anything. I just mean climbing those mountains meant a lot to me. That high up. Clean air. And the quiet!”
“Yeah, good times for sure.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about my life lying here, ya know? Things done, and things undone. And to be honest with you, I wouldn’t change a lot. Don’t get me wrong. Arguing a landmark case in front of the Supreme Court would’ve been awesome, but it wasn’t meant to be.”
“It must have been hard on you.”
“It was, and it wasn’t. I just did what I had to do to take care of my family. You would’ve done the same thing for yours. I know you would have.”
Jack nodded. He sure as hell would have. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his family, especially his mom and dad.
“So really, no regrets. Well, except one. I never told you this, but I made two promises to my dad when he was on his deathbed. I’m proud to say I kept one of them—finishing my pre-law degree at Georgetown last year.”
“That’s freaking awesome. Congratulations.”
Jack stuck out his hand. Cory took it as best as he could.
“Thanks, man. Summa cum laude, too, by the way.”
“Not surprised.” Truth was, Cory was the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“But I didn’t keep the other promise. And it’s killing me.”
“You do look like shit. But I thought that was the cancer,” Jack said, hoping for a laugh.
He got one.
“Ouch, man,” Cory said, touching his stomach. “Don’t do that. It makes me hurt.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, not really.”
They bumped fists. Friends again. For life.
However long that was.
“So, what’s the promise you didn’t keep?”
Cory told him.
Jack didn’t bat an eye.
“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” Cory said. “But I couldn’t think of anyone else I could ask, let alone pull it off. But I hate to disappoint my dad, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. But I think he’d understand.”
“He probably would. But this is about me. I want to keep my word. And you’re my only shot.”
Jack fought back the tears welling up in his eyes.
“It would be an honor.”
* * *
—
Sister Mary Francis brought in a bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan single-malt whiskey and two glasses Cory had purchased for the occasion. The bedridden man sipped water out of his glass while Jack worked his way through a couple fingers. They laughed and told stories like old college buddies do, but the light began to dim outside and Cory’s eyes began fluttering with fatigue.
Jack left the room with Cory gently snoring and Sister Mary Francis’s heartfelt thanks.
“If he needs anything at all, please call me,” Jack said, slipping her a business card. She handed him one of hers as well.
“I will. Safe travels, Jack. And God bless you for coming.”
Jack was surprised when his phone rang with her number just three and a half hours later as he sat at his desk, poring over a spreadsheet.
Cory Chase was gone.
3
WASHINGTON, D.C.
RUSSELL SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
Arnie van Damm, President Ryan’s chief of staff, sat in the office of Senator Deborah Dixon. There was something bigger than the massive, hand-carved antique desk separating them at the moment.
As the chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and a former chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Subcommittee on Europe and Regional Security Cooperation, Dixon was one of the most powerful people in the Senate and arguably the most important foreign policy legislator. Treaties lived and died on her watch.
Except this time, a bill didn’t “die,” it was killed—shot in the head and bled out by Dixon herself, a fellow Republican. It had been a straight party-line vote—except for Dixon, who crossed the aisle and voted with the Democrats.
Arnie was furious. More important, so was President Ryan, along with Secretary of State Scott Adler, Secretary of Defense Robert Burgess, and the Army chief of staff. President Ryan himself had spent months carefully planning and negotiating a bilateral treaty with Poland to build and maintain a permanent army base on Polish soil. That base would serve as a forward defense against encroaching Russian expansion in the region in the face of a weakening Western European commitment to NATO’s defense.
As chief of staff, Arnie had the task of greasing the wheels on Capitol Hill for any piece of legislation, including the one Dixon murdered. The senator was an old friend and a reliable colleague. Or so he thought until this morning. He polished his steel-rimmed glasses, trying to calm himself.
“You’re kind of cute when you’re angry, Arnie. Anyone ever tell you that?”