Some gathered up their things, trying not to look like they were hurrying. Others just left everything behind, anxious to be out of the terrible room. It was an awkward, tense few moments while the staff shuffled out past Grace. Lombard looked at his wife like a gambler trying to decide whether to call, fold, or possibly raise. The herd gathered in the hall, wary faces blank with questions. Some tried to pry an explanation from Denise, but she waved them off; others talked among themselves. Finally, an imposing older man with an important-sounding voice ordered them to disperse.

As the hall emptied, Gibson heard muffled, angry shouting through the thick door. The two Secret Service agents stared straight ahead and pretended they couldn’t hear the war breaking out inside. He and Denise stood before the door expectantly, like Dorothy’s inept cohorts hoping for an audience with the Wizard. The older suit approached Denise and demanded to know what was happening.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m the vice president’s chief of staff. What is happening?”

“Ask him.” She gestured to Gibson with her chin.

“Leland Reed,” the man said and put out a hand.

Gibson looked at the hand. “A little friendly advice, Leland. Get your résumé together.”

Before Reed or Denise could respond, the door flung open, and Gibson found himself face-to-face with Benjamin Lombard. God’s own minute passed between them, Grace immediately behind.

“Come back here, Ben,” she said. “We’re a long way from done.”

Gibson watched the muscles work under his face—an epic battle to resist the body’s natural responses to surprise, embarrassment, and anger. It was a remarkable display of will, and Lombard was already controlling his breathing, composing himself. Composing answers to blunt his wife’s questions.

What the man needed was a push in the wrong direction.

Gibson winked.

The effect was immediate and incendiary. Any pretense of composure fled the vice president, and a great purple swell of blood flooded his neck and face. Lombard pushed through the two agents, fists rising as he came toward Gibson.

All Gibson could think was Please, please, please punch me. He couldn’t possibly be this lucky. He willed his hands to stay at his side. Defenseless would play even better. Make it a good one, you son of a bitch. Nail your coffin shut.

Calista Dauplaise remained seated at the end of the conference table, a look of anguish warping her imperious face. What was she doing there? But before he could answer his own question, Benjamin Lombard threw a haymaker and caught him flush on the jaw. The VP was a large man, and Gibson was out cold by the time his head bounced off the carpet.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE