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hadn’t interrupted. “He told someone else what he’d discovered. I heard him on the phone taps.”
    Richard’s stomach began to cramp. “Just … take care of it,” he said.
    â€œI will. But the person he told is Fallon Hughes. Considering this is somewhat more complicated than we planned, I want a bigger cut. Twenty-five percent.”
    Richard, stunned to silence, risked another sidelong glance. He could not fathom what Koss was implying. That he was planning to kill the daughter of the president-elect? Ridiculous. Only Omar Koss was crazy enough to even conceive of a project so reckless, stupid, and audacious.
    It was possible this was all a ruse to squeeze him for more money. In fact, the more he considered it, that seemed the strongest possible explanation. Richard answered with forced confidence. “No way.”
    Koss shrugged, the movement emphasizing his big shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
    The consequences of being discovered were so great that Mullinax wondered which was worse: a twenty-five percent cut of half a billion dollars or going away to prison for life. They didn’t hang people for treason anymore, he didn’t think. He didn’t want to find out. “Okay,” he growled.
    Koss did not reply, but Richard knew he was pleased. Koss thrived on money and violence. He was like an animal, a base creature whose only method of survival was to eat what it killed. He was as cold and logical as actuarial tables.
    â€œI will call you at the end of the week,” Koss said. Then for the first time, a smile crept into his voice: “To collect.”

Three
    Collin Whitcomb had passed the late afternoon in anonymity, staying out of shopping centers, government buildings and other places where surveillance cameras were common. Not that he expected anyone to be searching for him, but he was a little anxious. Nothing wrong with being a little extra careful. He’d meandered through the Virginia suburbs—at the speed limit—checking the rearview mirror for cops. He eventually found himself at a quiet bar in Falls Church, where he’d finally mustered the courage to call Omar Koss.
    He’d spent the last two drinks trying to anticipate what to say to Koss when he finally got here and was no closer to an answer. He glanced up at the television suspended over the skyline of liquor bottles where CNN was featuring a story about Preston Taylor Hughes. The footage of the president-elect hadn’t ceased since November, and Collin was sick of looking at his cheesy campaign smile. He was tall and trim, with a full head of brown hair and calm blue eyes. He had that way of speaking that made every person feel as if he were speaking directly to them. News commentators said he was one of the best public speakers in decades, but Collin rolled his eyes at all the platitudes. That Americans ate this guy up spoke to their intelligence—or rather, lack of it.
    He focused as Fallon Hughes briefly appeared on the screen with her mother and father. The wide-eyed girl glanced at the camera and stepped back awkwardly, as if the cameras surprised her.
    The young president-elect was now in front of a lectern, showing some of the easy charm that had won the election. With that smooth confidence you just knew he’d never had a moment’s doubt about his own ability. No sleepless nights wondering if he really was up for the job of being President of the United States. He seemed born for the role. He spoke extemporaneously, with calm certainty. Collin read the closed captioning.
    â€œIt is my hope and intention that the United States will continue to improve relations with Russia, but under my leadership, the United States will not be held hostage to any regime anywhere in the world.”
    The news anchor returned. “Despite assurances from President Ballard that the US was dedicated to diplomacy, tensions between the US and Russia continued to mount today