Page 139 of Wyatt
Wyatt could be ill right here on the pavement.
They reached the front of the staging area, where a giant platform stretched across the back. A three-tiered platform of risers was already filled with supporters holding signs and cheering. A couple of them spotted Wyatt and shouted.
They reached the front of the crowd, met another security agent, and Wyatt flashed his credentials again.
“They’re behind the pipe and drape,” said the officer and pointed to a section of the stage hidden by a red drape.
“I’m staying here,” said Kobie, but lifted his phone. “Right in the front. Don’t think about squirreling out because the timer starts now.”
He dialed.
“Wait—no!”
Kobie moved away, holding the phone high.
Wyatt turned and headed back to the draped area.
It was like entering a portal, the calm before the storm. The pipe and drape partitioned off the staging area at the end of the pier. Waves slapped against the great battleship, and Wyatt couldn’t help but notice the two-story drop-off from the end into the murky, cold waters of the Sound.
The backstage was quiet, aides moving around, security agents posted on watch, and in the middle of the quiet cluster, Reba Jackson was reading her phone. She wore a red jacket, a white shirt, and a pair of black pants, her amber red hair pulled back in a loose bun.
She was a very attractive, powerful woman. The kind of woman who could command troops and make policy.
A very capable VP. And potentially, president.
Wyatt didn’t know what to think about Kobie’s statement.
Tate spotted him and came toward him. “What’s going on?”
Wyatt pulled out the card. “I have to…I have to talk to the crowd.”
“What—?” Tate grabbed the card. Read it. “This is crazy.”
“He’s got Coco, and he’s got a timer on his phone that if he doesn’t hang up in five minutes, she dies. I have to tell this audience that Senator Jackson is in collusion with the Russians, right now.”
“It doesn’t help that you were just in Russia,” Tate said. “As if gathering information on her.”
Wyatt hadn’t thought about that part. “Sorry.”
“Jackson thinks you’re going to endorse her, so…she’s not going to stop you from taking the stage.” Tate looked at him. “I might have to.”
He was Benedict Arnold. “Bro—”
“I know. I get it. But this could also be a political nightmare for our ticket.” Tate blew out a breath. “Which one is he?” Tate stepped up to the edge of the barrier and moved the cloth.
“The guy with the—”
“Gauged ears. You’re kidding me.” Tate dropped the cloth. “That’s the guy from the San Antonio bombing.”
Wyatt nodded. “And apparently, he has a beef to pick with Jackson.”
RJ came up, wearing a pair of jeans, boots, a T-shirt, and a jean jacket. “What’s going on?”
Wyatt looked at Tate. “I thought she was going to the hospital.”
Tate gave the tiniest shake of his head. “She won’t leave York.”
He turned to her. “Where is York?”