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reached into his pocket and extracted a watermelon-flavored Jolly Rancher to help remove the taste of the muzhuzhi from his mouth.
    After savoring his meal a few more bites, Mazniashvili finally turned the conversation to the matter at hand. “The election isn’t looking as good as we had hoped.”
    Yuri nodded crisply. “ Da . I’ve been watching the news. No chance of winning Louisiana, so we’re just left with West Virginia.”
    Mazniashvili grunted. “And we still have to hang on to New Mexico. Nine hundred votes isn’t a very large lead, but it should be much harder for Royal to gain that many in New Mexico than for Vincent to find three hundred in West Virginia.” The determined glint in his eyes bespoke the ruthlessness Yuri knew had made him one of the richest men in the world.
    “And what is the news from West Virginia?” Yuri inquired.
    Mazniashvili edged the plate away from him and wiped his mouth with a crimson linen napkin. “Too early to tell. Royal’s two biggest counties should be finished tomorrow morning, at which point Vincent says we will know how many votes we must find elsewhere.” He arched his right eyebrow and grinned.
    “Sounds like a good plan,” Yuri acknowledged. But long years spent in the hard service of the Russian Special Forces – the Spetsnaz – had taught him the need for contingency planning, the absence of which all too often meant the difference between life and a grisly, premature death. “But what if Vincent does not come through with the votes?”
    Mazniashvili’s smile disappeared. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said coldly, reclining slightly in his black leather chair. “But Jonathan Royal will roast in hell before he has a chance to deport me back to Georgia, as he has promised to do if elected.”

CHAPTER 9
    CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL BUILDING
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 10:15 A.M.
    Orange and baby blue flames crackled silently inside the gas fireplace, providing more ambience than heat. Luke Vincent sat in a forest green Queen Anne chair to the fireplace’s right, his face bathed in its glow.
    Sitting in a matching chair to Vincent’s left was a thick-necked bald man in a gray sweater holding a cell phone to his ear. His thick fingers looked like bratwursts, enveloping the phone in his paw. “Well, that’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” he said. His voice sounded like he had spent his entire life gargling gravel. “I’ll let Governor Vincent know.”
    “Let me know what, Dick?”
    Dick Bowen put the phone down. “The canvass in Kanawha County is over. Royal only picked up 24 votes there. Personally, I thought it’d be fifty.”
    Governor Vincent nodded in agreement. “Me, too. The whole Republican ticket ran strong there. The biggest county in the state … If he only gained 24 there, his overall number should be within striking distance.”
    Bowen grabbed a yellow legal pad from the end table situated between the two chairs and scribbled on it. His eyes darted across the page as he silently ran the figures. “He gained 30 in the Eastern Panhandle, which typically leans conservative, and another 19 over in Putnam County. But you and Melanie picked up more votes elsewhere, so his total lead is down to about 190.”
    Vincent stood up and strolled behind his chair. Resting his hands atop the chair’s back, he leaned forward and sighed. “I’d feel better if it was around a hundred. But we’ll have to make do. How are our boys down south doing?”
    “They’re really slugging it out down in Boone County. That Anderson guy from Saint Marys is watching things like a hawk and his lawyers are damn good ones. They’re making us work for every vote we get there.”
    Vincent’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of St. Marys. He couldn’t think of that town without thinking about Tabatha McCallen. He had not heard from her since their hotel rendezvous the previous week and that made him