Chapter 9 - The Siege of Smith Hill
By seven o'clock Monday morning, Providence was suffocating beneath two feet of heavy, grey-white slush.
The sun was a pale, watery disc behind leaden clouds that promised another wave of sleet by midday.
The plows had finally carved narrow, dirty trenches through the downtown streets, but the city remained eerily quiet, paralyzed by the historic blizzard.
At the crest of Smith Hill, the white marble dome of the Rhode Island State House rose above the city like a frozen fortress.
Inside the building, the halls were heated to seventy-two degrees, the polished terrazzo floors squeaking under the leather shoes of lobbyists, lawyers, and armed state troopers.
Franklin Doyle stood near the marble balustrade outside Hearing Room 312, wearing a three-thousand-dollar charcoal cashmere suit and a silk tie the color of dried blood.
He was sixty-two years old, his silver hair groomed with immaculate precision, holding a leather folder containing the draft of the five-year sealing order.
Beside him stood Senator William Craine, a heavy-set man with broken red veins across his nose and nervous, darting eyes that constantly checked the grand staircase.
"The state police intercepted an old truck near South Attleboro yesterday," Craine whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief.
"They said there was gunfire, Franklin," Craine hissed.
"The media is starting to ask why tactical units are searching secondary roads in Massachusetts," Craine worried.
"Shut your mouth, Bill," Doyle said, his voice smooth, cultured, and ice-cold.
"The girl is trapped in the woods near the border without food, money, or transport," Doyle assured him.
"By nine-thirty, this committee will approve the emergency regulatory amendment," Doyle said.
"The medical files will be transferred to our private digital repository in Delaware, and the state investigation will be officially terminated," Doyle stated.
"What about Balandi?" Craine asked, his voice shaking.
"Balandi is a common criminal who made the mistake of leaving his territory," Doyle dismissed with a sneer.
"The state police have orders to treat him as an armed kidnapper who abducted an institutional employee," Doyle said.
"He won't survive the arrest, Bill," Doyle promised.
Down on Gaspee Street, a dark blue sedan bearing United States Government license plates pulled slowly past the state house security barricade.
The security guard at the gate glanced at the official parking permit displayed on the sun visor and waved the vehicle through without checking the occupants.
Naomi Whitcomb drove, her hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, her federal identification badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
In the back seat, hidden beneath a heavy wool car blanket on the floorboards, lay Mave Callahan and Raphael Balandi.
The canvas bag was tucked between Mave’s ribs, the hard circle of the brass seal pressing into her hip bone with every turn of the wheels.
"We’re inside the executive courtyard," Whitcomb said through clenched teeth, her eyes checking the rear-view mirror.
"There are four state police cruisers parked near the south portico," she reported.
"Two troopers are standing at the metal detectors inside the public entrance," she observed.
"They won't search an Assistant United States Attorney carrying evidence to a scheduled legislative hearing," Rafe whispered from beneath the blanket.
"Once we hit the elevator bank, Callahan and I take the service stairs to the third floor," Rafe directed.
"You walk through the front doors of Room 312 at exactly eight-fifty," Rafe said.
"Don't start talking until Mave is standing at the witness table," Rafe instructed.
Whitcomb parked the sedan in a reserved stall marked *Official Federal Business Only*.
She cut the engine, took a deep breath that sounded like a prayer, and opened her door into the freezing morning air.
Five seconds later, the rear door of the sedan opened, and Rafe stepped out onto the slushy asphalt, dressed in a clean black wool overcoat Gio had cached in the safehouse.
He extended his hand into the car and helped Mave out into the grey light.
She was pale, her dark hair pulled back into a severe knot, her bandaged hand tucked firmly into the deep pocket of her coat.
She carried the canvas bag openly now, no longer hiding it beneath rags or coats.
They moved quickly across the salt-crusted concrete toward the basement service entrance, avoiding the main security line where television cameras were already setting up their tripods.
Rafe pulled an electronic service key from his pocket—a gift from an old dockworker whose nephew cleaned the state house boilers every weekend.
The heavy brass door clicked open, and they slipped into the warm, yellow-lit bowels of the capitol building.
They climbed the narrow spiral iron stairs used by maintenance crews, ascending through the limestone core of the structure toward the third floor.
Every step made Mave’s heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She was not afraid of the troopers, nor was she afraid of the handcuffs that might wait behind the marble arches.
She was terrified that time would run out—that a clock on a wall somewhere would strike nine before the world could see the names in Keterman’s ledger.
At the third-floor landing, Rafe held up a hand, stopping her behind the heavy mahogany fire door that led to the committee corridor.
Through the narrow wired-glass window, they could see Hearing Room 312.
The double doors were propped open with brass stops.
Franklin Doyle stood at the front of the room, smiling warmly as he shook hands with the committee clerk.
Senator William Craine was already sitting behind the curved walnut dais, his wooden gavel resting beside a microphone whose red power light was glowing.
"This is it, Callahan," Rafe whispered, turning to face her in the narrow stairwell.
His dark eyes searched her face, finding no hesitation, no tears, and no weakness in her grey eyes.
"You walk in there and you finish what Nathaniel Pike started," Rafe said softly.
"What about you?" Mave asked, looking at his bare hands, which remained free of weapons.
"I have my own business with Franklin Doyle," Rafe answered, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
May you like
"Go," Rafe commanded.
Mave pushed the heavy mahogany door open and stepped out into the crowded marble corridor of the Rhode Island State House.
