No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(73)

The agents carried Skinner through to the medical suite. “Make way, please! Emergency!”

Forbes watched the whole thing play out. He struggled not to laugh as Skinner disappeared into the medical suite adjacent to the President’s office. He tried to put on his best concerned expression. He turned to the President. “Sir, is there anything I can get you? Anyone you want me to call?”

The President shook his head as he signaled two national security advisors. “I got this, Andrew, thanks. Good thing you spotted he had taken a turn for the worse.”

“Is he going to be okay, sir?”

The President sighed. “I don’t know, Andrew. I just don’t know.”

The rest of the flight, Forbes sat on a miniature couch, exchanging gossip on Skinner’s condition with a junior staffer.

“Was it something he ate?” she asked.

Forbes feigned quiet contemplation for a few moments. “Maybe. I’m surprised. He’s such a robust guy most of the time. He works longer hours than anyone I know, apart from the President. Tremendous work ethic.”

“I heard he has a heart condition.”

“Is that right?” Forbes said. “I hadn’t heard that. I know an uncle of mine who was a workaholic got heart palpitations and ultimately had to be put on beta blockers or something, and he also had stents inserted after a blockage. Chief of staff is a tough, tough gig. No letup.”

The minutes passed as it was decided to continue the flight to Orlando.

“Fifteen minutes to touchdown, people,” a Secret Service suit bellowed. “Can we buckle up? We need to get the chief of staff off without any delays.”

“Is he alive?” Forbes asked.

“Barely.”

Forbes shook his head. “How awful. What’s wrong with him?”

The agent had already turned and walked away.

Forbes stared out the window as the descent began. His ears began to pop. He closed his eyes as he smiled to himself, giddy at what he’d done.





Fifty-Four

The McNeal brothers sat in silence on most of the hour-long journey as they headed through the Lincoln Tunnel, westbound through New Jersey and back north across the state line into New York. Jack was getting progressively more nervous as they drove down the highway. He sensed he was being pulled, inexorably, toward his fate. Maybe it was always meant to be this way, next to his brother. His blood.

He checked the location of Nicoletti’s phone using a GPS tracking app. Graff’s henchman was fifteen miles from Warwick. “He’s at home.”

Peter headed down a back road. He pulled up one mile from the site, off the road and out of sight from anyone passing by. “There are no guarantees this will work, Jack. No guarantees at all. No guarantees this fuck will show up.”

“I think he will.”

Jack turned on Graff’s cell phone when they were in the middle of nowhere. He scrolled through the contacts and sent a brief message to Nicoletti.

We need to talk, face-to-face. Super urgent. Got a job for you. One hour. Not far from you. Head down Cascade Road and onto dirt road through woods. Then ten minutes on foot before the old entrance. A friend of mine will show you down the dirt path. H.

Jack took the battery and SIM card out of the cell phone.

“You think that’ll work?”

Jack shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

“I’ve got my flashlight. And my gun.”

“And I’ve got the Glock I used on Graff. Let’s get a move on and get in place.”

Peter edged slowly along Cascade Road. He turned onto the dirt road leading through the woods.

“Seems like a thousand years ago we were here,” Jack noted. “But it’s all so familiar.”

Peter nodded. The place they had played in when they were kids. Exploring the caves. Carrying flashlights.

He drove on for a mile until they got to a clearing.

Jack put on a Knicks hat from the back seat. They both got out of the car and hugged tight.

“You okay, Jack? You got this?”

Jack was consumed by doubt, but he wasn’t going to show it. They were both in over their heads, and there was no turning back. “I got this.”

“No fucking around. This guy is a killer.”

Jack stared at his brother. “That makes two of us.”

Time dragged as Jack waited. He didn’t know if Nicoletti would show up. Even if he did, would he come alone or bring a crew? Maybe the fucker would shoot him on sight.

The more McNeal thought about it, the more a strange sense of calm seemed to wash over him. He had one advantage. Nicoletti probably wouldn’t recognize Jack or Peter. He would have known what Caroline looked like if he was stalking her, but not her estranged husband. Then again, maybe Graff had already circulated a photo of Jack to Nicoletti.

McNeal needed to bear that in mind. He envisioned Caroline’s last conscious moments. Had she seen her killer’s face? Had Nicoletti killed her near the Potomac before dumping her body in the water?

The black, putrid thoughts filled his head. A virus filled his soul. Bastards like that had no compunction about killing. But then again, neither did he—not anymore. He hadn’t hesitated to kill Graff. He had calmly watched as his brother had poured the cement into the bucket, then they had both dropped the trussed-up dead weight into the dark waters of the reservoir. One day, local fishermen could drag up the body, or parts of the body. It might be weeks. Nothing would tie what remained of Graff to either McNeal or his brother. No forensic evidence. Maybe circumstantial. Maybe a surveillance camera out in the middle of nowhere would catch them traveling down the highway. Maybe their luck would run out.