Friday. Unknown. Washington, DC.
SKILTON INHALED DEEPLY THROUGH his nose, held the breath for a count of five, and only then did he let it out. On the screen, a trim woman bent forward. Her mouth moved, but Skilton had her on mute. Yoga was more relaxing without prattling people.
One reality of the world was that he was getting older. These cross-Atlantic trips weren't as easy on his body as they used to be.
He bent forward until his nose practically touched his knees. He flattened his hands on the floor and began walking them out until he could transfer weight to them.
Inhale again.
Dixon should be dead by now. It was honestly a matter of luck that Skilton had found someone already disposed toward violence and disliking the senator. All he'd needed was a push. A little nudge.
Hold the breath.
Skilton would allow Dixon's people to squirm for a day. That seemed about right.
Push the breath out.