“But not anymore?” Catherine said, the words coming out slow and measured.

  Travis narrowed his eyes. It felt like she’d led him right into a trap, he’d fallen for it, and it had sprung. “No. How many times do I have to tell you? I got sucked into the plot to kill President Mosley and the bombing in New Orleans. It was nothing more. I’m not on the payroll.”

  “So you aren’t working on the side with the CIA or any of the other American agencies, or a foreign one, for that matter?”

  Travis balled his hands into fists and turned around, facing Catherine, “No,” he growled. “Now can we get off this topic?”

  “Well, we only want to be sure…”

  Catherine got up from her seat at the table and closed the food that was left over from dinner, not saying anything else. The dishes were done, but the food still needed to be put away. As she walked into the kitchen, Travis looked back outside. Travis was furious, furious at himself for allowing Catherine to beat him, furious at the situation, and furious that Elena’s name had even come into the conversation. Elena had been loyal. Or at least he thought she had. The fact that Catherine and Archie were causing him to question every one of his relationships gave him pause. It felt like acid eating away at the edges of his soul, slowly dissolving the things he knew and morphing them into a new world where everything was unfamiliar.

  After Catherine put the food away, she disappeared into the bedroom for a second, only to return wearing a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt. She’d pulled her hair back in a clip behind her head and washed the carefully applied makeup off her face. Where she had gotten the clothes, Travis wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like she had brought in any luggage with her. Another mystery. In her arms, she carried two blankets and two pillows. She set them down on the couch next to Travis, who had started watching another soccer game. “There’s only one bedroom here. I thought perhaps…”

  Travis nodded, “Yeah, I’m okay on the couch. No problem.”

  “Excellent. I have some reading to do. I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night's sleep.”

  Travis didn’t look back as she walked away. He heard the door to the bedroom click closed behind her. He pulled his legs up onto the couch, fishing around in the bag Dr. Walsh had given him for the prescription of antibiotics. He popped one in his mouth and swallowed it dry, following it with a swig of water from the bottle Catherine had given him during dinner. He stared at the television, the volume on low, the drone of the announcers still yelling in the background no match for the churning of the thoughts in his head.

  Archie and Catherine had come at him pretty hard, but part of Travis wondered if they were right.

  Did he know who was after him and just didn’t realize it? Could the killer be that close?

  22

  “He’s where?” Tom Stewart thundered.

  The phone call had come in at seven minutes past four o’clock in the morning Eastern time. Tom slipped out of bed, hoping he hadn’t woken Shelly, who was fast asleep on the other edge of the mattress.

  “London, sir,” Baker, the man Tom had charged with tracking Travis, said.

  “London? What on God’s green earth is Travis Bishop doing in London?”

  “No idea, sir. I know you put out on the wire you were looking for his location. We tracked him coming in on a flight yesterday, noon our time, which would have been five o’clock…”

  “I’m aware of the time change, you moron!” Tom yelled. In a way, he felt sorry for Agent Baker. It wasn’t his fault he was on the other end of the line. After Tom had heard about the second failed attempt on Travis’s life, the three mercenaries he’d hired to take out Travis on a back road on his way back to his little, podunk ranch in the middle of somewhere in no-name Texas, Tom had lost his cool. He put out a location request to all of the CIA offices over the globe. It was a clear misuse of CIA resources, but at this point, he didn’t care. Someone had to know where Travis had disappeared off to and he had a desperate need to find out.

  Unfortunately for Agent Baker, he’d been the one who’d found Travis.

  “I’m sorry sir. It’s part of our normal protocol to walk through time changes for the people we work with. As I said, Agent Bishop —”

  “He's no longer an agent! Why can’t anyone get that right?”

  Baker stammered, “Yes, sir. Of course. After Mr. Bishop arrived at Heathrow, he cleared customs…”

  Tom waited for a moment, seeing if the young man was going to finish his sentence. Tom felt the heat rise to his cheeks, “And then what? You said he cleared customs, and then…?”

  “No idea, sir. He completely disappeared after that.”

  “I thought the British had the corner on the market in street surveillance? Are you telling me that you lost him coming out of the airport and you haven’t been able to locate him since?”

  “That’s partially true, sir.”

  Tom balled his fists, his knuckles turning white. “What part is true?” he hissed. Tom was doing everything he could to hold onto his temper. He was beginning to be convinced he was surrounded by idiots. It used to be he’d ask an agent for an answer and he’d get one. Now, there was a lot of vacillating and talking around the subject. It was as if all the political correctness had filtered down into everyone's speech. No one could give a straight answer anymore.

  “About their surveillance, sir. It is true, that the British government has one of the most sophisticated street surveillance systems in the world. Of course, since I’m with the CIA, as you know, I don’t have access to that. We had a person stationed out front just in case Mr. Bishop arrived in London. We saw him at baggage, but somehow he got lost in the crowd. It’s a very busy tourist time of the year here in London. June is typically the peak of the…”

  Tom interrupted him again. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Do you think I care about the peak of the tourist season? Find him,” Tom said, cutting off the call. He threw his cell phone, the plastic thudding against the wall before hitting the floor. If he’d hoped not to wake Shelly, it might be too late. He was sure the clatter would have accomplished exactly what he was trying to avoid.

  Exactly thirty seconds later, Shelley came shuffling into the kitchen, her eyes puffy and her skin blotchy, a soft green robe wrapped tightly around her body. She limped over to where Tom’s phone had fallen on the ground, picked it up, and set it next to him. “A lot of drama for four o’clock in the morning, don’t you think?”

  “You have no idea,” Tom said, leaning his face into his hands as he rested his elbows on top of the cold marble of the kitchen island.

  Shelley put her hand on his back, “Whatever it is, why don’t you come back to bed and try to get some more sleep? The problem will solve itself in the morning.” The way she said it made Tom remember the Shelley he’d married, the sweet young woman who’d do anything for him.

  He shot up to a standing position, “In the morning? It is morning, Shelley.”

  Shelley's eyes widened, “Don’t you start my day like this, Tom. I don’t know what your problem is, but —”

  “It’s Travis Bishop.”

  Her eyes narrowed, “What about him?”

  “The second attempt failed.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  Tom started to pace, his arms folded across his chest, his chin jutting out and his eyes bulging, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hear about it. You’ve been pestering me about this constantly. I have a job to do, one that’s a lot bigger than Travis Bishop.” As the words came out of his mouth, Tom glanced at her. He saw her swallow, as though she was ignoring his jab at her, pushing the torrent of caustic words that were forming back down into her stomach. For that, he was grateful. He was on edge in a way he’d never been before.

  “Where is he now?” Shelley asked quietly.

  “London.”

  “What’s he doing in London?”

  “I have no idea.”

  23

  Sleep didn’t come back to Tom, even though his body desperately wanted it. After hearing the news that Travis Bishop had escaped to London and nearly having a blowup with Shelley in the middle of the night, Tom went back to the bedroom, gathered his running clothes, and went back downstairs, using the guest bathroom to change. Shelley would be angry that he’d messed up a perfectly clean bathroom to get ready, but, in his defense, it was better than getting into a long, drawn-out argument with her before the sun ever came up.

  He shrugged, if they had argued before the day ever started, it wouldn’t be the first time. Their marriage had been pockmarked like the surface of the moon with arguments and disagreements, most of them having nothing to do with their relationship itself, nearly all of them having to do when their career interests competed and didn’t align.

  Outside, the early morning air was nearly still. Tom slipped in a pair of earbuds and started his running playlist as he did a few stretches at the end of the driveway, the electric guitar from a Van Halen riff thrumming in his ears. He glanced back at their house, a white-sided colonial with black shutters barely visible in the night, except for a few lights that were placed in the landscaping around the outside of the house, casting a golden glow on the landscaping. He waved to the car that was positioned at the top of his driveway. With his position in the CIA and Shelley’s as a Senator, they had a security detail that sat on the house nearly constantly. They weren’t the only ones in their development who did, Tom thought, starting up a slow jog. Their neighbors were a range of corporate executives and high-level government workers, all of whom were well-versed in private security, especially the Supreme Court Justice that lived down the street, who had recently had their address broadcasted on the internet, doxed, it was called. That house now hosted a nearly constant contingent of protestors on the other side of the street. Tom gave the agent in the car another wave as he trotted by.

  Tom’s body was far more cranky and sore than he expected it to be that early in the morning. Whether it was the lack of a full night's sleep, waking up to bad news, or perhaps even the whole Travis Bishop business hanging over his head, he didn’t know. All he knew at that moment was it felt like every muscle, tendon, and ligament in his body had been ratcheted down against the bones, unwilling, or unable to function in the way it should have. Not that he was expecting to be as flexible as Gumby, especially not at his age, but the level of tension in his body wasn’t something he was used to.

  After the first mile or so, his body started to loosen up, his breath was still heavy, but only at predictable intervals. Tom felt the thunder clouds in his head dissipate. His mood was still gloomy, that was for sure, but gloom was much more tolerable than fury.

  Turning the corner and heading down Station Street into the center of town, Tom glanced around. The majority of the businesses he passed on the main drag through the suburban neighborhood of Conklin, Virginia where he and Shelley lived, just outside of Washington, DC, were mostly closed. That was normal, given his early morning runs. They just weren’t usually this early.

  There were long shadows still being cast by the overhead streetlights in the darkness, the sky only beginning to lighten slightly as though someone had turned the dimmer switch up only enough to move the sky from pitch black to charcoal gray. Every now and again, the wash of headlights hit the sidewalk in front of Tom, someone headed to a destination earlier than most people ever dreamed of getting up, or going for a run, for that matter. For a moment, he wondered where they were going. Home after an overnight shift at the local hospital? Heading into the local police department for an early morning shift? Returning from vacation, just off a red-eye flight? The answers were endless. Normally, Tom enjoyed playing head games with himself while he ran, but not today. Tom glanced over his shoulder, crossing the street, heading into the park on the other side of Station Street, feeling the cool damp air pass over his calves and ankles, gently touching the sweat on his face and cooling him as he ran.

  As his stride smoothed out, his thoughts did too. He began to realize he was glad he hadn’t immediately called London. He could have. Four o’clock in the morning in Washington was nine o’clock in the morning in London. Certainly by then, his counterpart at MI6, Archie Elliott, would be in the office, or at least reachable. And nine a.m. was certainly not an ungodly hour to be making a phone call, unlike four o’clock in the morning.

  Tom passed the park entrance, making his way through the parking lot. He lengthened his strides, picking up his pace. He was supposed to be training for his next half marathon, but no part of him was interested in his mile time that morning. He needed the run like he needed air. He needed space to breathe, to clear his head, to decide what to do next.

  The park was even more abandoned than Station Street. Ahead of him, he saw a dark shadow scuttle off into the trees. He narrowed his eyes as he ran past. Probably a raccoon. He slowed slightly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The arching branches made it even more difficult to see. Tom realized he probably should have grabbed his headlamp before he left, but he was so preoccupied thinking about Travis Bishop he didn’t. He chastised himself, making a mental note to get the lamp charged and stowed with his running gear.

  Tom picked his way carefully along the trail finally emerging at the back of the loop, returning to the parking lot. He nearly tripped on a curb as he jumped over it and caught himself before he fell, the jostling sending pain through his body. He grimaced and grunted, pushing his body forward again, ignoring the shrieking of his nerves. “No excuses, Tom,” he hissed to himself as he straightened out and picked up his pace. “No excuses.”

  And that included dealing with Travis Bishop.

  By the time Tom got back to Station Street, darting between two cars that still had their headlights on, the glow in the sky had brightened enough that Tom knew if he took out his earbuds he would hear the call of birds chirping from the park across the street. He didn’t take them out though, content to hear the thrum of the music in his earbuds urging him on. He felt the fabric of his shirt stick to his back. It was drenched with sweat as he swung his arms more forcefully. He was a strong finisher, whether it was on his run or in his life. Whatever problem he had, he’d finish it.

  Exactly a half mile from his house, Tom broke down to a walk. The last mile had been brutal. He’d finished at nearly a sprint for the last eight minutes, the air catching in his throat, burning and tightening it to the point when every breath sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. He walked with his hands interlaced on the top of his head, allowing his rib cage to expand and suck in all the oxygen it could handle. His soaked shirt was stuck to his back even in the cold summer morning air. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks as the blood from the run redistributed itself over his skin.

  Instead of walking right up his driveway, Tom walked past, dropping his arms to his sides, and swinging them loosely. He needed another second to cool down, both physically and mentally. That two attempts on Travis’s life had failed was unacceptable. The fact that he’d arranged the attacks and they hadn’t worked out the way he wanted was even worse. He would have fired one of his agents for less. But he couldn’t exactly fire himself, now could he?

  But that didn’t eliminate the problem of Travis. He needed to be dealt with. And soon.

  24

  By the time Tom walked back into the house, Shelley was up, working in the first-floor office they sometimes shared when they got along well enough. Whether it was because she had pressing Senate business or she was like him, and simply couldn’t get back to sleep again, he had no idea. He only glanced at her as he walked by, taking the steps upstairs into his long, thin legs still warm from his run. He said nothing.

  Twenty minutes later, Tom was back downstairs in the kitchen. It was still early. Even with his run, his shower, and the early morning dustup with Shelley, it was only six thirty in the morning. But he was dressed and ready for work, wearing a pair of pressed gray slacks, brown-toed oxfords, a matching brown belt, starched white shirt, and maroon tie. The matching suit coat to his pants was carefully shouldered over one of the chairs at the kitchen island. He packed his briefcase, grabbing a protein bar from the cabinet nearby and taking a couple of bites of it before tossing the rest of it in the trash, frowning. Why couldn’t they make bars that didn’t taste like chalk? He shook his head and was walking out the back door when he heard Shelley call behind him, “Leaving already?”

  He spun around, surprised by her voice. He expected to walk out the door that morning without any other interaction with her, ignoring the spat they’d had a couple of hours earlier. He nodded, “Yes. I have some things I need to take care of.”

  Shelley glared at him. She was still wearing the same robe she’d been in before he’d gone for his run. “Yes, you do. See that things get taken care of, Tom. We can’t afford any problems.”

  Her words felt like a punch in the gut. She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know already. It was just like her to pour salt in the wound. He licked his lips, pushing the urge to fight back away, but it was his turn to swallow and swallow hard. He turned back towards the door and disappeared outside without saying anything else.

  Stopping in the driveway for a second, he considered whether to ask the officer sitting in front of the house to give him a ride to the office, but he changed his mind, slipping into the sleek black BMW sedan he’d purchased two months before. As he started up, he settled himself on the tan, custom leather seats. Part of him wanted to smile. There weren’t many of his colleagues who could afford a luxury vehicle like the one he had or the vacation he and Shelley were planning for early that coming fall — an anniversary trip that would take them to Greece, Italy, and Spain on a private tour, just the two of them to see the most romantic spots the Mediterranean had to offer, if their marriage lasted that long…