Washington, D.C. Now
The second time Shannon Connor talked with Vincent Drago, the freelance information specialist wrapped a hand around her neck, slammed her against a wall hard enough to drive the air from her lungs, put a gun to her head and told her, "I'm going to blow your head off for setting me up."
The first time she'd talked with him had been over the phone and she'd used an alias. Maybe if she hadn't started everything with a lie, things might have gone more smoothly.
"Wait," Shannon croaked desperately. Wait? He's pointing a gun at your head, looking like he's going to use it, and the best you can come up with is wait? She really couldn't believe herself. Maybe something was wrong with her survival instinct.
Other reporters—and friends—or what passed as friends, acquaintances really—had sometimes suspected she had a death wish.
Shannon didn't think that was true. She wanted to live. She glanced around the small room in the back o ...
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