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MURDER

Steve Stanton sat up and turned on the light. He squinted, blinked. Was it still night? The heavy curtains shut out all traces of the outside. He looked at the alarm clock on the little nightstand next to his hotel bed: 11:52.

He squinted, saw a little red light at the bottom left of the time, next to white letters that read “AM.”

Eleven fifty-two in the morning. He’d slept all day, all night, and into the next day. Were hangovers supposed to last this long?

He reached to the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of Chloraseptic he’d paid a bellboy to bring him. He opened his mouth, sprayed the cooling, numbing mist against the back of his throat.

It helped a little.

Steve wondered how Cooper and Jeff were doing. Maybe they’d already checked out of the hotel and were headed back to Michigan.

He’d wanted to tell Cooper what had really happened, maybe get some help in case Bo Pan came back. Steve had worked it all out in his head the night before, thought he was safe … but maybe he wasn’t. Should he call the police? If he did, would that put his family in jeopardy? And for that matter, would the police turn him over to the CIA? Maybe even send him to China?

But … what if Cooper had contacted Bo Pan? What if Cooper and Jeff had given Bo Pan Steve’s room number … what if all three of them were on their way to kill Steve right now?

He sucked in a big breath. That was a crazy thought. It didn’t even make sense. How could Cooper reach Bo Pan? Steve didn’t need to make up illogical fears about Cooper and Jeff, not when there were plenty of very real things to worry about.

Like the small matter of a dead navy diver. Murder. An act of war.

Some “hero” Steve had turned out to be.

What was he going to do? Maybe he was missing something, not thinking it through because he felt so awful.

He sprayed again, letting the cool feeling spread through his throat. That was enough for now. He needed rest.

Steve put his head back down on the pillow. He closed his eyes.

The hero slept.

LEADERs.h.i.+P

Murray had never heard the Situation Room this quiet. The only sound came from a few monitors that played newscasts at low volume. He couldn’t hear anyone typing. No one talked. No one cleared their throats. No one even moved.

Blackmon folded her hands together, rested her forearms on the tabletop.

“How did it get off the flotilla?”