Chapter Five: Meeting Hillary Clinton Again
Washington, D.C.
This tiny patch of land, barely 177 square kilometers in total and only 159 of it dry ground, sits cradled between Maryland and Virginia. Its permanent population hovers just above half a million. Yet every lever of American power is concentrated here like nowhere else on earth.
Out of those 600,000 residents, more than 100,000 work directly for the federal government. Add the members of Congress who shuttle back and forth to their home districts every weekend, the lobbyists, the think-tank analysts, the high-priced lawyers, and the consultants who orbit them all. One in every three people in this city earns a living from the machinery of federal power.
The irony is sharp. Despite layers of security—Metropolitan Police, Capitol Police, FBI, and backup from surrounding counties—Washington's streets remain dangerously unpredictable. It is a city of two realities.
In the gleaming core around the Capitol, the White House, and the wealthy Northwest quadrant, the murder rate is lower than winning a two-hundred-million-dollar lottery. Spring brings cherry blossoms that drift across spotless sidewalks like pink snow, giving the city its postcard name: the City of Cherry Blossoms.
Step three hundred meters east of the White House, however, and the illusion shatters. Hollow-eyed addicts drift through the alleys, sizing up every passerby. Hundreds of homicides happen here each year; robbery and carjacking are daily facts of life. "Murder Capital" and "Crime Capital" are labels the city has never shaken.
Heaven and hell, separated by a few city blocks.
None of it touched Scott Rogers. He belonged to the 0.1 percent who lived above the divide and never had to walk through the other side.
The Boeing 727 "Palace in the Sky" had lifted off from Los Angeles five and a half hours earlier. Now it descended toward Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, the closest field to downtown—only five miles from the White House. Unlike sprawling Dulles, Reagan served as the private commuter hub for the capital's elite. Every VIP lounge was filled with suited congressional aides and briefcase-carrying bureaucrats. Even the jet noise seemed to carry the low hum of political calculation.
The plane taxied to the private ramp. A flight attendant knocked softly on the bedroom door.
Scott finished washing up, dressed quickly, and stepped out. Jennifer had already slipped away—smart woman. She had been exactly what he needed for the long flight: beautiful, willing, and gone when the wheels touched down. The ten-thousand-dollar check he had left on the nightstand was more than generous; it could have bought an entire evening with a top model.
Half an hour later he cleared the VIP exit with his two bodyguards. Trump Airlines had arranged a Lincoln sedan and driver, but Scott waved the driver off.
"Michael, you drive. Mark, ride shotgun."
Michael Jones—retired SEAL Team Six operator, veteran of black-ops missions overseas—nodded once and slid behind the wheel. Mark Williams—senior FBI agent on special assignment, courtesy of Hillary's quiet influence—took the front passenger seat. Michael earned two hundred thousand a year. Mark's federal salary was supplemented by a hundred-thousand-dollar annual consulting fee paid through a firm registered in his wife's name. Scott was its only client.
It was just after three in the afternoon. Lunch had been served aboard—excellent, as always on a private charter. Scott settled into the back seat.
"Straight to Georgetown," he told Michael.
"Copy that, boss."
The black Lincoln rolled out of the airport and onto the parkway. Six miles to the townhouse. Ten minutes if traffic behaved.
Georgetown had been founded in 1751, forty years before the District of Columbia itself. It had stayed an independent city until 1871, when it was folded into Washington. Old brick sidewalks, Federal-style row houses, and quiet tree-lined streets made it one of the most desirable addresses in America—and now one of the most powerful. More and more senior officials and high-dollar consultants were renting or buying here. Power followed money, and money followed power.
Scott's place wasn't rented. He had paid nearly a million dollars cash for the three-story red-brick Baroque townhouse on a quiet side street. The gesture had pleased Hillary. She understood what it meant: he was investing in their arrangement, in her future, in the life they were quietly building together.
He didn't mind the upkeep. He didn't mind that the house was old or that Washington's social scene required constant caution. He didn't even mind the mediocre weather. What mattered was the address, the proximity to the White House, and the message it sent every time Hillary walked through the door.
Michael knew the route by heart. Ten minutes later the Lincoln eased to a stop in front of the red-brick villa. Mark stepped out first, scanned the street with practiced eyes, then opened a large black umbrella and held the rear door.
Scott stepped onto the sidewalk. "Take the car back. I'll call when I need you."
"Yes, boss."
The two men drove off. Scott walked up the short flight of steps and rang the doorbell. He had a key, but it was daytime. Appearances mattered. Officially, this was a property Hillary rented.
A moment later the door opened. A middle-aged Black woman in a crisp uniform smiled warmly.
"Mr. Rogers! You're back. Come in, come in."
Keisha, the housekeeper Hillary had hired, stepped aside. Hiring a Black woman had been a deliberate political move—good optics for the campaign, a quiet signal to voters. Hillary had also been blunt with Scott: "You're like a damn puppy. Pretty face walks by and you can't help yourself. Do what you want outside, but not under my roof."
Scott stepped into the cool marble foyer.
High heels clicked on the staircase. A blonde woman in a tailored cream suit appeared at the top, paused, then descended with that familiar, commanding grace.
When their eyes met, Scott's face broke into a genuine smile.
"Hill," he said softly. "Long time no see."