Inside Threat (16 page)

“Stand down,” Little commanded her. “Stand down!”

Khadi quickly faded into the corner of her seat.

Now that Little was between them, Andrews regained his courage. “Who do you think you are coming at me, little girl? You're nothing but—”

Little spun around at him. “And you need to let it go!”

“Let it go?” Andrews repeated incredulously. “She just tried to assault me!”

“Let it go!”

“Forget that! I want you to arrest her!”

“Let . . . it . . . go!”

“And who do you think
you
are? Apparently, you've forgotten that I'm a United States senator, and you . . . you're just a glorified rent-a-cop!”

Khadi could see the back of Little's neck redden. “I may be a rent-a-cop, but I'm also the guy who knows all the juicy little secrets that the press and your wife would love to hear.”

“That's blackmail,” cried Bryson.

In one sweeping motion, Little snatched Bryson's prized leather portfolio with one hand while the other pulled a combat knife from under his pant leg. The blade sliced, and the folder was halved down the spine. Little sheathed his knife, neatly stacked the two pieces of the ruined portfolio, and handed them back to Bryson.

“Blackmail's an ugly word, sir,” Little said to Bryson, who rapidly nodded his agreement.

Turning to Andrews, he said, “Now, please, Senator. I'm asking you to let this go. The situation got out of hand. You pushed too far. Khadi reacted. Let it go.”

Khadi could see the rage in Andrews's face. But then it softened. Always the politician, Andrews had the ability to turn emotions on and off like a light switch.

“Of course. You're right, Little. Things just got out of hand. I'm sure Khadi will accept my apology, as will you. In fact—” he gave Khadi his syrupy, Vote for Andrews smile—“just to make it up to you, why don't you take tomorrow off. Relax. Get a manicure. See a matinee. Just make sure you're here early for the memorial service on Thursday morning.”

Khadi didn't respond—didn't even look at him. In fact, she barely even heard him. Instead, her mind was filled with thoughts of CTD and just what it would take to convince Scott to let her back in.

Tuesday, September 13, 3:45 p.m. EDT

Leesburg, Virginia

The club arced down and connected with the ball.
Keep your head down. Follow through.
No matter how much Riley had played the game, no matter how low he could bring his handicap, the swinging of a golf club never came naturally to him. Thus, at every shot, whether using wood, iron, or putter, he found himself always repeating the same mantra.
Keep your head down. Follow through.

As his club came to a rest above his left shoulder, he looked up and watched his ball fly straight down the fairway. After a few seconds it dropped, bounced, and rolled to a stop on the edge of the low rough, about seven feet behind Skeeter's ball.

Picking up his tee, he noticed that Skeeter was already walking back to the cart.

“What? No ‘Good shot'?”

Skeeter grunted. “Little short.”

Riley laughed. The two friends had remarkably similar games. Typically they matched each other shot for shot—the winner often decided by one lucky chip or one chunked putt.

As reward for his victory in the last round they had played at the TPC at Avenel, Skeeter got in behind the wheel of the cart. Riley slid his driver back into his bag, slipped a Colorado Mustangs club cover over it, and dropped in next to him. Skeeter popped the brake, and the cart accelerated. Riley lifted his hat off and enjoyed the feel of the air rushing across his sweating face. Even though the temperature was only 84 degrees in Leesburg, Virginia, the humidity level matched the number.

He took a long pull from his Diet Coke, then leaned back and enjoyed the view. The course they were on today, Raspberry Falls Golf & Hunt Club, was set amid lush green rolling hills. A gentle breeze rustled the countless trees, and the singing of birds carried across the swaths of open spaces that had been carved out of the forest. And if that wasn't enough beauty, when you got to some of the higher tee boxes, the views of the many ridges of Catoctin Mountain were just this side of spectacular.

The course itself was also amazing. Gary Player had designed it in a Scottish links motif—uneven fairways that took a little getting used to and deep pot bunkers that must be avoided at any cost. The little twists and tricks of the course ensured frustration for the first-timer. And it usually took until round three or four before a player could really start getting a feel for its personality.

Unfortunately, most nonmembers never made it to rounds three or four. For ordinary, off-the-street schmoes, being able to schedule a round—especially with a two-person party like Riley and Skeeter's—was extremely difficult and ridiculously expensive. Riley, however, was no ordinary nonmember, no off-the-street schmoe. His reputation as Captain America, Savior of the Nation, Hero to All Who Love Freedom and Justice, smoothed over the first hurdle of booking a tee time, and the ridiculous amount of money paid to him to run after men who were carrying a leather prolate spheroid took care of the second.

Heroship does have its privileges,
he thought as they pulled up near their balls. Both rested on the left edge of the fairway, fear of the long bunker off the right side having caused Riley and Skeeter to overcompensate their shots.

Before they jumped out, Riley pulled the scorecard. “Okay, looks like the green is surrounded by these nasty pot bunkers. But the bunker to look out for is just to the right of the green. It's so big they gave it a name.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Myrtle Beach.”

“Because . . . ?”

“It's as big as Myrtle Beach.”

“Makes sense.”

Riley figured he had about 140 yards to the green, so he pulled out his seven iron, lined up his shot, and swung.
Keep your head down. Follow through.

When he finally looked up, he saw his ball veering slightly to the right. It landed with a puff of sand.

“Life's a beach,” Skeeter said as he walked toward his ball.

“Then you die,” Riley finished for him.

As he watched his faithful companion line up his shot, he knew it was time for them to have the talk. They were on hole sixteen, and Riley had been trying to find a way to broach the conversation since the first tee.

How do you tell a guy it's time for him to move on?
For the past few years, Skeeter had provided Riley an invaluable service. He had been the eyes in the back of Riley's head, the extra gun when things got messy. He was Riley's protector, his guardian, his confidant, his friend.

Now, however, it seemed like the need for a full-time bodyguard had passed. The threats against Riley had diminished to the point that he was only bothered by a couple cranks a month—and even those could usually be dealt with by just ignoring them.

When it came down to it, he felt that by letting Skeeter stay with him, he was holding him back. The big man had way too much to offer, way too many skills that could be put into use saving the country or even saving someone else, somebody more important, who was in real danger.

But Skeeter had made a pledge to him. He had sworn that he would watch over Riley—that he would give his life for him if necessary.

He'll never back off from his commitment. That's simply not who he is. The only way it might possibly work is if I release him from it.

As Riley watched Skeeter send his ball into the same bunker, a picture flashed in his mind. He remembered a scene that had been repeated in several movies from when he was young. A boy had a dog that he had found. That dog became his constant companion. He protected him and loved him. But then came the tragic day when, for some reason, the boy would have to send the dog away. He would tell the dog to go; then he'd try to chase him away. Finally, with tears streaming down his face, he'd throw rocks at the dog until the animal finally slunk away with a look of heartbroken bewilderment on its canine face.

Back in the cart, he looked at the massive man who sat next to him.
Throwing rocks at this guy would be a good way to get my butt kicked from here to next week.

They pulled up near the green and got out their sand wedges and putters. They walked over to Myrtle Beach and grinned at each other.

“Pretty nasty,” Riley said.

“Mmmm-boy,” Skeet answered with a nod.

Riley stood in the sand and tried to clear his mind of everything but the shot. He took a couple of practice swings over his ball, then lofted it high. Sand sprayed in an arc up the side of the bunker. The ball bounced on the green, rolled toward the cup, and stopped four feet shy.

“Not bad, beach boy,” Skeeter said as he moved toward his ball.

Riley didn't reply, his beautiful shot going right by him. Instead, he was too busy role-playing the conversation in his head. He quickly replayed all the answers he had come up with to Skeeter's inevitable objections. He ran through how he would defuse his friend's rising anger.

Remember, he's going to be hurt. Don't take to heart the things he's going to say. He'll be speaking from emotion—from his heart and not his head. Don't let yourself get caught up defending yourself. And don't back down from your decision.

Skeeter took a swing, sending his ball arcing onto the green. Its path left him about ten inches short of Riley's ball.

Riley picked up the rake and started smoothing the sand.
Now! Do it now! Do it because the heartbreak has to come sooner or later, and you can't keep putting it off! Do it because this is sounding more and more like a breakup with a girlfriend, and it's starting to get a little creepy!

“Hey, Skeet,” Riley called out, saying a little prayer in the back of his mind. “Got something I want to talk to you about.”

“Shoot,” Skeeter replied, laying his wedge on the edge of the green and carrying a putter to his ball.

Riley dropped the rake and walked up to the green. Standing back out of club reach, he said, “I'm not sure how to tell you this, and I hope you don't take anything that I'm about to say wrong. You have been the best friend-slash-bodyguard I could have ever hoped for. You have saved my life on multiple occasions. You have always been there for me. You are truly one of the most amazing guys I know. But . . .”

He paused as he tried to figure out just the right words to say. Part of the awkwardness of the moment came from the fact that he was talking to Skeeter's back. The rest of the man was standing over his ball lining up his putt.

“But . . . I'm sorry, man, but I just think it's time you moved on to something better for your life.”

“I agree,” Skeeter said. His putter smoothly rocked forward, tapping the ball with just enough force for it to roll five feet and drop into the cup. “Par for me.”

Riley stood, leaning forward on his putter, his mouth hanging open.

Skeeter smiled. “Come on, it wasn't that good of a putt.”

“You agree? Just like that?”

“You'd rather I didn't agree?”

Riley was fully flustered. He'd been prepared for rage, for hurt, for argument. The one thing he had never planned on was agreement.

“No, it's just that . . . I mean, I figured you'd . . . You agree?”

“Pach, I swore to you that I'd watch out for you as long as you needed me. Best I can see, you don't need me so much anymore. Honestly, I'm getting a little restless living this cushy life. It ain't me. I just didn't want to go until you were ready for me to go.”

Shaking his head, Riley moved toward his ball. He started lining up his putt, then turned back toward Skeeter.

“Just like that? I mean, I've got a whole speech planned for you—all the reasons why you've got to get out there and live your life.”

Riley watched Skeeter's slightly smirking face a moment longer, then faced his putt. But before he swung, he spun around again.

“You know what you're going to do instead?”

“Scott's given me a standing invitation. Figured I might jump in with him.”

“So, you've got this all planned out?”

“For the most part.”

After another moment, Riley turned back to his ball.

His mind was reeling. He was surprised to discover that he was a little bit hurt that Skeeter was so ready to leave him, and not just ready, but had been planning it for what appeared to be no small amount of time. But then he caught himself when he realized just how twisted that line of thinking was.

Face it; it really couldn't have gone much better. Skeet's going to move on with his life, and you're left to pursue whatever it is that God's going to lead you to next. You're in a good place now. Life may have been tough lately, but there's no denying it's on the upswing.