Anne Bellamy finished editing the document her boss had given her just before he’d left for the gym at exactly four thirty that afternoon. She’d stayed two hours past the end of the usual day in the office of the national security advisor located in the West Wing of the White House to clean up, fact-check and finish the job. The last one out of the office, she gathered her purse and checked her cell phone.
A text message had come through during the time she’d logged off her computer and collected her purse.
Unknown caller.
Curious as to who had her phone number and was texting her so late in the evening, Anne brought up her text messages and frowned down at the cryptic message.
TRINITY LIVES.
Her heart skipped several beats before settling into the swift pace of one who was running for her life. Anne hadn’t heard anything about Trinity since the man who’d recruited her to spy on government officials had been murdered.
Her gut clenched and she felt like she might throw up as she returned the text.
Sorry, you must have the wrong number.
She waited, her breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering against her eardrums.
John Halverson died because he’d got too close.
Anne gasped and glanced around her office, wondering if anyone was watching or could see the texts she was receiving. Wondering if she was doing the right thing, or revealing herself to the wrong persons, she responded to the text again.
Halverson is dead.
Again, Anne waited, afraid of the response, but afraid not to reply.
Halverson was on the right track.
Anne’s heart squeezed hard in her chest. John Halverson had been a good man, with a heart as big as they came. He cared about his country and what was happening to tear it apart.
When he’d come to her, he’d caught her at a vulnerable point in her career. A point at which she’d considered leaving the political nightmare to take a position as a secretary or receptionist for a doctor’s office. Anything to get out of the demoralizing, disheartening work she did with men and women who didn’t always have the best interests of the nation at heart, whose careers and post-government jobs in media and lobbying meant more to them than the country’s future.
Anne had kept her head down and her thoughts to herself since Halverson’s death, afraid that whoever had murdered the man would come after her. If they knew her association with Halverson, and her involvement in uncovering the graft and corruption inside the office of the National Security Council, she’d be the next target.
She knew Trinity had a firm foothold in the government, and they weren’t afraid to pounce on those who dared to cross them or squeal on their activities. The problem was that they were so well entrenched you couldn’t tell a friend from a terrorist.
She stared at her phone screen. Was someone trying to warn her? Or flush her out into the open?
Either way, someone knew her secret. She could be the next casualty, courtesy of Trinity.
Anne quickly keyed in her message, not feeling terribly confident she was putting an end to the communication.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone.
A moment later came a response.
Can’t. They’re planning an attack. A lot of people could be hurt. I need your help to stop it.
Anne pressed a hand to her breast to still her pounding heart.
No. No. No.
She wasn’t the kind of person who could easily lie or pretend. Anne had always been an open book. Anyone could read any emotion on her face. She’d argued this with Halverson, but he’d insisted she could help him. She was in a strategic position, one that touched on a number of key players in politics.
If Trinity had sleeper cells in those positions, she could spot them before anyone else. Theoretically.
Anne hated that Halverson had paid the ultimate price. At the same time, she no longer had to report things she saw or heard, which meant she didn’t have to worry that she was being watched or targeted.
Until now. Until the text warning her about Trinity.
Shooting a glance around the office and the four corners of the room, she wondered if anyone had a webcam recording her every move. She’d gotten good at discovering small audio and video recording devices stashed in telephone receiver units, lights, ceiling tiles, potted plants and office furniture.
She made a habit of scouring the room at least once a day. She’d found a small audio device once, early on, when Halverson had still been alive. They’d met at a bookstore in Arlington, where Halverson had identified the device and told her about others she should be on the lookout for.
Since Halverson’s death, she’d continued looking over her shoulder. As time passed, she’d become lax. No one appeared to be following her or watching her.
How wrong had she been? And why had this person come to her now?
Instead of answering the previous text, she shoved her phone into her purse and left her office. Her heart hammered against her ribs and her breathing came in shallow pants. She was overreacting. That was all there was to it.
But who had given out her phone number? And how did they know she’d once been involved with Halverson? She’d kept that part of her life as clandestine as possible. Trying to ensure her trysts with Halverson were in as out-of-the-way a venue as she could, she’d usually met him in a public library, where running into people she worked with was highly unlikely. It wasn’t a bar, and it wasn’t a coffee shop. She’d thought it was the best cover of all. How many terrorists did she know who made good use of a public library?
She’d never been to Halverson’s mansion, and she’d always worn a disguise when she’d met with him at the library, never driving her own car, but taking public transportation.
Once out in the open, she inhaled fresh night air. Anne had been so busy working she hadn’t realized it had rained earlier. The ground was still wet, and light reflected off the standing puddles. Her phone vibrated inside her purse, causing her heart to skip a beat. She ignored it and strode toward the Metro station, wishing she’d left while there was still some daylight chasing away the shadows. Though night had settled in, people still moved around the city. Men and women dressed in business suits, dress shoes and trench coats hurried home from office buildings, after a long day at work. Still, the number of people headed toward the train station was significantly less than during the regular rush hours.
Anne wished she’d worn her tennis shoes to work rather than the tight, medium-heeled pumps that had been pinching her feet since five o’clock that morning.
Again, the phone vibrated in her purse. She could feel the movement where her purse rested against her side. Ignoring the insistent pulsation, she moved quickly, determined to make the next Metro train headed toward Arlington, where she lived in a modest apartment.
Footsteps