Page 8 of Deceit

Mills twists his face. "Tell himno."

I suppress a scoff because you don't just tell Wade Lockwoodnoand expect him not to argue about it. Especially if he's really adamant about something.

Trust me, I’d know because he was one of my assignments before he became my friend.

Wade and I worked hard and tirelessly to get him into the Oval Office and become the next President of the United States.

He was elected first by B723. My commander, Ledger, carefully watched him for years. Studied his personality and policies while other politicians attempted to gain office.

I got him there. I worked with him in the big white house on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C, and the rest is history.

I still work for him here and there—he can’t live without me—and we still argue as much as we do since day one. When he gets an idea, it’s hard to crack through it.

And I'd say he's exceptionally adamant about saving his wife, Reagan, right now while making himself a moving target.

And it’s not just her.

She’s pregnant with their second child.

"Wade," I croon as softly as I can through every anxiety emotion known to man. "Please don't until I know what we're dealing with. Trust me, I promise I won't let anything happen to Reagan."

"I do, but—"

"The less talking, the better." Mills and I approach the end of the hall and the top of the stairs. "Stand by."

Mills crouches down to look downstairs. "Two guys, AK-47s."

"Where's Marty?" My heart is beating so hard in my chest that I think it's going to break a rib. I can hear the mumbling of male voices but nothing more unless we get closer.

"I think in front of them."

"Can we get down without them seeing us?"

"Ask Lockwood if these stairs squeak." I open my mouth, but he already answers me.

"No, you shouldn't have a problem."

I nod for Mills, giving him the green light, and he returns it, rising to his full height before holding up a hand.

"How good is your long shot, Em?"

"Fine."

"We're not getting far down these stairs. We'll need to pick them off."

"Wade, do you have a clear shot?"

"Emmy... it's fucking Eli Montgomery."

My whole body numbs as I grip the railing and force myself to keep up with Mills.

This is all my fault.

About two weeks ago, I thought I had helped solve the mystery of who was behind Reagan's attempted murder. The evidence was black and white—Mayor Holden Montgomery was dead, shanked sixty-two times in prison in the chest, back, and legs.

A sentence served up by the man on the other side of the phone.

Long story short, Wade pulled the plug and got the Feds on his ass. Holden owed Wade money. He also stole funds from the city to gamble, buy prostitutes, the whole nine. I believe there were more charges brought against him, but I don't remember.

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