Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

hallway intersection, Speakes hit a sequence of numbers on the keypad beneath the scope. He then pushed on the wall that Sydney thought was their dead end. The wall heaved open, and she was ushered out into a storage room.
    She continued to let herself be manhandled as the three of them ducked out of the storage room door and shuffled down a short hallway to a stairway. Speakes showed little sign of his age as he vaulted up the stairs two at a time. At each landing, he checked the stairs in front of him and then motioned for the agent to bring their prize.
    Where were they?
    Sydney tried to piece together their location from her surroundings. The stairway wasn’t distinct. It was bare concrete; the only markings were “Floor 1, Floor 2, Floor 3 ” at each landing. They stopped on the fifth-floor landing.
    “Wait here,” Speakes instructed. He opened the door and coasted through it before it closed on its pneumatic hinge. Sydney caught a glimpse of a red patterned carpet before the door shut. Were they in a government building? Perhaps one of the memorials? She ached for a sense of direction. She tried remembering the scenes around the White House perimeter as she scrambled around it earlier that day. Had they gone north, south, east, or west?
    As they stood there waiting inside the stairwell, Sydney stared at the agent. He stared back without emotion. She stretched her fingers and felt pain in the wounds. Pain meant they were still open. Pain meant there was still blood ready to flow. She started sobbing again and turned away from him, putting her hands on the door to steady herself.
    “Step back from the door,” the agent ordered, grabbing her shoulder. Sydney spun back around and collapsed in the agent’s arms. She kept crying as she maneuvered in the agent’s grip, turning him around so that his back was to the door.
    Just then, the door flew back open. “What the hell is going on?” Speakes asked. He stood there with a towel in his hand. Sydney stared at it, and her questions were answered. Embroidered at the bottom of the towel was the crest of the Willard Hotel.
    We are at a hotel. But why such a public place?
    “She collapsed sir,” the agent replied.
    Speakes smiled. “Right.” Then he gazed into Sydney’s eyes. “Trying to seduce your way to freedom, Ms. Dumas?” Speakes threw the towel to the agent. “Stuff it in her mouth,” he ordered. The agent did as he was told. Speakes glared at Sydney. “Not a peep, young lady. Like I said, it will all be over soon.”
    Sydney normally wouldn’t have complied, but she wanted to get out of the stairwell before they noticed she had marked the back of the door with her blood. Speakes motioned to the agent, and he began shuttling Sydney through the doorway. Speakes was out on point, five paces in front of them. As they ventured further down the open hallway, the agent’s grip tightened around Sydney’s tricep and shoulder, steering her in Speakes’s wake.
    Speakes made a sharp right down the only other hallway on the floor. The agent and Sydney followed. As they made the turn, she heard the stairwell door finally shut. She prayed that Danny would find the marks she had hopefully left on it.
    There were only four doors on the entire hallway. They stood much farther apart than normal hotel room doors. Speakes rapped his knuckle only once on the closest door to his left. It opened and Sydney’s heart dropped into her stomach. Standing before her was Stefan Taber.
    “Ms. Dumas,” Taber purred. “I finally caught up to you.”

Chapter 90
    Danny pictured the five Secret Service agents that just burst in the room like they were five gang members ready to take him out. They all had the latest in weaponry; each Beretta Px4 Storm was equipped with laser sights and all five laser sighting dots were aimed at Danny’s head. Danny had backed himself into the corner of Simon Shilling’s office. The only thing between him and a hundred rounds screaming from the agents’ pistols was the president of the United States.
    While Danny’s body pumped adrenaline, the president seemed relaxed. Of course, it was his idea for Danny to take him hostage.
    “Stand down!” President Butcher yelled to the agents. They didn’t budge. “Peter! Tell them to drop their weapons and stand down!”
    Using Devon’s handcuffs, Danny had shackled Peter Devon and Simon Shilling, kneeling together, through the arms of Simon’s desk chair. Every vein in Devon’s reddened