina’s confession was captured on high-def audio and video. After some careful editing, Silva had released the tape during the press conference he called once Jonathan was wheeled out of surgery. He spoke about Jonathan’s bravery, his integrity, his commitment to the truth. How he’d initiated an investigation within hours of President Baker’s death, believing to his very core that his best friend had not taken his own life. With nowhere to turn and seemingly no one he could trust, Jonathan Sharp had called on a single Secret Service agent he could confide in. Silva told the story of how, together, Jonathan and I had uncovered the most extensive spy operation in United States history and the plot that culminated in the assassination of President Baker.
He’d kept my name out of it, but it wasn’t long before the media put it all together. I’d turned off my phone days ago.
Agent Warner took questions when Silva was done, and he had to get up in front of God and the United States press and tell everyone he and I had cooperated, that we’d worked well together, that we were partners from the very beginning, the Secret Service and the FBI committed to securing justice for President Baker.
When he and Silva came to check on Jonathan that night, I’d given him a whole heap of shit for that. He’d taken it well, laughing at me as his eyes took in where I was sitting, how I held Jonathan’s hand as I kept my vigil at his bedside.
The Speaker of the House was temporarily holding the office of the president, and she was issuing statements almost every hour. She’d ordered the expulsion of the Russian ambassador and the closure of every Russian embassy in the United States. She’d put out a red notice for Mila Yahontov, Yekaterina’s sister, and had recommended charges against Andrew Rees and Vladimir Poletov in the International Criminal Court. Nearly every nation on the planet had condemned Andrew Rees personally, along with Russia and President Poletov, for what they had done.
Rees had been expelled from the United States. He was flown back to the UK on a military jet under armed guard. Within hours of the news breaking, the UK parliament issued a vote of no confidence in Rees, and the Queen, exercising her royal prerogative for the first time in the modern era, sacked him during the middle of his flight. When he landed, he was met with an arrest warrant and a pair of handcuffs.
Mila Yahontov, aka Annette Rees, had vanished. Every Western nation was searching for her, but she hadn’t popped up on anyone’s surveillance network or tripped any border crossing alerts. Most intelligence estimates said she was already in Russia, hiding in the Kremlin.
Human remains were found in a burning car in an alley near the United States embassy in Uganda: the body of a Caucasian man in his late forties. His height, weight, and preliminary forensics matched Paul Hardacre. He’d been dead a while, even though his body and the car he was in had just been dumped and set on fire. Another roll-up, another operation cleaning up loose ends.
GPS records confirmed that Carter and Wilcox had been in both Anacostia and the Oval Office on the night of the president’s murder. They’d ripped the route Nguyen had taken when he drove Jonathan to the safe house, and then had lain in wait to murder Carl Rose. They’d searched the safe house, trashing the place, but hadn’t been able to find the drop. Hours later, they lifted Baker’s notes from the Oval Office, but once they had, their usefulness had come to an end. The bullets in their skulls were the same type Russian assassins preferred.
As for our Russian assassin, Georgi Morozov had been arrested at her apartment while Jonathan confronted Yekaterina in the Oval Office. I had to hand it to the FBI: they knew how to time things well. Anal-retentive guys do, I suppose. I could respect that. We were a little bit anal-retentive in the Secret Service, too. The FBI had waited until Yekaterina wasn’t able to get to her phone—her cell or a burner—to either warn or be warned by Morozov.
Morozov was sitting in a cell and getting nicely acquainted with the FBI’s and CIA’s top interrogators. Russia had already started making noise about wanting her back, but that was a prisoner swap that would never happen. She’d put a bullet in our president’s skull. No, Georgi Morozov was heading for destiny in an American courtroom. The public was hungry for her blood.
President Baker’s funeral had been postponed, too. He still lay in repose in the White House, watched over by a military guard. Nguyen had said Secret Service agents were standing watch over him, too: a final, silent regret and a collective plea for forgiveness for failing to protect him.
Jonathan came back to himself slowly, blinking as he took in the hospital suite, the IV in his hand, the monitors beside him. His eyes traveled around the room and then, finally, landed on me. I tried to smile. I was sure I looked like shit. I’d been there since he’d been brought in, hadn’t shaved or showered or left his side. I’d eaten whatever people handed me, never taking my eyes off Jonathan. If I looked away, would his chest still rise and fall? Would the sine wave of his heartbeat continue if I didn’t will it to? What if his eyes opened and I wasn’t right there, holding his hand?
Now he was awake. I squeezed his hand again. “How are you?”
Jonathan closed his eyes. A single tear escaped.
I was with Steven.I brushed the moisture away with my thumb.
He took my hand in his, pressing my palm to his cheek. “What happened?”
I told him everything in a rush that burst out of me like a freight train. I felt his jaw shift beneath my touch, his teeth grinding together. “Her sister is missing?”
“For now. But the entire CIA has turned their focus on hunting her down. They’re going to find her. I know it.”
