“Got the place to yourself, huh?” he innocently inquires.
She nods her head yes. Mute.
He gestures at the computer on the kitchen table. “What’s the latest?”
“The Russian army has occupied Tartu and Narva,” she tells him flatly, without emotion.
“Holy shit! No kidding? It’s really happening! Goddamn!”
Hayley doesn’t share his surprise. “Yes, it’s happening … whatever ‘it’ is.”
“NATO?”
She shrugs. Wary. If Bishop clocks her apprehension of him, he doesn’t show it. All is a lark.
“Well, if Monroe manages to get us all blown up, at least I won’t have to pay off my car loan!”
“Always a silver lining.” Hayley hopes by being just a couple notches friendlier, he’ll leave. Is he trying to hook up with her?
Bishop points at the half-filled pot of coffee in the automatic maker she had brewed a half hour earlier, anticipating a late night. Tomorrow may be her last shot to deliver her message to Monroe, and she doubts sleep is a likely. “Maybe I’ll cash in that rain check.”
She looks at him blank-faced.
“When I interviewed you at your apartment? You offered me a cup of coffee.”
“I did?” She honestly can’t remember.
“Pretty sure you did.” He says this with a smile.
Hayley relents, turning to retrieve the coffeepot from the maker. Glancing to her right, at the window next to the table, she sees the reflection of Bishop drawing a concealed 9-millimeter Beretta from a shoulder holster and taking aim on the back of her head. With less than three seconds before her execution, Hayley grips the coffeepot in hand and pivots on the balls of her feet, flinging the glass container at his head. It shatters on impact and splashes hot coffee in his face and down his shirtfront. Bishop screams, momentarily stunned.
Hayley launches her attack, seizing her brief advantage. Two quick punches to Bishop’s head dislodge the Beretta from his grip. Thus disarmed, he seems to recover his equilibrium and recognizes the precariousness of his situation. Equally trained in close-quarter combat and outweighing Hayley by at least sixty pounds, Bishop counters with a flurry of punches his opponent can only partially deflect.
Bishop comprehends Hayley is no slouch in martial arts. He picks up a ladder-back chair and throws it at her, then snatches up the other chair and throws that one, too. She is unable to block a flying kick that follows and is knocked down to her knees. Bishop is on her in less than two seconds, pummeling Hayley with punches to the head and back. Defenses softened, she cannot stop him from encircling her throat with both hands. Starbursts explode in her field of vision. Roaring fills in her ears. Her brain empties but for one thought: I am dying.
Beyond her reach by maybe six inches are the tools for the small fireplace at the center of the cabin’s back wall. Too far to reach. Just too far. But God, in his benevolence, loves perseverance. Blessed are those who don’t quit. She has a job to do. All her life, she has toiled to complete what is expected of her. She has fought and won every personal battle, no matter the odds. The pyrotechnics blaze in her vision, and she recalls her siblings on July Fourth holidays, frolicking in the dirt front yard with sparklers, the only fireworks the family could afford, under her watchful eye. Only fourteen years old, she bears the burden of the family’s welfare on her shoulders. To this day, Hayley has lost no one. Not on her watch. God loves perseverance, because it’s never easy.
Thinking she is as good as dead, Bishop leans in to apply even greater pressure around her throat, drawing close enough for Hayley to bring her right hand up and jam her thumb hard into his left eye. Wailing in pain, Bishop releases his grip from around Hayley’s neck. She stretches now and grips the fire poker by the pointed end, swinging it around and clubbing Bishop against the side of his head with the heavy, wrought iron handle. Knocked out cold, his howls cease abruptly.
Hayley shreds the top sheet on her bed and uses strips of it to bind and gag Bishop, as well as dress the nasty wound on his head. She drags him into the cramped bathroom of the single-room cabin, wedging all six feet, two inches of his frame between the toilet and bathtub. Bishop slowly regains consciousness as she finishes the task, his eyes expressing pain and rage. She crouches down in front of Bishop and speaks without anger or judgment. “I know what you are and who you work for. I know what you’re trying to do here. I’m going to stop it from happening.” Her matter-of-fact pronouncement complete, Hayley stands and backs out of the bathroom, closing the door on Bishop’s futile protest.
Odom’s team of mercenaries would not have infiltrated Camp David for the sole purpose of killing her. Without a shred of doubt, Hayley is convinced an attempt on the president’s life is imminent, if not over. There isn’t a second to lose. Checking her phone, she tries to make a call but hears only an eerie, telephonic howl come through the line. Pocketing the phone, she grabs a jacket, jams Bishop’s handgun into the back of her waistband, and hits the door.
The first breath of fresh, cold air clears her head of the fog induced by her near-choking. She starts sprinting up the path, heading through the woods toward Laurel Lodge. While she runs, Hayley discards useless anxieties that Monroe is already dead. If she were heading the operation, would she order Bishop to eliminate a secondary witness before taking out the target? Not likely. But any further hesitation to calculate those odds is unacceptable. She must act quickly, before Bishop’s delay in returning raises alarm with the conspirators. Disruption of the hit team’s operation is all that matters now.
As Laurel Lodge becomes visible through the trees, she’s heartened to see it ablaze with lights. Despite the late hour, she is reassured staff and Secret Service will be on duty at the installation’s administrative center. But no agents are posted at the entrance. Perhaps their presence outside is deemed unnecessary during off-hours. She enters the building but finds no one in the reception area just inside the front doors. Nor can she find anyone in the security office just off the entry hall.
Hayley continues through the building, checking each room for occupants. She fails to find a single person inside the brightly lit administrative center. Lights and machines hum with power. A steaming cup of coffee sits on the desktop in an administrator’s office. Three televisions tuned to different network stations are in three different rooms. She can find not one living soul. A check of a corded phone confirms her suspicion—the line is dead. Undoubtedly, the entire installation is cut off from contact with the outside world. Whether personnel left under their own volition or against makes no difference. They’re gone.
Hayley backtracks and exits the building. She is on her own. Odom’s hit team is somewhere in the compound, and it’s up to her to stop them. The wind swirling through the trees that surround Laurel Lodge is the sound of fear and isolation. The black night chokes out all light and hope. Loose rocks are piled on the edge of the path at her feet. Hayley bends down and retrieves a palm-size stone with a jagged edge. She grips the rock and squeezes as hard as she can, the sharp pain shooting to every point of her body. She squeezes harder, pressing through the pain and absorbing the rock’s density. Pain becomes determination. Opening her hand wide, she sees the rock is coated with her blood, and she drops it to the ground, continuing to gaze at her hand and the constellation of small cuts and abrasions in her skin. She’s ready to fight.