Mitch swept left and right a few times, getting a feel for the sidewalk in front of the theater. “You said these crumbums are a couple of judges?”

“That’s right,” Denny said. “Two of the most powerful fuckers in the country.”

“What’d they do?”

“You know what an activist judge is?”

“Not really. What’s that?”

“Well, let’s just say that the good old U.S. of A.’s better off without them,” Denny said. “I’ll spot ’em and you drop ’em, Mitchie, but it’s going to be fast. You’ve got to be ready, okay? One, two — then we’re out of here.”

Mitch held his position like always, but the corners of his mouth turned up just a hair. It was the closest thing to a cocky little smile Denny had seen on him in a while.

“Don’t worry, Denny,” he said. “I won’t miss.”

Chapter 96

BY SEVEN THIRTY, F Street was one long line of black cars.

The event tonight was “Will on the Hill,” an annual fund-raiser for arts education in DC. Two dozen Capitol Hill movers and shakers were all set to perform an “inside-baseball” version of Will Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night for an audience of more of the same — congressmen, senators, Hill staffers, and half of K Street, probably.

Denny watched the road through his sighting scope. “No shortage of foxes in the henhouse tonight, am I right?”

“I guess,” Mitch said, still eyeing over the crowd. “I thought this was going to be a bunch of famous people. I don’t recognize none of them down there.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kind of famous now, too, and nobody knows what you look like,” Denny said.

Mitch smiled. “Point.”

Rahm Emanuel and his wife were just arriving. The House minority leader and Senate president pro tempore had shown up together a minute ago, grabbing a much-needed photo op in the middle of a contentious legislative session.

Each one got out of his car and crossed the redbrick sidewalk, maybe six paces, until he was under the cantilevered glass wall that hung over the theater’s main entrance. This was definitely going to be tight when it happened.

Finally, at ten minutes to eight, Denny spotted who he was looking for. A short Mercedes limo stopped at the curb.

The driver got out and came around to open the door, and the Honorable Cornelia Summers stepped into view.

“Here we go, Mitch. Ten o’clock. Long blue dress, getting out of the Mercedes.”

Right behind her, Justice George Ponti stood up. They stopped long enough to wave self-consciously at the press and the gawkers gathered behind police lines on the sidewalk. Even from a distance, Denny noticed that these two looked out of their element.

“Number two’s in the tux, with the gray hair.”

Mitch had already adjusted his stance. “I’m there.”

“Shooter ready?”