Gideon's Sword by Preston Douglas && Child Lincoln

Author:Preston, Douglas && Child, Lincoln
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780446564335
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2011-02-22T05:00:00+00:00

6

ON THE CORNER of Independence and South Capitol, the page turns back to see if anyone’s behind him. I duck behind a group of staffers, once again cursing my height. The page doesn’t even notice. I’m too far back to be seen. By the time I peek up again, he’s long gone. Around the corner.

Racing full speed, I fly up toward the corner, my shoes pounding against the concrete. From here, Independence Avenue rises at a slight incline. It doesn’t even slow me down.

I inch my head around the corner, and the page is halfway down South Capitol. He’s fast. Even though he’s on the phone, he knows where he’s going.

Unsure what to do, I go with my first instinct. Whipping out my own phone, I dial Harris’s number. Nothing but voice mail, which means he’s either on the line or out to lunch. I call back again, hoping his assistant will pick up. He doesn’t.

I try to tell myself it still makes sense. Maybe this is how the dungeon-masters play it—the last transfer gets dropped off campus. There’s gotta be someplace that’s the actual home base. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. But that doesn’t make the reality pill any easier to swallow. He’s got our money. I want to know where it’s going.

At the end of the block, the page makes a left on C Street and disappears around another corner. I take off after him, carefully angling behind every staffer I can find. Anything to keep myself out of his direct line of sight.

As he turns right on New Jersey Avenue, I’m at least 150 feet behind him. He’s still moving fast, yakking away on his phone. By now, fellow staffers and the congressional office buildings are long gone. We’re in the residential section of Capitol Hill—brick townhouse squeezed next to brick townhouse. I walk on the other side of the pothole-filled street, pretending I’m looking for my parked car. It’s a lame excuse, but if he spins around, at least he won’t see me. The only problem is, the further we go, the more the neighborhood shape-shifts around us.

Within two minutes, the brick townhouses and tree-lined streets give way to chain-link fences and broken bottles scattered across the concrete. An illegally parked car has a yellow metal boot on its front tire. A Jeep across the street has its back window smashed, creating an oval black hole at the center of the shattered glass. It’s the great irony of Capitol Hill—we’re supposed to run the country, but we can’t even keep up the neighborhood.

Diagonally up the street, the page still has his cell pressed against his ear. He’s too far. I can’t hear a word. But I can see it in his stride. There’s a new glide in his walk. His whole body bounces to the right with each step. I try to imagine the polished kid who quietly coughed his way into my office barely five blocks ago. He’s long gone.

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