“Is that a fact?” Gibson said. “You do his dirty work and then he shows you the door? There’s a kind of poetry to that, you think?”

“If you like poetry.”

“Well, if you’re not here for him, what do you want?”

“As I said, a friendly chat.”

George Abe handed him a business card. It listed a downtown DC address and phone number. Beneath his name, it read, “Director, Abe Consulting Group.”

When he was a kid, Gibson had mispronounced George Abe’s name until his father corrected him: “Ah-bay. More Japanese, less Lincoln.” As Benjamin Lombard’s head of security, George had been a fixture in Gibson’s childhood. The man in the background. Polite, courteous but professionally invisible. It wasn’t until Gibson’s trial that he’d paid close attention to him, but by then George Abe had been neither polite nor courteous.

“Fancy,” Gibson said.

“I have a job offer for you.”

Gibson searched for the wherewithal to reply, curiosity segueing to disbelief. “I’ve got to hand it to you, George. You’ve got a mighty, mighty large set on you.”

“Hear me out.”

“I’m not interested.” Gibson handed the business card back.

“How goes the job hunt?”

Gibson froze and appraised Abe coolly. “Be a tiny bit careful.”

“Understood. But know I mean nothing by it except to outline the situation,” Abe said. “The fact is, you are unemployed and your history will make it hard to find a job commensurate with your skill set. You need work. I have work. Work that will pay better than any job you’re likely to find. If you’re able to find a job at all.”

“Still not interested.” Gibson turned and took four steps to the door before Abe stopped him cold.

“He’s not ever going to let it go. You know that, don’t you?”

The bluntness of the words shook Gibson. It summed up fears that dwelt and rutted in the dark of his mind.

“Why not?” He couldn’t keep the pleading tone out of his voice.

Abe looked at him pityingly. “Because you’re Gibson Vaughn. Because he treated you like a son.”

“Did he get me fired?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Probably. It doesn’t matter. If I were you, I’d be worried about what he’ll do if he becomes president. You’ll be lucky to find a job in Siberia.”

“Haven’t I paid enough?”

“It’ll never be enough. There are no bygones here. His enemies? Enemies for life. And his enemies pay for life. That’s how Benjamin Lombard plays the game.”

“So I’m fucked.”

“Unless you give him a reason to let it go.”

“What reason is there?”

Abe sat back down at the booth and gestured for Gibson to join him.

“Is this the friendly chat part?”

“I think it would be in your interest to hear me out.”