ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Chapter 3
SENATOR WILLSON

“Harley,” Willson shouted, even though Quinn was only a few feet away.

The valet hung the Senator’s navy suit and picked off errant pieces of lint.

“Sir,” Quinn hissed from inside the closet. “I’d appreciate a little respect.”

“You’re a valet, Harley,” Senator Willson muttered. “And I don’t feel particularly nice today. Hagopian’s crawling up my ass, and I’ve got a—oh, never mind. What the hell are you doing?”

Harley Quinn was furious. “I’ve been your trusted valet for nearly twenty years, and I won’t tolerate your nasty mouth this morning.”

“Shut up. Margreth will hear you,” Willson snapped.

“Do you think she doesn’t know about your plots and power plays? Oh, I know. A signed NDA is in your safe. I’m trembling in my shoes. She’s nobody’s fool, Senator. In fact, she’s been getting a little too inquisitive lately. She could be dangerous!”

“Nonsense. We stay civil. After all, we’re good stock. Well-bred people don’t air their dirty laundry.”

The Senator searched through his dresser, sure he had left some paperwork under his socks.

“Would you like some help?” Quinn found a folder under the nightstand and handed it over. “What would you ever do without me?”

The secure phone rang, ending the small talk. There were three phones on this line: one two feet away on the nightstand, another in the Senator’s private office downstairs, and a third phone rang in the distance, unseen by anyone in the Willson household.

He grabbed the receiver. Downstairs, Margreth simultaneously picked up the hidden phone in the office. Willson flipped through his paperwork, also flashing it in front of a hidden camera that sent a satellite signal directly to Sumatra in Indonesia. Jah Lo was grateful for the change of pace.

“Yes? What is it?” The Senator didn’t like talking to anyone before his latte.

“Will! Barb Hagopian here,” she snapped. “We’ve got a crisis brewing. There’s a meeting of Omega’s Founders at Sanctuary this afternoon.”

“It’s not my fault the program’s crashing.”

“Of course it’s your fault! It isn’t mine. Look at that despicable Underhill creature.”

“Shit.”

“That’s right. You gave him a clone for his personal pleasure, and he’s destroyed the unit. You must be out of your mind, Willson. If this blows the top off the Omega Consensus before we can dismantle the program, I’m going to have your head on a pike.”

“I get your point. I, however, am unavailable. I’ll send my valet. There is nobody else I trust.”

“That’s not acceptable.”

“Well, too damn bad. I’ve got hearings today and I’m the goddamn chairman. How would that look to my constituents and the media?” Willson paced the room.

“Would your constituents appreciate the nature of your collaboration with Richard Underhill?”

Harley Quinn eavesdropped on the conversation; Hagopian was so loud he might as well be in the senator’s left ear. Downstairs, Margreth Willson was scribbling notes.

Jah Lo knew everything; he started Hagopian’s terror campaign with just one call to Sanctuary.

“If that’s your best threat, it won’t work,” Will spat into the phone. “You can’t blow my cover without ending up with crap on your shoes. I’m sending Quinn,” Willson repeated and slammed the phone down.

Quinn skillfully folded a shirt and muttered.

“What?” Willson demanded.

“I’m just a valet, remember?”

“Can it, Harley. I’m not in the mood,” Wilson moved away. “This isn’t my fault. Dammit, it is my fault. I encouraged Underhill, and now he’s more than a hemorrhoid—he’s a goddamned case of terminal cancer.”

Go to Sanctuary and soothe that bitch’s ruffled feathers. I’ll give you a nice bonus. After that, I’ll come up with a plan to erase Underhill from our vocabulary.

“I hate Sanctuary. The place gives me the creeps. Full of those ungodly redheaded clone creatures,” Harley frowned. “And everyone’s so damned serious.”

“Maybe I should send you to the unemployment line,” the Senator snapped. “How’d you like them apples? The top’s blowing on Omega and Hagopian is blaming yours truly. I’ve got a lot to lose.”

“I came with nothing, remember?” Quinn neatly stacked shirts. “It’s that under-the-table bonus I’m looking forward to. You bought my silence, but I’m hesitant to get involved in these government schemes.”

On the other side of the world, a group of soldiers gathered around Jah Lo’s monitor as he watched Senator Willson through a small hole in the Senator’s bedroom wall.

“I can’t stomach the Midwest,” Harley feigned an air of haughtiness. “I’m not flying coach. I always get stuck next to an overdressed show girl or a 90-year-old geezer who wants to tell me their life story. I don’t know what’s worse, the smell of trout mixed with a rank gym shower or an old man who’s sprung a leak in his trousers.”

“You can’t fly Toronado. We can’t risk them discovering my non-credentialed valet going to Sanctuary. And please, try to be discreet, will you?

“You have the Toronado Steel corporate jet available, and I can’t use it? That sucks!” Harley’s black hair was combed straight back like Rudy Valentino’s. “Why not?”

“You better hope they don’t figure this out,” Willson said, a hint of danger in his voice. “It could cost me more than my career. Like my life, Harley. And yours.”

“That sounds a bit dangerous for my liking,” Quinn felt a shiver run down his spine. “I’m just a country boy from South Texas.”

“I thought you said you were from Arkansas.” Willson looked at his aide with suspicion.

“I was just joking,” the valet said. “Of course I was born in Arkansas. But I went to camp in Texas once.”

“Don’t mess with me,” the Senator said, not amused. “Call me when you arrive in Michigan. Just act like you understand what’s going on.”

A small worry nagged at Harley Quinn’s mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint the reason. All these government bigshots were involved in secretive nonsense.

Quinn headed to his comfortable rooms upstairs. Gloria, the maid, was on her tiptoes in the hall, dusting a portrait. Her uniform had hiked up, revealing flawless tan thighs. He cleared his throat; she turned to face him.

“I’m going out of town for a little while.”

“I don’t care if you’re going to the moon,” Gloria said, adjusting her dress. Harley was her least favorite person in the house and she never encouraged him.

“Just an errand for the boss, not that it’s any of your business,” Harley snapped. “I’ll be packing if anyone’s looking for me.”

“Nobody is looking for you, Harley. You aren’t important enough to be seen.” Before he could react, she’d stalked off.

Downstairs, in the Senator’s private office, Margreth Willson snooped around. She replaced the phone in its hiding spot, and no one was the wiser. Except a dark-skinned man in Indonesia, but she couldn’t know that.

Sanctuary. She frowned. It meant nothing to her. She replaced the folders that hid the intriguing phone-in-a-drawer setup.

As she examined the contents of dear William’s desk, the phone rang again. This time, she ignored it and kept rummaging through the memos and directives in the top drawer.

At the very back was an envelope bearing a Top-Secret seal. It had already been broken. Margreth pressed the packet against her modest bosom and edged toward the door. She was nervous but determined. She peered into the hallway, searching for an escape route.

“And when the Senator says he wants it skinny, use skim milk.” It was Harley shouting at Gloria.

She anxiously waited for silence. If William caught her here, their truce would be broken. Margreth eased the heavy door open. The well-oiled hinges moved silently. She breathed a sigh of relief after reaching the back stairs. Once in the safety of her bedroom, she tore open the envelope and read quickly. Stunned by the contents, she reread the documents carefully, word for word.

I’m hyperventilating; that’s what I’m doing. Too much carbon dioxide—too much oxygen. What the hell—breathe into a bag. Slow down now, breathe into anything!

She grabbed her lingerie bag and tossed the soiled contents onto the rug. Then she gathered herself and took a deep, slow breath until her pulse stabilized. She reached for her private phone and dialed the White House.

“Victoria, it’s me… Margreth. Listen, this is important. I need to talk to you… privately.”

“I can’t talk right now. How about meeting around, say, 8:30?”

“Great,” Margreth sighed in relief. “I’ll meet you at the spa.”

“Go to the Tropicana Room. I’ll tell security to let you through.” The First Lady of the United States didn’t give Margreth a chance to reply before she hung up.

Margreth, having finished the first step of her plan, opened her nightstand. She picked up one of the many pill bottles and popped a shiny blue tablet into her mouth. Even though she knew it hadn’t dissolved yet, her tension eased.

Ten minutes later, Margreth Willson entered the dining room. She appeared calm and composed, at least outwardly.

“Morning,” she said, gliding past her husband. The Washington Post hid his face.

“Umph,” came from behind the paper.

It was just another day at the Willsons’ elegant home. Two people linked by secrets and lies. Danger hovered nearby, but the orange juice was freshly squeezed and the bagels were soft, so neither one noticed that their carefully built world was a train wreck in the making.

---

Enter your email to subscribe and receive notifications when new chapters are released. Be sure to check your email after to confirm.