Free Executive Treason by Gary H. Grossman

he thought. Fifteen. He calculated his steps against hers. She took long, measured strides with her muscular legs that, no doubt, could still deliver a burst of energy in an emergency. But his approach wouldn’t appear threatening. Exactly the opposite. In a few more steps she would hear his labored breathing; nothing unusual at the end of a day. It would announce his presence through a charade.
    Now ten. Five. He caught up with her and matched her pace for ten yards. After some heavy exhales, Nat Olsen managed a harmless “Hello.” They were approaching an area about forty feet long, with an incline that fell off sharply to the right.
    “Hello,” she said with little effort.
    Ten steps later, “This used to be a lot easier.”
    She glanced over to him. Oh man. Out of shape. Another automatic look. This one to his ring finger. Married.
    He caught the eye contact. She’ll be less on guard. Good. “I want to meet the guy who said it’s all about conditioning, not age.”
    Lynn gave him a reassuring nod. “You’re doing fine. Only a little bit further.”
    Yes, only a little bit. He had managed to do the whole run without having had to talk with anyone else.
    A few yards from the highest point of the incline, he grabbed his side and grimaced.
    “You okay?” Lynn asked.
    “I’ll run through it.” Five more steps. Four. Three.
    They continued running in tandem for two more steps. Then he grunted, stumbled a step, locked his feet up, and tumbled down the hill.
    “Hey!” she called out.
    The jogger tumbled over four times and came to a stop precisely where he had planned, out of sight in the underbrush. Lynn automatically cut down the hill, calling out, “Are you all right? Need any help?”
    He rose to his knees, his back to her. He nodded as if in pain, and waved for her to come down.
    “Okay, maybe it’s age, not conditioning,” she joked, seeing that he was trying to regain his balance. “On my way.”
    Lynn was only a few feet from him now. She spoke softly. “Can you stand?”
    For a moment, the caring in her voice broke his concentration; after all, she was coming to his aid. But he had agreed. The amount was set. Like always, half was already in his account. Instantly, any empathy for the woman evaporated.
    He shook his head.
    “Okay. Just take a few seconds, you’ll be okay,” she said, coming upon him.
    Meyerson knelt down beside him, her arm on his shoulders. A thought flashed in her mind. He’s a lot more muscular than…
    Suddenly, the man reached his right arm in front of his chest, across his shoulder, grabbing her left wrist. Simultaneously, he brought his body down. With the combination of his forward motion and his hard yank, she flipped over his back and onto hers. In that one swift move, she lay flat on the ground, with shocked eyes staring into his. They were cold, peering at her from someplace darkly dangerous.
    He’s not sweating. He should be sweating.
    He rolled on top of her, painfully pinning her arms down with his knees; his butt firmly on her pelvis. One hand went right for her mouth as she struggled to say, “Let me go!”
    Lynn arched up her back, trying to toss him off. But she couldn’t.
    He’s going to rape me! Her mind raced. Oh my God! She acted instinctively. Kick him! Lynn tried, but his weight and position locked her down.
    It had already gone on three seconds longer than it should have. He had no desire to put the woman through any unnecessary agony. After all, it wasn’t her fault. He knew where she worked, but little more. He didn’t need to. All he had focused on were her habits, her rituals, and whether she carried Secret Service protection. The president’s trip provided the perfect opportunity, although her regular jogging trail along the district’s Rock Creek would have worked as well.
    He had studied her as he did all his targets. He never considered them victims, just targets. This one was like most others, a creature of habit. In Washington,