“Slowly,” Jones said.

Cam pulled her topcoat over Dunbar. “You with me?”

“Yes,” Dunbar said. “Better.”

“Good.” Cam settled back, and ten minutes later the Humvee stopped. Jones kept them in her sights while the others piled out. The rear door opened.

“Climb out,” Jones ordered.

Cam helped Dunbar down from the vehicle and jumped out beside her. The camp was dark. All she could make out was a ring of buildings with a few lights showing through windows here and there. There could be a hundred militiamen in the place, or ten.

Jones appeared beside her and motioned to the left with her gun. “That way.”

“If you’ve got a field hospital, she—”

Jones kicked Cam behind the knee and she went down, barely managing to catch herself before she fell flat. Small stones cut into her palms. Jones crouched beside her.

“You’d do well to worry about yourself.”

“If you expect to trade us,” Cam said, slowly pushing to a kneeling position, swallowing her rage, “it would probably be a good idea to keep us healthy.”

“I didn’t say I was going to trade both of you.”

“I don’t take you for a fool, and two hostages are always better than one.”

Jones pushed the barrel of her Glock under Cam’s chin until Cam had to lift her neck to ease the pressure. “And you might be wiser to stop giving orders. You’re nothing here. You’re no one.”

Cam remained silent. Jones seemed rational, but she didn’t want to push. What she needed was to remain as unfettered as possible, and antagonizing her captors would not accomplish that. She needed to get a sense of the physical space, of how many militiamen were billeted here, and find a way to communicate with someone she trusted. And she had to keep Dunbar from becoming a casualty. “You’re calling the shots here. I just want to get her some medical help.”

Jones stood. “Take them to the infirmary. Put a guard on the door and outside the windows. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Cam got to her feet, satisfied she’d won a small victory. Dunbar needed attention, and as long as they were together, she had a better chance of keeping her alive. And she’d learned that Jones could be reasoned with.

The infirmary turned out to be a single-story building little bigger than a garage, with two narrow beds, a single window above them, and a locked cabinet against one wall that probably held supplies. Their guards ordered them to sit on the beds. Dunbar slumped down facing Cam across the narrow aisle. Dark shadows of pain and fatigue rimmed her eyes, but her gaze was remarkably clear. She was tough. The guard by the door was a woman of about thirty with short blond hair and flat green eyes. She held her weapon with easy familiarity and regarded them with cold disdain. Cam considered rushing her and estimated she’d be wounded or dead before she reached her feet.

A few minutes later, Jones walked in, strode to the gray metal cabinet, unlocked it, and removed a field pack. She tossed it to Cam. “You should know what to do with this. Go ahead.”

“Lie down,” Cam said to Dunbar, who looked as if she was going to resist. “Go ahead. We need to get this cleaned up before you get infected.”

Dunbar lay back against the thin pillow, wincing as she angled onto her right side so the wounded shoulder was elevated. Cam opened the field pack on top of the plain metal table that stood between the two beds. The guard kept her weapon trained on her while she worked. Jones stood at the foot of Dunbar’s bed, her arms crossed, watching. Cam cut Dunbar’s shirt up to her shoulder and peeled it back from the wound.

“Do you have any local anesthetic?” Cam asked.

“If we did, I wouldn’t waste it on her.”

“Go ahead,” Dunbar said, the muscles around her mouth tight with strain. “I’ll be fine.”

Cam opened the Betadine pack and pulled out the swabs. “I’m sorry.”

Dunbar’s jaw clenched as Cam carefully cleansed the entrance and exit wounds, but she didn’t make a sound. Cam paused, giving Dunbar time to breathe. “I’ll have to clean inside the track to make sure there’s no foreign material from your clothes in the wound.”

“I know.”

Cam soaked the last swab in the remainder of the antiseptic and carefully worked it into the wound. Dunbar went rigid, her neck arching, sweat trickling down her temples into her dark auburn hair. Finished, Cam discarded the swabs, applied clean gauze, and wrapped a circular bandage around Dunbar’s upper arm. She leaned back on her heels and looked at Jones. “What about antibiotics?”

“Maybe, if you cooperate,” Jones said.

Cam rose. “What do you want?”

“The name of someone with the power to make decisions and get me what I want. Someone who isn’t afraid to break rules.”

Cam almost smiled. “Lucinda Washburn.”

Chapter Thirty-two


“Do you think I should address same-sex marriage in Ohio?” Andrew Powell leaned back in his leather desk chair behind the broad walnut desk in the Oval Office.

Blair perched on an antique sofa, a cup of coffee steaming beside her. The valet had brought sandwiches, but she didn’t have much of an appetite. She would rather have been at home, waiting for Cam to call, but when her father had asked her to come by during one of his rare free hours, she’d come. “I think you should if they raise the point. Otherwise, this early in the campaign, you should probably concentrate on the major issues—healthcare, the budget, and jobs.”

“You don’t think it’s a major issue?” His tone wasn’t challenging, just curious.

“It is to me and others who will be affected by the decision, but for the average voter, no. They don’t really think about the things that don’t affect them personally, and right now, what affects them is their paycheck, the cost and availability of healthcare, and their economic future.”

“And the war?”

“Same issues—the war impacts all those things, but if you can keep the focus on the positives here at home, you’ll avoid the topics that end up being a banner for the other side to wave while they avoid the real problems we face in the next four and a half years.”

Andrew nodded. “I think you’re right, although sometimes it frustrates—” His phone rang, signaling that his secretary needed to speak with him. She rarely interrupted him and never did when he was with his daughter, unless it was urgent. Frowning, he picked up the phone. “Yes, Kelly. Of course. Tell her to come right in.”

He hung up, still frowning.

“Should I go?” Blair asked, assuming he’d received some notice of a new emergency.

“No, it’s Lucinda. She asked that you stay.”

“Me?” Blair said, the uneasy churning she’d had in her stomach all day blooming into roiling anxiety. “Did she say why?”

“No, but she’ll be here any second—”

A loud knock reverberated on the door as it opened, and the secretary hurriedly stepped aside, allowing Lucinda Washburn to pass.

“Thank you, Kelly,” Andrew said, when his secretary looked to him with a question in her eyes. “We’ve got this now.”

Dutifully, the secretary closed the doors. Lucinda strode toward them, her eyes glittering blue chips of ice.

“What is it?” Blair said, holding onto her delicate china cup as if it were an anchor.

“I just got a call on my direct line. A woman claiming to have taken Cameron hostage—”

Blair knew Lucinda was speaking, but the words were indecipherable. All she heard was the roar of the ocean pounding in her head. From deep inside, rage welled up like a flaming geyser while a glacier carved its way through her heart. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“A woman said Cam had given her my number—that she was holding Cam captive.”

“What does she want?” Blair said, her voice sounding eerily steady in her own ears. Her heart pounded so loudly she was surprised the other two couldn’t hear it.

“She wants to trade for Jennifer Pattee.”

“Get Averill in here and call the bureau chief.” Powell sat rigid behind his desk, his palms flat on his blotter, his jaw a study in stone.

Lucinda took a slow breath. “I would advise against that, Mr. President.”

Andrew’s brows rose. “Why?”

Lucinda glanced at Blair. “Give us a minute?”

Blair carefully set her cup on the saucer beside her, pleased when it did not rattle, wondering how it was that electricity burned through her nerves but her hands did not shake. She rose on legs she could not feel. “You don’t discuss Cameron without me here. Say what you have to say, Luce.”

“We may want to make decisions that can go no further than this room. I don’t believe involving any other agencies is wise.”

“How do you intend to get her back if we don’t bring in the FBI and Homeland?” Blair said.

“We have a few options, but if we have to discuss the possibility of a trade, we don’t want a record—”

“No,” Blair said. “No trade. You know as well as I do that that won’t ensure Cameron’s safety. And”—she had to stop to swallow the shards of glass that slashed at her throat—“Cam would never forgive any of us for doing that.”

“Do you care, as long as she’s safe?” her father asked gently.

Blair saw sympathy and what might be fear in his eyes. Her father was never afraid—even when she was young and her mother had been dying, he’d been a rock. The fear was for her suffering, she knew, and she let him see she was not going to break. “Cameron knows that I know what’s important to her. She trusts me to know what matters. We don’t compromise her. Jennifer Pattee stays where Cam put her.”

“Do you know what Cam was doing out there?” Lucinda asked.