Chapter Eight

 

There are almost a thousand politicians living in the District of Columbia. It's one of the most expensive places in the country. Each of those politicians has several dozen direct employees.

That's not even counting government employees. Just politicians and staffers who work for politicians. Each and every one of them is as corrupt as can be, or they're going to be within four years.

The politicians will get multi-million dollar speaking fees, or cushy jobs at an investment banking firm, responsible for the surprisingly difficult task of doing God damn near anything at all. You'd almost feel sorry for them, if you listen to the way they talk about it.

These people have a microscope on their entire lives. If there's any part of it that is legitimately unpleasant, that's it. Adam Quinn's had a microscope on every part of his life since he was twenty years old. It's been that way for as long as he can remember. More than half his life.

First a celebrity, and then a politician, rather than the other way around. It turns the entire system on its head.

Now, with a night off, it was time to call in favors. Something to help him relax, and in a way that didn't rely on trusting people not to talk.

How do you fit fifty thousand people with too much money and not enough sense into a city, put a microscope on all of them, and somehow miss the fact that they are fucking like rabbits?

It's easy. The answer's obvious. They do it in secret, and they do it in ways that don't let a woman interested in making a name for herself turn the story over.

He felt the steering wheel in his grip. When you've had more money than God for decades, you end up having people who owe you favors. Lots of them, if he was being honest.

So if you want to get laid on a Friday night, and you want to know all the tricks of the trade, well… when your black book is as thick as Adam Quinn's was, you just ask for a favor and you get an invitation.

A masquerade. It was absurd. The idea that people could make it work, in a city this size? And nobody recognizes anybody? Permanent deniability. Jesus. This was a story to end all stories, and somehow they'd kept it quiet. It was amazing. Beautiful.

It was only a matter of time until it ended. Three can keep a secret if two are dead, after all. He shook his head. Amazing indeed. He'd take the edge off, and then he'd move on. Because however long this has been going on for, it can't go on forever, and whoever's involved when the game ends is going to regret the hell out of not getting out sooner.

The house is large, and separated from the others by quite a large yard on all sides. Nothing like his place back home, of course. But then again, the big house isn't quite as gaudy, either. More like a frat house than anything.

Quinn parks the car and steps out. A big man stands at the door, a pressed suit and firm military posture. Secret service maybe? It's a surprise. But then again, not so much of a surprise. He blocks the door just enough that nobody would hope to get in without getting past this mountain of meat.

"Sir?"

"Hummingbird," Quinn says softly. The man nods and steps aside, his hand trailing behind to open the door for Adam.

The sound of voices from inside immediately hit his ear. "Have a good evening, sir."

Quinn nods. How well could this mask cover his face? What were the odds that he could be recognized? He stepped through the door anyways. If this was a trap, it was an amazingly big one.

The building opened into a hallway, perhaps twelve feet long, before opening into a large foyer. The men were mostly in black-tie. They sat on sofas, talking to each other or to ladies who sat beside them.

More than one had women sitting somewhere other than beside them. Kneeling between their spread legs, heads down. Quinn immediately got an answer to how good the masquerade was when he recognized the voice of the man he'd called to get the password for the place.

If he spoke, then he'd be recognized. Without a doubt. As would everyone else here. He took a moment to go through the voices he recognized.

Eric Lang, congressman from Oregon. He'd needed money to keep the campaign going. A blonde who couldn't have been older than nineteen knelt between his legs, licking his hardness like a lollipop while the congressman laughed at a lawyer joke.

Quinn felt his teeth on edge. Terry Webb, Texan Senator. Somewhere he couldn't identify, he heard the voice of the Democratic Senator from Maine.

There was nobody who wouldn't go down if this place were revealed. And they were speaking calmly, confidently, as if they weren't the least bit worried about it.

A woman steps up to him. The men wear tuxedos here, and he was no exception. The girl, her black hair cut short and her pleasantly plump breasts pressing themselves into his arm, wore nothing but the black mask that covered her eyes.

"Hey, cutie," she purred. He looked at her flatly. She was an attractive woman. And yet, somehow, something inside him didn't make a move. It wasn't time.

"Not right now," he said softly. She started to walk away and he decided that the free-for-all would let him one little indulgence; his hand moved quickly to swat at her delightfully round ass.

He started moving again. Before he made any mistakes he'd regret, the first thing he was going to make damned sure of was that he got a chance to look around.

There was a balcony above that wrapped all around the foyer. A bannister that you can watch the action below from. Rooms splintered off the main one, both upstairs and down, separated from the main floor by curtains. Some closed the curtain, others didn't.

He leaned back against the bannister and watched a pair of men amusing themselves with a woman who seemed overwhelmed by the sensations that she was experiencing.

Yes, Quinn thought. I could fit into a place like this.