Blindside - By Gj Moffat Page 0,3

went involuntarily to his side. He felt the ribs he had broken in an explosion last September during what was supposed to have been an easy gig protecting an actress at a film premiere. He was sure Boston would have heard about it through government channels – would have heard that Cahill had lost one of his men, Chris Washington, in the same incident.

‘It’s been an interesting couple of years, you know. Listen, I’m calling about one of the guys. Tim Stark.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Cahill heard the caution in Boston’s voice.

‘We stayed in touch after I left and I just heard he got fired from the Service.’

‘Alex, you know I can’t talk to you about that stuff. Who told you that anyway?’

‘His wife.’

‘Melanie? When did you speak to her?’

‘Just now. She called me from Kansas. Said she thinks he was on that plane that went down over there.’

Cahill heard a noise on the other end of the phone, like Boston had stood up quickly and his chair had shot back and hit something.

‘What plane?’

‘You didn’t hear? The one that went down outside Denver. It was headed your way.’

‘He was coming to Washington? Tim Stark was coming here?’

‘Looks that way.’

Boston was quiet.

‘Scott, what’s going on with this?’

‘Alex, I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

Cahill held the phone away from his ear as Boston slammed the receiver down to end the call. He was left in the quiet of his study listening to nothing but the dial tone.

3

Cahill called Tom Hardy: a six-foot-four Texan hard-ass and his second in command at CPO – the company he ran to provide close protection for anyone who needed it and could afford the best. They had set up CPO together after a career in the army and the US Secret Service.

‘You up yet, Tom?’ Cahill asked when Hardy answered.

‘Fixin’ breakfast,’ Hardy said in his Texas drawl. ‘Been for a run already.’

Cahill believed him.

‘You in contact with any of the guys from back in the Service?’ Cahill asked.

‘A couple,’ Hardy answered. ‘Why?’

‘You remember Tim Stark?’

‘FBI guy?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What’s going on, Alex?’

‘I got a call from Tim’s wife this morning. She thinks he was on the plane that went down over in Denver.’

‘I saw that on the news. Looks bad.’

‘They’re saying no survivors.’

‘Why’d she call you?’

‘Me and Tim stayed in touch. Anyway, she said Tim got fired last year and might be caught up in something illicit now.’

‘Tim? No way.’

‘That’s what I said. He told her he was going to be on that flight but his name’s not on the passenger list and apparently the cops are being tight-lipped about it.’

‘What’s this got to do with you?’

‘A good friend might be in trouble, Tom. Or worse.’

‘She didn’t call the cops?’

‘Yeah, but they won’t talk to her. Plus, I called Scott Boston and it sounded like he almost had a heart attack when I told him that Tim was supposed to be on a plane heading for Washington. Wouldn’t tell me why Tim got fired – or much of anything, for that matter.’

‘Let me call the guys I know. See what I can find out.’

Sam came into the study as Cahill finished the call with Hardy, walked over to him and sat beside him on the couch, laying her head on his shoulder.

‘Can’t sleep?’ Cahill asked.

Sam shook her head.

‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Anything important?’

‘I don’t know. Could be something, could be nothing. One of the guys I knew back in the Secret Service might have been on that plane and his wife called me looking for help.’

Cahill nodded at the TV screen and Sam sat up to watch the news, Cahill turning the sound back on.

‘Want some breakfast?’ Sam asked.

‘Sure.’

Cahill watched the news feed some more while Sam made scrambled eggs with toast and coffee. He began to feel a little more human with food in his belly. Sam ate her breakfast with him and went back upstairs when she heard their two daughters – Anna and Jodie – starting to stir noisily.

It was close to seven when Cahill called Logan Finch, his best friend and in-house lawyer at CPO. They shared a history of more than just business dealings.

Logan sounded alert when he answered the phone; Cahill heard lots of voices in the background.

‘Hey, Logan,’ Cahill said. ‘Sounds like you had a sleepover last night?’

Logan was heavily involved with Rebecca Irvine – a detective constable in Strathclyde Police. She was divorced with a young son and they socialised with Logan and his daughter, Ellie, at weekends. Sometimes the socialising for Logan and