Free Lady Liberty by Vicki Hinze Page A

to Sam. He filtered it through Jean. So if Jean stopped Sam on his way out, then he could be sure that whatever was happening had Sybil Stone front and center in it.
    She was on the phone in the outer office. Sam smiled and waved, then moved on. He was about to step into the elevator when she called out from her office door. “Sam, wait.”
    Ah, a message from Cap
. Pleased with himself, Sam walked back to her. “Did you need something?”
    Jean dropped her voice. “There’s an unconfirmed rumor going around you might want to check out.” Fear burned in her eyes. “They’re saying Ballast has jeopardized Sybil Stone’s peace-seeking mission in Geneva.”
    Oh, man. The PUSH rumor wouldn’t be far behind. If Sam sat on it, which he had to do until he’d checked it out, the terrorists would just phone other reporters until one ranwith the story. PUSH was bad, but Ballast was a hundred times worse. Gregor Faust and his hired thugs just kept stacking up crises. No UN member could target him for assassination without committing an agreement violation, and, frankly, he greased too many political palms and financed too many campaigns for anyone legitimate to take him out. But why hadn’t some zealot spared the world and killed the twisted bastard?
    Jean lowered her voice to a whisper. “If what I’m hearing is right, Ballast is doing a lot more than making vicious threats this time, Sam. They think Faust himself has contacted the White House and blamed PUSH. He’s predicted casualties.”
    That phone call was significant. No one knew exactly what Faust looked or sounded like, though several months ago PUSH had released an artist’s sketch of a man purported to be he.
    “How many casualties?” No wonder they had been frenzied, canceled the briefing, and Barber had been in squelch mode. Sam didn’t like the sound of any of this. Faust had no scruples. He was loyal only to money and power; capable of doing anything to anyone, anywhere.
    “Some say a handful,” Jean hedged.
    The White House wouldn’t be in an uproar over a few casualties. Not even if the few were highly placed officials or one of them was Sybil Stone. There would be upset, but not like this. “What do others say?”
    She blinked hard and whispered. “Millions.”
    The word ricocheted through his brain and echoed. His blood drained from his face, the heat seeped out of him, and he swallowed hard. “Damn, Jean. I need to talk to Cap.”
    “But his fundraiser—”
    “Jean.” Sam clasped her arm. “PUSH called me. They said they killed her.”
    “Killed whom?”
    “Sybil Stone.”

Chapter Five

Thursday, August 8
First-Strike Launch: 55:05:21
    She couldn’t be dead; every bone in her body ached.
    Unsure whether to curse or rejoice, Sybil lay sprawled atop Agent Westford in a patch of rain-soaked muddy ground. He lay motionless, his eyes closed, his breathing labored.
    “Westford?”
    Startled conscious, he gasped in a deep breath that rocked her and raised a hand that brushed against her breast. She instinctively slapped at it. “Have you lost your mind?”
    “Probably. Jumping out of a plane without a parachute doesn’t seem sane to me.” Mud splotched his rugged face; clods clung in his hair. He flexed his fingers, then his wrists, testing them for sprains or breaks. “But I don’t think I’ve lost anything else.”
    Assessing her own condition, Sybil saw a flash and flinched. A lightning bolt streaked a jagged path across thetwilight sky. Windblown rain beat through the leafy trees and thunder rolled, echoing vibrations across the earth that jarred her to the marrow of her bones.
The briefcase.
    Panic ripped through her chest and she looked down. Mud-splashed and wet but intact, and still attached to her arm.
Thank heaven.
    Jonathan grunted, claiming her attention. “Are you hurt, Agent Westford?” When they had hit the ground, he had cushioned her with his body and taken the brunt of the impact. He’d known how to position