He kept the gun on her. “Is there any chance you’re going to tell me how to save her?”
“Perhaps, Cobra. As I see it, we are in a position to make an exchange here.”
“Yeah? What do you want?”
“Drop the gun and let me go. I’ll shout it to you as I run away.”
“You think I’m falling for that?” he asked, unmoved. “You’d say anything to get out of this.”
“A fair point. But do you think you have a choice in the matter?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I shoot you here and now.”
“You are going to gamble with the senator’s life?” she asked. “Perhaps I am lying. You know that I am perfectly capable of it. That if it were not true, I would make it up. But the cost of calling my bluff is too great.”
He stood there, the gun pointed at her chest, sweat dripping down his forehead from the heat of the stadium lights. The cheering of the crowd began to die down, and he heard McKay’s voice reverberate throughout the stadium, “Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Tick-tock, Cobra. In a minute or two, the senator will be a corpse unless I tell you how to save her. Make your choice. What does Cobra care about more? His duty or a personal score?”
His hand twitched on his weapon.
“Move, slowly. Leave the bag, and keep your hands where I can see them,” he said.
She stood from her crouch. Morgan was standing between her and the ladder down to the stadium roof, and she had to get past him. She took her time walking toward him, never breaking eye contact.
“Thank you,” the senator said again. Then she began, solemnly, “We are living in a time of deep moral crisis in our government. A time when corruption has become so entrenched that we are no longer surprised by each new scandal.”
As Natasha squeezed past Morgan, brushing up against his body, she puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. He jabbed the barrel of the gun against her side.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Such impatience.”
She descended the ladder, lingering just a fraction too long on each step.
“Our leaders have betrayed our trust, forsaking their oath of office for power and petty personal gain.” McKay’s voice was clear and passionate.
Natasha looked up at him, her eyes at the level of his feet.
“Well?” he demanded.
“The gun, Cobra. Toss it.”
Grimacing, he released the clip, which fell with a clang at his feet, then tossed the gun onto the stadium roof near where she stood.
“And for the sake of Beltway cronyism, this treachery”—McKay’s voice rang out over the speakers—“and it is treachery, folks, a betrayal of the trust of the American people—goes unchallenged and unreported.”
“That was my end of the bargain,” said Morgan. “Now let’s hear yours.”
“On second thought,” said Natasha, with a superior smile, “I think I’ll let you figure it out on your own. Let’s just say I left a little present for her. Now we find out whether you can still think on your feet, Cobra.”
She turned around and ran from him, toward the outer edge of the roof. He tensed, ready to go after her, but stopped midstride. Had she lied? If not, what was Plan A?
“Seeing all of you here tonight, I know that I am not the only one who thinks this cannot go on,” said McKay.
“Cougar, Cougar, come in,” said Morgan.
“I’m here, Cobra. What’s happening?”
“Cougar, she’s making a run for it. I need you to go after her. Keep as close to her as you can!”
“Got it,” said Conley.
“Lowry, did you catch that?” said Morgan.
“I got the gist. Do you believe her?”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” he said.
“What do you figure it is, a second shooter?” asked Lowry.
“No,” said Morgan. “That’s not her style. She likes to take care of things herself. She wouldn’t trust someone else with this.”
“Could be a bomb in the podium,” said Lowry. “Did she have a detonator on her?”
Morgan looked down to where Natasha had left her pack.
“But what do we do about it?” asked McKay.
The pack was mostly empty. The rifle, he figured, would have taken up most of the space, and apart from that there were some tools and some folded-up straps of some kind, like narrow seat belts. But as he rummaged, his hand found a small cylindrical object, bright orange with a white cap.
“No. But there is something here. A pill container. The label says it’s . . . ” He strained to read the tiny print, “Hydrosol . . . Hydroxocobalamin.”
“Hydroxo . . . cobalamin . . .” he heard Lowry murmuring and typing. “Apparently that’s another name for vitamin B12a. But I don’t know why that would be . . .”