He was curious to see the face of the other person he had been sent to kill—the one who had eluded him all those years ago. That was, after all, his primary target. The old unfinished business that had brought him back here. Either he had killed the wrong man ten years ago, or else there had been an accomplice who had been overlooked. Time, as it always did, had given this man the false confidence to show himself again. Tinsley would balance that ledger soon.

These others would just be collateral.

They were just fucking with him now. The vice president could feel it. Lombard looked at his watch with a sharp snap of his wrist. Six forty-seven p.m. He’d been twiddling his goddamn thumbs in his ceremonial office off the Senate floor for nearly seven hours.

All for a toothless immigration bill that had been languishing in the Senate since early spring. And now, miraculously, days before the crucial California primary, the Senate had gotten its act together for an up-or-down vote. The majority whip, anticipating a tie, had informed Lombard that, as vice president, he’d be needed in Washington to break the deadlock.

The majority leader had assured him that the vote would happen first thing, so Lombard had flown in first thing and arrived at the Capitol at eleven thirty for a noon vote. With the time change, he would have been back in Dallas by midafternoon for several campaign appearances. Instead, he’d endured an unexpected filibuster, a nongermane amendment, and a failed cloture vote. Each one timed exactly when the roll-call vote on the final bill appeared imminent. His worry now was that they would stretch the vote until tomorrow, which would put him back in Dallas on Saturday afternoon at the earliest.

This was no coincidence or accident. That much was obvious. Lombard knew from experience how the game was played here in the Senate, and he could imagine the minority leader laughing at him from his office. Well, enjoy it while you can, Lombard thought. The unofficial agenda of his first term had been amended in the last few hours to include unseating that prick.

He checked his watch again. Although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, the campaign was in good hands and could take care of itself for a day without him. Fleming was on the ropes and, if his polling data were worth what he’d paid for it, then the nomination would be his next week.

No, it was this developing situation in Pennsylvania that was giving him heartburn. A cryptic message from Eskridge an hour ago indicated Gibson Vaughn might actually have found the man who took his daughter. It was unfathomable, and ordinarily Lombard could compartmentalize, but he’d been unable to focus on anything else. He wanted to know what was happening, and he wanted to know now.