Private Monaco

Chapter 80

Justine struggled against the large Secret Service agent, but it was hopeless. He had hold of her left wrist and had twisted it behind her back into a position that inflicted immediate pain if she deviated even slightly from where he was directing her. Any further pressure and she feared her wrist might snap.

They were moving away from the grandstand toward the nearest exit across a raised walkway. The celebratory atmosphere, roaring cars and excited crowds meant no one paid them any attention.

Justine became increasingly desperate but fought a sense of panic, which she knew could only steer her down the wrong path. Even as she was led away from her objective, with no way back to warn Carver plus the nagging suspicion Henry Wilson was working for the enemy, she tried to find calm.

“What’s your name?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard above the din.

Her captor remained silent.

Justine’s mind whirred frantically, but she fought the tumult of fears and frustrations and reminded herself that the truth was the most powerful weapon. Good people recognized the truth when it was plainly spoken.

“You know my name is Justine Smith. I work for Private, the detective agency run by Jack Morgan.”

She glanced over her shoulder and saw a glimmer of recognition in the man’s eyes.

“You know that name. I bet everyone on the Secretary’s detail knows that name because Jack saved your principal’s life at Fallon Airbase in Nevada.”

The agent’s grip on her wrist loosened slightly.

“Jack is out there right now.” Justine nodded toward the port. “He’s looking for a shooter we believe is targeting the Secretary. And I think Henry Wilson is one of his co-conspirators.”

The agent stopped moving and let go of Justine. She rubbed her arm as she turned to face him.

“Ma’am, do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”

“I don’t care how it sounds,” she replied, having to yell to make herself heard over the noise of the race. “I care about Secretary Carver’s life. You need to take me back so I can talk to him.”

The agent’s expression hardened.

“Or don’t, but have his detail move him. Get him to a less exposed location and keep him away from Wilson.”

Justine saw the conflict in the Secret Service agent. If she was an alarmist, he would face embarrassment and censure, but if what she was saying was true, the alternative would be catastrophic: the death of the man this agent was sworn to keep safe.

“This is a serious threat,” she said. “Don’t let the bad guys win.”

“My name is Greg Campbell,” he said at last. “And I think you’d better talk to the Secretary yourself.”