Eye for an Eye Read Online Free PDF Page B

caught the sight of a rusted blue-and-white Zamboni chugging around the ice.
    Dewey followed Hastings into the locker room. Inside, the benches on both sides of the room were filled with men getting dressed. Dewey didn’t recognize many of them; he couldn’t have told most U.S. senators apart from the guy driving the Zamboni. But he did recognize a few. In addition to Hastings, there was Attorney General Rickards, and DiNovi, the senior senator from New Jersey.
    Dewey glanced quickly around the room at the senators, congressmen, and other officials in various stages of undress.
    “I heard we had a new guy in town,” said a tall, black-haired man, who walked over to Dewey. “I’m Tony DiNovi.” He extended his hand.
    “Hi,” said Dewey, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Senator.”
    “Call me Tony. So I hear you’re the lucky guy who’s marrying Jessica Tanzer. Congratulations.”
    “Thank you.”
    “When’s the wedding?”
    “We haven’t set a date yet.”
    “I’ve known Jessica since she worked on Capitol Hill,” said DiNovi. “She worked on the Intelligence Committee before she went over to the FBI.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “She has one of the best strategic minds I’ve ever known. Most effective national security advisor we’ve had in a long, long time, certainly since I’ve been around. You’re a very lucky man, Dewey.”
    “Thanks, Senator.”
    Dewey pulled his shirt over his head, then leaned down and unzipped his hockey bag.
    “That’s one hell of a scar,” said DiNovi, looking at Dewey’s left shoulder. The scar had that effect; it was two inches wide and ran from the apex of his shoulder down to the midpoint of his biceps, like an ugly ribbon. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”
    Dewey looked at DiNovi without answering.
    Just then, the door swung open and the president of the United States, J. P. Dellenbaugh, walked in. His brown hair was slightly messed up, and he had a big grin on his face. His hockey bag was slung over his shoulder. He was wearing red sweatpants and a faded blue-and-yellow University of Michigan sweatshirt. He threw his bag down next to Dewey’s.
    “Hi, Dewey,” said the president. Dellenbaugh reached out and shook his hand. Everyone was watching. Dellenbaugh glanced around the room. “Hi, boys. What’s the matter, haven’t any of you ever seen an American hero?”
    Dellenbaugh kept his eyes on Dewey as he shook his hand.
    “Tony,” continued Dellenbaugh, “he got the scar fighting terrorists. Now let’s stop giving the guy the third degree and play a little hockey. Sorry I’m late, everyone.”
    Dellenbaugh took the seat next to Dewey and got undressed. It was refreshing to see the U.S. president in this unrehearsed, raw light; seeing him as just one of the guys.
    “You and I are probably the only guys in this room who went to public high school,” whispered Dellenbaugh, smiling at Dewey. The implication was clear: the rest of them, at least for the next hour, were all a bunch of prep-school pussies.
    “Where did you go?” asked Dewey.
    “You mean you don’t know my life story, up and down, left and right?”
    “I apologize.”
    “Don’t,” laughed Dellenbaugh. “I live for moments like that, finding someone who doesn’t know every damn thing about me. That’s why this hour is the best hour of the week. People don’t treat me like I’m president. The best is when Desmond over there tries to lay me out with one of his pathetic Dartmouth checks.”
    A large brown-haired man, tightening his right skate, looked up at Dellenbaugh from across the locker room.
    “You’re goin’ down, Dellenbaugh,” he said, smiling.
    Dellenbaugh paused, staring at Desmond with mock fury.
    “Bring it, bitch,” said Dellenbaugh, taunting him back.
    The room erupted in laughter.
    Dellenbaugh turned to Dewey.
    “To answer your question, I went to Trenton High School, outside of Detroit. Then Michigan on a scholarship. My dad and