The Deceived by Brett Battles Page B

Texas. The door between them was open.
    Quinn put a smile on his face and walked through the doorway into a small lobby.
    The room was designed to make people feel like important things happened there. In the center was a desk, modern and sleek, with a large multiline phone and a flat-screen computer terminal sitting on top. Behind the desk was a woman, blond and smiling and attractive. To either side of her were closed doors, no doubt leading deeper into the suite.
    “May I help you?” she asked, her Texas accent evident.
    “Yes, please. I’m here to see Dylan Ray,” Quinn said.
    “Your name?”
    “Richard Drake. I have an appointment for two-thirty.”
    The woman glanced at her computer, then smiled again, apparently finding his name on the list.
    “Please have a seat,” she said. “I’ll let Mr. Ray know you are here.”
    All the furniture in the room was well crafted, expensive—cer-tainly not government issue. Quinn sat down on one of the soft leather chairs that lined the walls on either side of the main entrance. In front of him was a low table stocked with the latest issues of news and political magazines the congressman must have thought his visitors should read.
    Quinn took in the rest of the room, making a more thorough examination than he had when he first entered. A dark wood wainscoting ringed the room. Above it, the walls were painted off-white and curved at the top, easing into the ceiling.
    On one wall hung a photograph of Congressman Guerrero. Quinn recognized him from a similar photo on the congressman’s website. On the wall opposite was a collage of several photos, each framed in black metal, and all featuring Guerrero with different political figures and celebrities. Prominent among them were a few shots with the former President, the last man from the congressman’s party to hold the nation’s highest office.
    In each of the photos, Guerrero exuded an intensity that gave the impression he was completely focused on whatever he was doing at that moment. It made him seem intelligent and concerned. His salt-and-pepper hair didn’t hurt either—old enough to know a thing or two, and young enough to do something about it. Quinn put his age around fifty. It reinforced Quinn’s suspicion that if the congressman lost this current attempt at the presidency, he could try again in four years, or even in eight.
    The door to the right of the receptionist opened, and out stepped a man, perhaps five foot five. He was well dressed and appeared to be no more than thirty years old. And as if it was some unwritten policy, the man’s sandy brown hair was cut in a similar style to the one the congressman sported in the photos that lined the room.
    The man walked over to the receptionist and exchanged a few hushed words. When he looked up, he began walking toward Quinn. He looked a little tired, and the smile on his face seemed to say he’d rather be doing something else.
    “Mr. Drake?” the man said, holding out his right hand. “I’m Dylan Ray.”
    Quinn stood and shook Ray’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me,” Quinn said.
    “Well, as you can imagine, things are always busy here,” Ray said, then added quickly, “But I’m happy to squeeze you in. Please, follow me. We’ll go to my office.”
    Quinn smiled and indicated for Ray to lead the way.
    Using the same door Ray had used moments before, they passed into the heart of the congressman’s suite. There was a central bullpen surrounded by several individual offices. Dozens of people were busy doing the congressman’s work: typing, making calls, talking to each other.
    “Which one’s Congressman Guerrero’s?” Quinn asked, playing up the part of curious journalist.
    Ray stopped and turned. “Over there,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction. “See that hallway? He’s down that.”
    Quinn nodded as if it was one of the most interesting things he’d learned that week.
    A few moments later, Ray led him into a small, windowless