Page 49 of Ravens
At the checkpoint, security waves metal detecting wands over us that beep on my bracelets and York’s watch, but after they check his invitation, we’re waved through without issue. Climbing all the stairs warms me up a bit, and we melt into the crowd at the top. There are waiters in white coats sailing through the throngs easily, delivering and collecting drinks as the who’s who of DC mills about the historic monument.
With my arm through his, York leads me into the monument, where the dance floor is staged and no expense has been spared, from the flower arrangements to the champagne and caviar. Tents are set up below the steps outside in case the weather turns, and the black fabric billowing down the wall behind Lincoln features the Agency’s emblem in an odd Third Reich kind of way. My skin pimples slightly at the sight of it, and I look around as I sip champagne.
The place is crowded enough that I am not obvious. Everyone is finely dressed in glittering fabrics and expensive tuxedos, so we fit in, but I haven’t caught sight of Russel yet. Jazz begins playing, and people move to the dance floor, but York folds us into the onlookers, trailing me behind him as he prowls for his target. A few minutes later, I’m tugging him to a gentle halt as I set my glass on a passing tray, and he does the same.
I lead him to the dance floor, and he follows warily but sweeps me into his frame without hesitation once we hit the floor. We begin moving through the crowd, and I don’t know why I’m at all surprised that he can dance.
“The Director is at the top of the stairs.” I brush my nose against his, and he turns us, looking past me.
“Good.” He nods and turns me back the other way. “I need a drink.”
We finish the dance, twirling across the floor toward the bar and clapping when the song ends. Lacing his fingers with mine, he leads me off the floor. The bartender readies a glass of champagne as we approach, which I accept, but York waves the bartender off and turns to face me.
“You look lovely,” he murmurs. “Truly.”
My cheeks burn, and I look down at my glass for a second. “I thought you hated this dress.”
“No, I hate everyone looking at your ass in it.”
“I’m going home withyou.”
“Are you?” His brows don’t rise as he leans closer and kisses the spot beside my mouth. “Forgive me.”
I pull back, confused, and he strides past me.
When I turn to follow him, I end up face-to-face with Russel Wainwright instead. Caught off guard, we both stare at each other for a moment before he grabs my arm and drags me out onto the dance floor.
“Bold,” he grits out as he tugs me into him.
The Director is an unassuming man. Thick blond hair that is graying at the temples is thrust back from a lightly weathered face that houses mossy-green eyes. Somewhere in his early fifties, Russel stands a few inches taller than me, and although he isn’t overweight, he’s soft. The congenial exterior hides a criminal mind and the morals of a cockroach . . . although it never bothered me before he wanted me dead.
“I didn’t realize you had such big balls,” he breathes out as he locks my frame, and a waltz begins. “Fuck, I could have you shot out back right now.”
“I could threaten the same.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “You are in way over your head.”
“You would be too if I painted you a traitor . . . oh, wait a second,” I hiss. “You are one.”
“Yes, but my position on the totem pole ensures you burn before I do.”
“Fire catches,” I exhale, collecting myself and trying to let the feelings go.
We take a turn around the room, and it isn’t long before I notice our position is being closed in on. I’m not sure how hesignaled them, but several suits are now waiting discreetly at the edge of the dance floor.
“I’m the best you have,” I say softly and look into his eyes. “I’ve been loyal, effective, prolific . . . Why would you do this to me?”
“Intelligence is a shifting landscape, Tripoli. Sometimes we have to sacrifice things to stay on top. You know that.” We stop dancing, and he cups my face. “A real patriot knows the cost of service.”
My eyes search his, stunned. “The things I know will bury you.”
“I know.” He gestures with his hand over my shoulder.
The shuffling of heavy footfalls is interrupted by a zipping sound before something warm splashes across my back, and Russel spins me around, pinning me to his chest. Screaming and shouting erupt as I stare at the two agents on the floor before us. Puddles of blood seep out beneath them as partygoers dart for safety.
“On me!” Russel shouts, and more agents come forward.
Two more drop as they cross in front of Lincoln’s effigy. The others stop, hovering at the edges of the shooter's perceived sights as Russel uses me to shield himself and shuffles back.
