Page 41 of The Ghost Assassin

“But not for you,” I say, and Bundy pulls us into the airport.

“Certainly, he’d help with an investigation.”

I’m good at reading people, but Adams isn’t an easy read. On the surface, we’re talking about a working relationship that mimics what I had with Murphy. But underneath this conversation is something I can only call a whole lot of bullshit. And bullshit gets people killed. He’s mistaken if he thinks that will be me, not him.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Here’s what I love about traveling by chopper. It’s loud, therefore, those traveling with you cannot be loud. There is no conversation. No conversation is my happy space, even when I like the person I’m traveling with. When I’m on the fence leaning toward dislike, it’s practically orgasmic. Therefore, I’m treated to almost two hours of pleasure.

I’m ridiculously productive during the flight.

I sleep. Hard. I consider it in everyone’s best interest, because yes, I slept my four hours, but that’s my bare minimum to behave like a semi-reasonable human. Dealing with political figures requires about twelve hours of comfortable sleep, but I’ll have to settle for a collective five. That one hour might save a life.

When the chopper touches down, and not a moment before, I wake up, and what a joy I have waiting on me. We exit to a mass of Secret Service agents, and they’re the coldest robotic group you will ever meet. Apparently, they’re the only agency still trusted right now, and I’m not sure why. Dirty birds get the worm, and the next worm might be the President, and from right inside his trusted circle. But who am I to tell the President of the United States to hire private protection until this is over?

“One moment,” one of the Secret Service agents orders when we step into the airport. “We’re securing your exit path.”

“How’d you sleep?” Adams asks as we clear the chopper and can finally speak, which apparently pleases him. “Like butter on bread? Nice and smooth?”

It’s a ridiculous thing my father has said at least ten times on the campaign trail.

“Mayor Love, if you are elected governor, how will you deal with the homeless population?”

“Like butter on bread, nice and smooth.”

“Mayor Love, can you tell us about your approach to education?”

“It’s all about making the school system operate like butter on bread, nice and smooth.”

Every time he says those words I want to throw up. Or smear butter on his face. That would be pleasurable. “Your father,” he adds, “is as smooth as they get. How’d you turn out like you did?”

“Witty, wonderful, and with all the best jokes? I get it from my mother. And are you mocking my father or worshipping him?”

“I know all about your father,” he says. “Things I think you’d like to know, too.”

I can almost see him mentally reeling me in like a fish. Or so he thinks. “I already know all I ever need to know about my father,” I assure him. “The rest is just fodder. I already know what I need to know about you, too.”

“And what is that?”

“There are two versions of you. The one that is squeaky clean and naïve to one of the biggest threats to our society, and the one who people whisper about who has dirty little secrets.”

“By design.”

“It always is. You know who else has two versions of themselves?”

“Who?”

“Serial killers.”

As if I’ve planned my parting remark, one of the Secret Service agents halts in front of us. “Director Adams, the President would like to see you.” The agent eyes me and then Adams again, and adds, “Just you.”

An SUV pulls up beside us and the rear window rolls down to reveal Director Ellis. “Director Adams, by order of the President, Agent Love-Mendez is under my direction until the murders of Directors Murphy and Rodriguez have been solved. Agent Love-Mendez, load up, pronto. We have a crime scene to get to.”

I follow orders—miracles do happen—and join Ellis in the vehicle. It’s not like I have a choice, with Secret Service flying around like gnat bugs.

Once I settle inside, I’m not sure if I’ve been snapped out of the jaws of a shark or been asked to swim with a snake.

Whatever the case, as history shows, I can always stab someone if necessary. It won’t be by order of the President, but he might thank me later.

---