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“W ell?” Joe asked Felicity impatiently, ignoring the nasty look Metal was shooting at him. Everyone always treated Felicity with kid gloves. Apart from the fact that she was Metal’s love and Metal would pound anyone who was disrespectful to her, she also earned a hell of a lot of money for the company as their in-house computer guru.

And she beat everyone’s ass at video games.

“Sorry, Joe.” Felicity Ward, soon to be Felicity O’Brien, pushed herself away from his desk where she’d been using her own computer. Some kind of woo-woo piece of tech that could have been time-traveled from the future, it was so advanced. Felicity had taken one look at his laptop and sniffed in disdain. “Whoever sent you that message is scary good. I can’t identify the IP. Believe me when I say that’s unusual.”

Oh yeah, he believed Felicity. She was a computer genius and ASI had snatched her up, right after she’d unmasked an international conspiracy. An international nuclear conspiracy no less. She was smart in everything but she was off the charts smart when it came to IT. If she couldn’t track down the sender of the mystery message, no one could.

“Whoever sent it must be as smart as you,” he said.

Felicity smiled and waved Metal, who’d risen from his seat, down. It was a pillar in Metal’s thought system that Felicity was the smartest person on earth. “Yeah. Hard as it is to believe.”

“Scary stuff,” Metal rumbled.

“Yes.” Joe nodded his head sharply.

It was scary stuff. Someone Felicity couldn’t ID had sent a message about Isabel. That blew his mind. That someone knew about Isabel and that that someone knew she was connected to him. How could that happen?

“So,” Felicity said. “Let’s look at the object of the message. Isabel Lawton. Who is completely off the grid.”

Joe frowned. “What do you mean?”

Felicity was frowning, too, only at her monitor. “She almost doesn’t seem to exist. No Facebook page, no Twitter handle, I can’t find any trace of her educational or job background anywhere in the US. I’ve found plenty of Isabel Lawtons but they’re either too old or too young and no one fits what you’ve told me about her. Which, frankly, isn’t much.” She sighed and turned a serious face to him. “You’d almost think she is me.”

Hmm. Felicity had grown up in the Witness Protection Program. Her father had been a famous Russian nuclear scientist who had defected and Felicity had basically been undercover her entire life. She’d changed names several times during childhood.

“Like…a spook?” Joe asked. “Or a spook’s daughter or sister or—” He swallowed. “Someone’s wife? Maybe the wife of someone dangerous? And she’s run away from him?”

That thought burned in his chest. Isabel married to an abusive husband. It was a thought he didn’t want to have but it sort of made sense. Instead of being a woman of mystery maybe she was a woman on the run. Maybe someone was after her, which would explain how she seemed always on edge.

If that was the case, her running days were over. Joe wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. No one was going to touch her. Except him.

“Not a nice thought,” Metal said.

Metal hated abusers as much as Joe did. They’d both been sick at heart when they’d had to negotiate with a warlord in Helmand for safe passage for a convoy of marines. The warlord, who was in his sixties, had called in his pregnant wife, a girl in her late teens, to serve them. Her shaking hands had spilled some hot tea on Joe and the warlord had punched her in the face.

Joe and Metal had kept their faces bland because the mission was an important one with the lives of a marine battalion at stake, but they didn’t forget. It had been Joe’s immense pleasure to find the warlord’s head in his crosshairs after a double cross had cost the lives of fifteen marines. Pulling that trigger and seeing that fucker’s head explode had been one of the great pleasures of Joe’s life.

“What do we know about Isabel Lawton, besides the fact that she makes the best boeuf bourguignon I’ve ever tasted?”

“The best what?” Joe and Metal said in unison.

Felicity rolled her eyes. “The best boeuf bourguignon. Hello? What we had for lunch and which we all agreed was fabulous?”

“Oh.” Joe sat back. “The beef stew.”

Felicity rolled her eyes again. “Yeah. The beef stew.”

“Great stuff,” Metal said.

It had been. They’d practically inhaled it. The instant Joe had seen that message he’d invited Metal and Felicity over for a late lunch, making it clear that if Felicity didn’t come along, Metal wouldn’t get to eat.

It was a threat with bite. By now, getting a chance to eat whatever Isabel cooked was a fought-over privilege. Joe got points for Isabel’s cooking.

So they’d eaten and then Joe had shown Felicity the mystery message.

“Was she a chef?” Felicity mused, tapping on her laptop’s nearly invisible keyboard. The keys were barely raised and allowed Felicity’s hands to float and conjure up miracles with what looked like the merest strokes. “Have any chefs gone missing lately?” She briefly consulted a website then sat back. “No.”

For an instant Joe was distracted from the problem of someone stalking Isabel. “There’s a website for disappeared chefs?” he asked, astonished.

“No, dummy.” Felicity shook her head. “I consulted a list of notable chefs and wrote a little algorithm to check for people who were on last year’s list but not on this year’s lists. There were ten people missing but they were all men. Three had died and one is doing time.”

Joe slid his eyes to Metal. Felicity had done all that in less than a minute. “She’s scary.”

Metal grinned smugly. “That’s my girl.”

“Well, someone knows enough about Isabel to know that we see each other on a regular basis and that’s scary, too.” Joe ground his teeth.

“Does she see other people?” Metal asked.

“No.” Joe’s voice was abrupt. Issue closed.

Metal recognized that tone but Felicity didn’t. “How can you be so sure?”

The good thing about Felicity was her smarts. The bad thing about Felicity was her smarts.

“I just know,” Joe said, his tone chilly enough to get a frown from Metal.

Felicity’s head cocked as she studied him. She wasn’t afraid of him in any way, which was good but damn, Joe wished they were in the military and he could shut her down with a command.

Though it was entirely likely that if Felicity were in the military, she’d be a general by now. Head of Cyber Command.

“You keep tabs on her,” Felicity said.

Joe sighed. “Yeah.” He made an impatient gesture. “It’s not like I’m stalking her or anything. She’s not in a good way and to tell you the truth, she worries me.”

There, that sounded normal and sane. Concern for a neighbor, no more no less.

“Plus, she is a fabulous cook,” Felicity said dryly.

“Yeah, there’s that too.”

“And probably beautiful, judging by the expression on your face.”

Busted. Joe sighed. “Yeah. She’s a looker.”

Metal rested his arm against Felicity’s seat back and she leaned into it, the movement so natural because she’d probably done that a thousand times.

Metal was a lucky guy. Felicity was a looker, too. Joe and Metal were old enough not to be attracted by looks alone. As a teenager, Joe’d been turned on by just about any girl who didn’t make dogs whine and cringe. The pretty ones had been like catnip. Experience had taught him the hard way that pretty features didn’t mean shit. He’d met some vain and vicious pretty women and his radar was fine-tuned for that. Felicity and Isabel didn’t ping any of his warning buttons.

Like Isabel, Felicity wasn’t vain or neurotic about her looks. She and Metal were lovers, but they were also a team. A pretty cool one, too.

The same with a lot of guys in ASI. At first, Joe had thought it was something in the water out here in Portland. A lot of the guys were in tight, solid relationships. Maybe because the two owners, John Huntington, aka Midnight, and Douglas Kowalski, known as the Senior, had fantastic marriages. Jacko was also engaged to a looker. They were crazy in love, too.

Weird, so many solid couples in one place.

“Someone knows you’re interested,” Metal said soberly. “Otherwise that message doesn’t make sense. You don’t tell someone to look after their neighbor unless you know there’s some relationship there.”

“And you don’t take high-level precautions to hide your identity,” Felicity added. She touched her magic computer. “This guy, or this woman, employed a lot of difficult tricks to hide his or her identity. It’s not just a question of an anonymizer. The person who sent the message had to take a number of steps to hide their identity, and not easy steps, either. That person had to work, and work hard, to hide from me.”

She said it without false modesty. Felicity was the best of the best and she knew it.

“Someone’s watching you,” Metal said. “No way around it.”

“Or watching Isabel.” Joe didn’t know which thought bothered him more.

“And you’re not catching it.” Metal shook his head. “I don’t buy it. You’ve got good situational awareness. You haven’t noticed anything, anything at all?”

Joe shook his head.

“Security cams,” Felicity said suddenly and both men turned to her.

“What?”

But she was too busy communing with her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. She sat back and turned the monitor so he and Metal could see. Joe’s eyes widened.

She had some kind of map of their street with an overlay of security cameras with their field of vision. His street with projected cones over several houses.

“Okay, these are the security cams on your street, including yours and Isabel’s. Someone has probably hacked into some of them.”

“Not mine,” Joe said heatedly.

“No,” Felicity said softly. “I set yours up myself and they are not hackable.”

“And I set up Isabel’s system using your equipment and software.” So nobody had hacked his vidcam system or Isabel’s.

“What about the vidcams in the neighborhood,” he asked. “Are they hackable?”

Felicity had kept up the computer patter, fingers flying. “Oh, yeah,” she said and turned the monitor toward him. He and Metal bent forward.

And shit. Sure enough, there was his front doorstep, front and center of the camera view of his neighbor across the street, Edward Crawford, a retired doctor. Isabel’s doorstep was at the edge, barely visible. But when she walked down the small paved path to her gate, she’d be visible.

Felicity scrolled, from vidcam to vidcam, and he got a choppy view of his side of the street down to the park, where security vidcams took over.

“Are these vidcams hackable by someone who’s not you?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” Felicity said. “You’d need a little nimbleness and savvy but they are hackable. You don’t have to be me to do it.”

Again, she said that without false pride. She knew how good she was.

Joe swallowed. “Have they been hacked?”

Felicity frowned. “Now, that I can’t say. Because I’m assuming that whoever is doing this is pretty good. Good enough to cover his traces.” She gave a half smile. “Or her traces. I’m assuming it’s a guy, though.”

“Yeah.”

“You still have that same email address? You didn’t change it to Joe.Harris123 did you?”

Felicity had a thing with passwords and email addresses. All of her passwords were created using a randomizer—and she remembered them all—and her email address was impossible to guess.

“Yeah.” Joe rubbed the back of his neck. “You pounded that home to me. To all of us. So not only is this guy following me and following Isabel, he?—”

“Has a stake in this. He cares for some reason,” Metal said.

“That’s the thing that has me worried.” Joe looked at his friend who was looking as grim as he felt. “Someone is watching us who cares. And reaching out and touching me. So, yeah, he’s saying I need to protect Isabel but how do I know he’s a friend?”

Felicity’s pretty face was scrunched up in thought. “I’m not too familiar with tactics, not like you guys are, but didn’t he just show his hand? For what purpose, if not to focus you on Isabel?”

“And you’re already pretty focused,” Metal said, jabbing Joe with an elbow. Metal was a strong guy and his elbow jabs would knock over a lesser man. Joe wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of budging.

“I mean, what does he have to gain?” Felicity persisted. “So I think we’re going to have to take this message at face value.” She held up a slender hand and started counting the points off her fingers. “One, he’s probably not in town. He’s at a different location and can’t make it in time if she needs immediate help. Two, he’s on Isabel’s side. I think we need to simply assume that. Otherwise the message makes no sense. Because if he wanted to hurt her, he wouldn’t have alerted you to his presence. Three, he’s been able to peg Joe as a good guy and as someone who has a stake in Isabel’s safety. To reveal himself like that to Joe, he has to have done some digging. Though Joe’s military history is probably heavily redacted as to specific missions, the facts are publicly available. He’d know you were a SEAL. And he trusts you. So I guess in a way we’re starting to get a picture of him.”

“Okay.” Everything Felicity was saying made sense. “So now what do I do?”

Felicity cocked her head and smiled.

“Uh-oh,” Metal said. “I know that smile.”

“We do two things.” Her fingers moved on the keyboard. “First, we answer the guy.”

“Okay.” Joe sighed. “So, what am I going to say?”

“You already said it,” Felicity declared, showing him the message she’d sent.

You bet your ass I’m going to protect Isabel.

She stood up. “And now I’m going to go visit our mystery woman.”

Joe’s eyes widened. “Wait!” he said but it was too late. Felicity moved fast when she wanted to. In a second she’d grabbed the pot the beef stew had come in, and which they’d washed, and was out the door.

Joe and Metal looked at each other when the door closed.

“She doesn’t take no for an answer,” Joe finally said, glancing at his friend.

“Nope.” Metal shook his head. “She doesn’t. And she usually does exactly as she pleases. But living with her, I have learned one thing and that’s that she’s usually right. So I’ve learned to stop worrying.”

And he had her back. That went without saying. Metal was always there for her and always would be.

They sat in the silence of the house and simply waited. As SEALs they’d been taught patience the hard way—through pain. So they were perfectly capable of waiting anything out. Because clearly, Felicity wasn’t just dropping off the pot. She was staying at Isabel’s, God only knew for how long.

“So,” Metal finally said, looking at him keenly. “Isabel.”

“Isabel,” Joe nodded.

“She’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” Joe sighed. “Very.”

“Pretty women can be dangerous.”

“Can be,” Joe agreed. “But she’s like Felicity. Nice, not nasty. But she’s also…damaged. Something’s happened to her, only I don’t know what and she isn’t talking. It’s like there’s this huge no-go zone she’s created and I don’t have the courage to step into it.”

Metal gave him a sidelong glance. Joe had courage in battle. He’d proved that time and again. He’d spilled blood time and time again, once in saving Metal’s ass. But it was true. Squeezing info out of Isabel that she didn’t want to give—he just couldn’t go there.

“What?” He met Metal’s eyes. “You’re not gonna make a crack?”

“Nope.” Metal zipped his lips. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned lately it’s the power of women. She doesn’t want you to know something, you’re not gonna know it until she wants you to.”

Joe nodded. Man, yeah.

He’d been present when CIA agents interrogated jihadists and their methods had been brutal, even the psychological ones. Necessary, but nightmare inducing. Joe was down with breaking terrorists. The thought of coercing Isabel in any way, however, made him nauseous. But damn, he wanted to know her deal, find out what happened to her.

Because the truth was, there was that really ugly suspicion rolling around in the back of his brain. He couldn’t get it out of his head that she’d been abused. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about but it stuck in his head like a nasty burr. That first day—she’d been hollow-eyed and terrified. Joe knew that look. None of his teammates had had it, of course, they bent but were never broken. But Joe’d spent the better part of a decade in war zones and he’d seen shell-shocked civilians. They had that same look.

Actually, it drove him bugfuck crazy, the thought of someone hurting Isabel. He could picture it in his mind and it was almost more than he could bear. Isabel’s skin was delicate, incredibly fine. The idea of her covered in bruises made his heart beat faster with rage.

Of course, he couldn’t go anywhere with these thoughts. Who would he talk to about it? Metal and Jacko would just look at him funny. And he couldn’t ask Isabel because she wasn’t talking.

Because if Isabel was on the run from some man, if that cryptic message was from someone who wanted her to be safe, well whoever sent it had sent it to the right guy. Joe had never backed down from a fight and never would. And to protect Isabel? He’d go to the wall.

“What are you thinking?” Metal asked. The guy looked like a WWE wrestling champ, a big slab of meat and Joe had seen people treat him as if he was a few sandwiches shy of a picnic. Nothing could be further from the truth. Metal was sharp—he just had nothing to prove and he liked being underestimated.

So Joe knew better than to lie to Metal. But he could put a little Vaseline on the lens and misdirect.

“Trying to figure out what’s wrong with Isabel. What happened to her.”

Metal narrowed his eyes. “You figure she’s running from some guy who hurt her.”

There it was, out in the open. Joe sighed. “Yeah. I think about it all the time. Drives me nuts.”

“I hear you,” Metal said. “Every time I think about that fuckhead slicing Felicity open, I can’t see straight.”

Felicity had been coming to visit Lauren and instead she’d been met at the airport by a guy who wanted to kidnap her for what was in her pretty head. Felicity had escaped because she was Felicity, but not before getting a nasty knife wound. Metal said it still gave him nightmares.

“Men who can do that…” Joe trailed off. Men who could do that weren’t worthy of being called men.

“Yeah.” Metal looked grim. They both got sick at the idea of men abusing women and children.

“So, suppose a guy like that is after Isabel?” It was his worst nightmare. “How would I know about that if she’s not talking? This guy could just show up one day…” He shuddered.

“Like the email said—protect Isabel.”

Fuck, yeah. Joe opened his mouth to answer when the front door opened and Felicity came in together with a gust of cold air. She was carrying something big wrapped in tinfoil and set it on the kitchen counter.

Felicity started slowly taking off her gloves, picking at each finger, enjoying the attention. One glove, the other…

Joe couldn’t stand it. “Well?”

“Well?” she echoed.

“What did you find out? Did you guys talk?”

“Yes, we did. We chatted. And she said absolutely nothing about herself. But she didn’t have to. One look at her and I knew. I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out yourself.”

Joe followed her out of the kitchen. “Figure what out?”

Felicity sat at her computer. Joe could swear that she didn’t touch the keyboard but it suddenly lit up. He’d often wondered if she had arranged her software to mess with their heads. When she was gone from her computer it automatically shut down. When she sat down in front of it, it automatically turned on.

“Who she is,” Felicity answered. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“So.” Joe bent as a number of photos appeared on Felicity’s monitor. “Who is she?”

She pointed at the screen. There was some kind of political event, someone at a podium, surrounded by other people. Joe peered closer and frowned. The person at the podium was Alex Delvaux. Joe had been OUTCONUS and then in rehab so he wasn’t too up on politics, but it looked like a rally. He remembered that Alex Delvaux had been contemplating a run for the presidency before being killed, together with his entire family, in the Washington Massacre.

Felicity placed a fingertip over a woman in the background on the podium. The features weren’t clear, all the faces were a blur. She was good-looking but all the Delvauxs were good-looking. Had been good-looking. Now they were all dead.

“So what is it?” he asked, impatiently. He wanted to know what she’d found out about Isabel.

“Here she is. Your next-door neighbor.” Felicity tapped once on the face. “Isabel Delvaux.”

* * *

Washington, DC

Phase two was tall and distinguished-looking, with a shock of iron gray hair and craggy features. Phase two was also dumb as a rock, which Blake was counting on.

“Hector!” John London stood up with a fake smile showing fake teeth, manicured hand outstretched. Nice dry handshake. “Sit down, sit down! Can I offer you something? Cup of coffee? They have a nice Colombian roast, hill country beans. Or maybe a cup of tea? Loose leaf Darjeeling, none of this tea bag shit.”

“Tea would be fine,” Blake murmured, knowing better than to ask for a drink, which he would have preferred. London was an aggressive teetotaler, having been a drunk half his life. He was a dry drunk, incredibly vain and a massive hypocrite.

Blake had hated him for thirty years.

“Wife and kids?” Blake asked, sitting across from London in an old cracked Chesterfield. The Voyagers Club, founded in 1895, was proud that it hadn’t updated the decor in over two hundred years. There were no more explorers in the upper reaches of America’s elite, but the old tradition of what happened in the Voyagers Club staying in the Voyagers Club still reigned. As old-fashioned as it was, some pretty high-tech people went over it weekly, checking for spyware. It was as safe a place to talk serious business as existed in Washington.

Elites need safe spaces and this was one. A lot of secret business had been done here and it had never escaped these walls.

“Wife and kids are fine,” London said easily. They all hated his guts, as Blake knew. London had two kids. One was a high-functioning cocaine addict who worked on Wall Street and the other was on her fourth husband. London’s wife was a dedicated fashionista who disliked her husband but who wanted ferociously to be First Lady.

Well, Blake was here for that very reason. A reason that had vast geopolitical repercussions, that would change the course of history, but that would, as a minor consequence, make Lindsey London, clotheshorse extraordinaire and superbitch, First Lady.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Blake said. “But I didn’t ask you to meet me to exchange pleasantries. I’m here to talk business.”

London tried really hard to put on an intelligent face. Blake knew that he would report every word back to his campaign manager, Ed Dabny, so Ed could parse it for him. This would make Ed’s day. Not to mention Ed’s decade. Because when London won, Ed would be chief of staff.

Of the president of the United States.

“Business, eh?” London’s face gleamed. Just a little sweat of anxiety. He knew perfectly well Blake was smarter than he was and he suspected some kind of double cross. “What kind of business?” London made a pathetic stab at keeping the worry out of his voice.

Blake plucked at the knife-sharp pleat in his Ermenegildo Zegna trousers. He hoisted his foot slightly to admire his Gucci loafer.

Lifting his head he met London’s eyes. “Did you read the blog in Area 8 ?”

Area 8 was quickly becoming the most important political blog in the city, razor-sharp speculation coupled with deep hard news.

London dipped his head, suppressing a smile. “Sure.”

Liar. London didn’t read. Ed read for him. But Ed would have summarized this one. The article had pulled together a lot of other articles and had quoted interviews with some movers and shakers.

According to Area 8 , Blake had decided to run. To pick up the mantle of Alex Delvaux and run on his pro-business but green platform. Scuttlebutt had it that Blake was going to ask London to be his veep, though London wasn’t on the Area 8 list.

London had already done the math. After the Massacre, Blake was a shoo-in for the nomination and would undoubtedly win the election. And after his two terms, London would still be under sixty and could run himself.

Eight years at Blair House and another eight at the White House. That was what was dancing through London’s handsome but empty head.

“I read it. And I watched Meet the Press last Sunday, too. Interesting times, eh?” London was watching him avidly.

Blake sipped his tea. “Everyone’s talking about possible VP selections. Fraser, Monti. And Kristen Nash. She’s a woman. That hasn’t been done yet, except on TV. A female veep. What do you think?”

“Nash. She was a firebrand DA when she was young. Some of her prosecutions might come back to bite her in the ass. Though it is a fine one.” London smiled smugly, knowing he could say things like this in the Voyagers Club and no one would object. Blake sure wouldn’t. Kristen Nash did have a world-class ass.

“It is indeed.” Blake tilted his head. “So, that’s Area 8’s list of possible VP candidates. The next president is going to have a hell of a lot on his plate.”

“Or hers.”

Blake bowed his head. “Good point. Or hers. So—after the Washington Massacre things have become more difficult. The military has still not stepped down from DEFCON 3. Costs us a billion a day.”

London put on his policy face, the one he put on several times a week when going on news shows. His handsome head had been seen everywhere in the past couple of months. “Not to mention the market losses and economic downturn. The next report from the OBM will say that unemployment is at a ten-year high. We’re going to need a strong hand on the tiller. And whoever is president is going to need a really good team, starting with the veep.”

This was a little piece of red meat thrown out to Blake, the presumed strongest candidate. London was telling him that he expected Blake to be the candidate and win the election and that he wanted to be in the cabinet. Or even better, to be veep.

Blake gave a deep sigh. Looked down at the carpet in contemplation. “In all confidence, John?—"

“Yes?” London leaned forward.

“I’ve been given assurances that the party will swing behind me. Armstrong and Macy want a whack at it, and DeLuca wants another try, but the party feels that if a strong front-runner is established early on, it won’t be torn apart during the primaries. I was told that if I declare now, I can sail through New Hampshire and Iowa. Now that is a lot to take on. A lot depends as well on coming up with a viable and valuable veep candidate.”

London scrunched his face into a thoughtful frown. “That’s true. It’s a lot to have on your plate. Especially right now.”

His clue. Blake leaned forward, lowered his voice.

“Well, John that’s the thing. Party analysts are clear that I have a really good shot at winning and taking with me a lot of politicians riding on my coattails. But?—”

London leaned forward, too, face a little perplexed. “But?”

Blake sighed. He’d done some deepwater fishing and at least the fish fought back. London was like a farm fish, way too easy to reel in. He pulled a long, sad face.

“But—I find myself unable to get past the Massacre. Alex was my best friend. We’d been best friends since childhood. The Delvauxs were like family to me. And, to tell the truth, I’m still a little shell-shocked by that night. I should have died along with the others. It is a miracle I’m still alive. I’m having a lot of trouble processing the attack. I’m having stress flashbacks.”

Blake put a little tremolo in his voice.

London placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, no doubt mind spinning to know where Blake was going with this. “I’m so sorry, Blake. Anything I can do—anything at all. All you have to do is ask.”

Blake managed not to smile. London wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.

He briefly touched London’s hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t know how much I appreciate this, John. And, as a matter of fact, there is something you can do for me. Something big.”

Surprise flared in London’s eyes. His expression of help had been purely rote. But he knew how the game was played and gave a faint smile, meant to be encouraging. “You name it, Hector, and it’s yours.”

Starting to reel in the fish…

Blake took in a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something portentous. He looked London straight in the eye and saw him repress a flinch.

“I haven’t spoken with anyone about this yet, John I wanted to sound you out first. I’ve thought about this long and hard and prayed on it, too. You know better than anyone my sense of duty and love of this country, so the decision has been very painful. But the fact of the matter is, John…at this moment, I am unable to face a primary campaign. I lost too many people in the Massacre and I haven’t finished grieving. The loss has simply been too great.” He leaned over and clasped London’s knee. “So that I why I am asking you to make the sacrifice for me. With your permission, I’d like to go back to the party and throw my weight behind your candidacy for the presidency.”

Hand on knee, Blake could feel the jolt of excitement run through London. He’d just been handed the keys to the kingdom and it was Christmas and a thousand birthdays all rolled into one. This election was special. The Massacre was fresh on everyone’s mind. The country was still traumatized and longed for a leader to rally round. The mantle of the Delvauxs was supposed to be Blake’s, but he was passing it on to London.

More a coronation than an election.

London was trying to repress his emotions, but the skin around his nostrils grew pale. A pulse beat in a vein along his throat. He laid a hand over his heart and Blake had no doubt that it was a genuine gesture, not a studied one. His heart was probably jackhammering.

London’s fondest dream, handed to him on a plate . Something he would never have been able to gain on his own, and it was going to be given to him.

“There’s more.” Blake gazed deep into London’s eyes. “I have some very powerful and wealthy people behind me, John beyond the party itself. You have no idea the resources that we will make available to you. If you don’t sleep with an underage punk rocker or get caught with cocaine up your nose or strangle a staffer, the job is yours. The position will be yours.” He bowed his head, keeping all irony at bay. “Mr. President.”

London huffed out an excited breath. “Oh my God. Believe me, Hector, when I say I will do my utmost to be worthy?—”

Blake cut him off before he started sounding like a campaign ad. “However,” he said sternly. “There are a few promises you’ll have to make to me. To us. To the people who will be backing you.”

“Anything,” London promised fervently. And Blake had no doubt he was telling the truth. He’d do anything, anything at all. Good.

“The people behind me have incredible resources which they will place at your disposal. But they are going to want certain things. Certain favors. Nothing that could harm the country, of course. Just things that will ease their business dealings. You need to make a commitment to me that on the rare occasions I ask, you will follow my suggestions.”

“Absolutely. Anything you want.” London’s head was bobbing enthusiastically. He’d sell his firstborn to sex traffickers to be president. He thought he was agreeing to getting a few trade treaties passed or moving legislation that would cut business taxes. He had no idea.

Because phase two was not becoming president. Phase two was controlling the president. And Blake had just secured that.

Blake couldn’t move if he was kept under 24/7 surveillance by the Secret Service. But he certainly could as a private citizen with untold wealth. Because beyond phase two were phases three, four and five.

After which America as he knew it would be gone.

Excellent.