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Prologue

Trey

January

The big guy is overreacting, if you ask me.

The annoying clicking of keyboards, chattering government employees in the nearby cube farm, and the scent of burnt coffee surround us as we march side by side through the hall toward the director’s office. We've been here enough times over the years that the desk jockey’s stares don't linger when they glance up from their glowing computer screens. Some of the visits were scheduled, typically follow-ups, while the others weren’t so mundane. I have the propensity to find my way into trouble if you ask our director.

My best friend and team lead grunts out another string of curse words under his breath. I can’t help the smirk pulling up my lips in response to his pointed annoyance.

I feel great about the stellar life choices I've made up to this point and have nothing to regret. Tank, on the other hand, is on the verge of blowing a gasket if the fiery red tint beneath his dark complexion is any indication. Needless to say, he's still pissed at me, even though I did the right thing. The man can hold a grudge, that's for sure. The incident happened well over twenty–four hours ago, yet he’s still pouting.

“If we get fired, I'll murder you with my bare hands, drive your dead-ass body down to Florida, and feed you to the gators. I cannot believe you pulled that fucking stunt.”

Yikes, he's cussing. Never a good sign. After this meeting with the director, I should get him something special to make it up to him. I would say a double cheeseburger, but then his wife, Sarah—love her, though I’m scared of her—will ride my ass for feeding him the processed abomination.

I should pick up something for Rachel too. She was fuming yesterday when I told her what happened. No clue why, but damn, she was pissed.Ispissed. She wouldn't even talk to me this morning before I left. Whatever it is, we'll either figure it out or I'll apologize and buy her something pretty. That’s always worked in the past.

“It'll all be fine like always. Just wait and see, buddy,” I mutter under my breath as his thick knuckles pound against the dark wood door separating us from the director’s office. “You worry too much.”

“Worry?” He turns, facing me full-on. “You tackled the motherfucking vice president of the United States, you idiot.”

I lift both hands, palms out, in surrender. “Listen, I don't mind you plotting my death and telling me about it in detail, but no name-calling. You know it hurts my feelings.”

“Of course this is a joke to you. Everything is a damn joke.”

On the other side of the door, a muffled female voice yells for us to come in.

Hand on the cool metal knob, I give the flimsy door a push and pause with one foot over the threshold. “If we're going to fight like a married a couple, the least you could do is cook every once in a while, or at least put out,” I say over my shoulder with a smirk.

A muttered string of curse words flies at my back as I step deeper into the director’s office and pause behind one of the two chairs. Damn, he's fun to rile up. You'd think I would be tired of it after all these years together, but nope, still fun as hell.

Hands tucked in the pockets of my slacks and wearing my signature smirk, I wait for the director to acknowledge our presence. My cocky smirk has gotten me out of more trouble than not, it's worth a shot to see if it can work its magic on her today.

“And what are you smirking about, Mr. Benson?” The director's pinched face peers up from the file flipped open on her desk. The tension in her tired eyes sobers me up a fraction. This could be more of a challenge than I initially expected. Still, not worried, it’s me we’re talking about here.

“Nothing, ma'am,” I respond, still smiling. “You're looking lovely today. Did you do something to your hair?”

“No.”

“Something is different. You look ten years—no, make that twenty years younger.”

“Cut the shit.” She grunts and rocks backward in her high-backed cheap leather chair. An ear-piercing squeak cuts through the otherwise quiet office. She winces as she adjusts, settling further into the leather cushions. “You know why you're here. Let's start with your side of the story, shall we?”

“Short or long version?” I slide my hands out of the silk-lined pockets to grip the mundane office chair’s wooden frame in front of me.

“For fuck’s sake.” Tank stiffens, his back going ramrod straight beside me, shocked at his outburst. Never one to break the rules, that one. It's why we get along so well—I bend the rules to my liking, and he does everything he can to keep me or anyone else from dying. It's fun. “Sorry, ma'am,” he apologizes with a slight dip of his head.

The director pulls her thick plastic-framed glasses from her nose and tosses them onto the desk in front of her. “Might as well tell the long version, Mr. Benson. No doubt this will be entertaining.”

“Of course.” I shift my attention to Tank. “Buddy, you should sit. You don't look so good.” It's the truth. His large bald head gleams with beaded sweat, and the buttons of his dress shirt pull taut with each of his deep breaths.

The chair complains under his heavy weight as he sinks onto the stiff cushion. He looks like a cartoon, such a huge guy squished into a tiny chair. Tank's large size came in handy back in the day when he played college football and then went pro after those four years. Nowadays it's the perfect idiot deterrent when we're on the job. Anyone attempting to start shit takes one look at him and bolts in the opposite direction.

“Go on, Mr. Benson. I don't have all day.”

“Right, sorry, ma'am.” I clear my throat. “Yesterday we arrived at the VP's home, One Observatory Circle, for the start of our shift at eleven hundred hours. Nothing seemed out of place as we made our rounds outside. Inside we met with the beta team in the security office to cover the details of the previous shift: reviewing incident reports, any new threats, checking the VP's schedule for the day, things like that. Inside the security room, movement on one of the screens caught my attention. Zooming in, I recognized the room in question was the library, and inside was Vice President Nick and some woman. They seemed to be talking, but they were a little too close for my liking. Something didn't feel right about the situation, so I left Tank, my team lead, in the security room to see what was going on. When I arrived, I found the door locked, which raised even more suspicion. A loud noise and a muffled shout prompted me to kick the lock and barge in. Once inside the library, I scanned the room, made a quick assessment of the situation, and felt the vice president was in danger, so I handled the situation.”