Secret Service

A M|M Romance
Tal Bauer
This novel contains scenes of mature sexual content.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, Tal
Bauer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and
certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Edited by Alicia Z Ramos
Copyright © 2022 Tal Bauer
Cover Art by Angela Haddon Book Cover Design © Copyright 2022
Print ISBN: 9798835643240
Published in 2022 by Tal Bauer
United States of America
 For Cortney.
This story would not be seeing the light of day without your
unwavering support.
Thank you.
This book is forever yours.
 Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34

About the Author

Also by Tal Bauer
 Foreword

Portions of this novel take place in a world where a fictional

Russia invaded fictional Ukraine, and were written prior to
February 2022, when, in our world, Russia launched an
invasion into the sovereign nation of Ukraine. This invasion
rapidly escalated into full-scale war and has created a
deepening humanitarian crisis.
My heart goes out to the Ukrainian people, and I stand in
support of their inspiring resistance to tyranny and
oppression.
I believe the international community must work together
to take all appropriate actions to put an end to this conflict
and to guarantee the safety of Ukrainians both in and outside
of Ukraine.
Portions of the proceeds from this book will be donated to
the International Committee of the Red Cross, the Ukrainian
Red Cross Society, and Doctors Without Borders.
 Chapter One

R eese
N ow

B rennan Walker had my heart in his hands from the

moment I first walked into his Oval Office. There is a key
to a part of my soul I never knew existed, and he holds that
key inside himself.
Didn’t matter that I’d never been with a man. Didn’t
matter that I had never craved a man. Had never once
thought about muscles moving beneath sweat-slick skin,
about the scrape of stubble against my inner thigh, about the
taste of a furred chest against my lips.
A lit match scorched each of my nerve endings when I
shook hands with President Walker a year ago. His
acetylene-blue eyes locked onto mine, and I was undone.
What I remember most from the day we met is the buzz in
my brain, like neon lights short-circuiting when you step
into a dive bar. The way time stood still, like film catching
and quivering on the reel, unable to move forward. How
something ripped open inside me.
There are people who should not come together in this
world. Reality quakes too strongly beneath the force of their
love.
 I am no one. I am no titan, no giant walking this planet,
but if my love for this man was ever tested—if ever the world
tried to take him from me—I would rip the sky from the
edges of this earth.
This love I feel terrifies me, and it’s terrified me from the
moment our gazes first locked, when the distance between
our souls seemed like an impossible, unknowable divide.
Human beings are not meant to carry nuclear reactors within
their hearts.
We didn’t meet that day so much as collide. Crashed. Set
our futures and our presents and every muscle fiber of our
hearts on fire.
Here we are, colliding again.
He backs me down the hallway from the Oval to his
private study. We’re kissing like nothing in the world can
stop us. My ass hits the desk edge, and he swipes the surface
clean of his folders and binders. Policy briefs and the Top
Secret pouch tumble to the floor. He guides me down,
moaning into my mouth as my hands sink into his hair, our
lips locked.
Only our clothes separate us, and if I could, I’d rip them
away. Feel his chest against mine, bare skin to bare skin.
He’s the first man who ever kissed me. The first who
buried his face in the back of my neck and sighed my name
like a prayer.
He’s the first man who dropped to his knees in front of
me.
Brennan cups my face as our kiss deepens. My hands dig
into the solidity of his shoulders, hard enough to bruise. I’ve
clung to them, sunk my teeth into them, buried my shouts in
their broad expanse. The weight of the world rests on those
shoulders, yet he’s made room for me, too.
My thighs grip his hips, dragging him to me, until we’re
pressed so close it’s nearly painful. His hands sweep down
my sides, but he runs into my holster. His touch skirts my
pistol and lands at my waist, and if we had ten more
seconds, we’d be undoing each other’s belts.
But we don’t have ten seconds. What we both want, we
can’t have—not now.
That weapon and everything it represents is in the way.
My internal clock fires, a talent I’ve cultivated through
years of standing watches in this White House. “Four
minutes are up,” I breathe. “Time to go, mon cher.”
Brennan rests his forehead against mine, our lips still
touching. This is a caress now instead of a kiss, a connection
we need like we need to breathe. He steps back, but I blink up
at the overhead lights as I count down my pulse.
We need these seconds to pack this away, come back to
our cold, hard reality.
We should never have met, because there’s nothing I
won’t do for Brennan, and that kind of love—burn the world
down, fly the black flag, you are my forever for always—is too
dangerous.
We are dangerous together.
If I stop to really think about what I’m doing, my
carefully constructed justifications and excuses and
rationalizations will collapse. I’ve bargained and
compromised and made deals with the devil, all so I can taste
this man’s kiss and feel his skin against my own.
Our stolen minutes are up.
On the ground, thrown down when we couldn’t keep our
hands off each other, is the classified pouch, the Top-Secret,
Presidential-Eyes-Only one. It’s the reason we’re here,
burning these four minutes as my most trusted team of
agents puts the final pieces together for one of the greatest
presidential subterfuges of all time. Brennan and I have
broken every rule, but not once—not once—have I let a sliver
of risk through my shield that surrounds the president. He’s
not just the job. He’s everything.
Which is why I hate tonight’s mission more than I’ve
hated any other. It claws at me, chews through my thoughts
until I want to scrape my flesh from my bones.
But more than that, I hate that whatever is happening, it
has Brennan running raw. He’s ragged. Fracturing. His kiss
tastes like desperation, and his hands are trembling as they
cling to me.
Why the hell does CIA Director Liu need to talk to
President Walker off-site, in the middle of the night? Away
from everybody, and so far off the books we’re operating in
illegal margins?
Whatever the reason, this meeting is so classified that no
one in Brennan’s administration can know it’s happening.
I’m the closest person on the planet to Brennan, and he
hasn’t even told me what’s going on.
Brennan is going to Langley in an SUV that will run dark. I
don’t want him going anywhere without my impenetrable
layers of security, but that kind of protection draws
attention, and right now, he needs to go as unnoticed as
possible.
Usually, presidential motorcades are half a mile long,
flanked on each end with motorcycle patrols blocking traffic.
There are pacer cars, dummy limos, the Counter Assault
Team, an ambulance, the comms wagon, electronic
countermeasures sweeping the airwaves, a helicopter
overwatch, and, of course, my army of agents.
Tonight, there will be none of that.
Our misdirection started hours ago, when the Marine
guard outside the Oval Office stood down. There’s a Marine
on post whenever the Oval is occupied, and it’s an obvious
signal to the world that the president is at work in the West
Wing. Brennan’s schedule for the evening has been doctored
—a statutory violation—and supposedly he dined alone,
made some personal calls, and then turned in early. Right
now, according to the official logs, he’s sound asleep.
My earpiece chirps. It’s Assistant Special Agent in Charge
Henry Ellis, my deputy and second-in-command—and my
best friend. In the stillness, his voice is loud enough for
Brennan to hear. “Cupcake ready in the underground.”
That’s Henry. Always cute when he can get away with it.
Especially over the radio.
“Time to go.” Brennan’s voice is soft as he takes my hand
and kisses my fingers.
Black lightning sparks in Brennan’s eyes when I key my
wrist mic and respond. “Acknowledged.”
We move through the silent West Wing, passing the dark
offices of the chief of staff and the vice president, and then
down the stairs and into the basement garage. Two agents on
the doors, two holding position at the walkway. We’ve got
the garage sealed, and for the next forty-five seconds, a loop
of the surveillance cameras will show nothing but empty
concrete and flickering fluorescents.
Brennan’s SUV is blacked out, like nearly every SUV in
Washington, but this one is up-armored and bulletproof.
There are shotguns in the doors, grenades in the trunk,
machine guns beneath the seats. It’s got its own self-
contained air supply. Blast plates line the undercarriage. If
this vehicle were to roll over an IED, it would chuckle and
keep on going.
My best and most capable agents are working tonight.
We’re so close we know each other’s resting heart rates and
breathing patterns. We’ve seen every side of one another,
circled the globe countless times, and fought through the
shit that comes with protecting the president of the United
States. These guys know me.
 So why don’t they know about my relationship with
Brennan? We’re the Secret Service: we eviscerate secrets for
a living.
It’s only a matter of time. We’re going to get caught.
We’re going to give this away. His eyes are on me when they
shouldn’t be. I know they are because I ignite whenever he
looks at me that way.
Henry’s already behind the wheel, and his stare in the
rearview mirror hits me through the open passenger door.
You okay?
After years together, he and I can communicate without
words, without even gestures. I can read Henry’s concern
and heartburn as easily as I can read a crowd. I nod, and
Henry’s eyes flick to Brennan as he climbs into the backseat.
Agent Stewart is in the right front seat. He’s one of the
Counter Assault guys, and picking him for this assignment
meant he had to change out of his black fatigues and put on a
suit for a few hours. I only got a little good-natured
complaining. Stewart is a good guy. Solid. Dependable. A
friend.
Am I the only one who notices Brennan’s clenched fists,
the hard ridges of his white knuckles? The indentations in
the pouch where he’s gripping it too hard? Probably. I know
him inside and out. Deeper, in some ways, than I know
myself.
Right now, he’s apprehensive, the dread so thick in his
throat he’s nearly choking on it.
It’s killing me to not ride with him, but I’m running this
operation from overwatch at the White House.
The drive will be the riskiest part. I told Henry to take
Brennan through Rock Creek Park, going north out of DC
before turning southwest through Chevy Chase and the
Palisades and over the Potomac. It’s an obscure route, darker
and quieter than a straight shot to Langley. A few discreet
calls to the NPS ensured the park was closed to the public for
the night.
Brennan’s eyes meet mine through the ballistic glass as I
shut him in—
And I hesitate. Only one second, but it’s a second that
throws off the rhythm my agents and I have, and it’s enough
for Stewart to glance over his shoulder and raise his
eyebrow.
I slap the closed door twice, never taking my eyes off
Brennan’s. I’ll be here when you get back to me, mon cher.
Henry rolls forward, through the garage and up the ramp,
and Brennan—President Walker—sneaks out of the White
House.
We have four hours until they return, and I’m already
counting the minutes.
Sixty seconds outside of the White House: they’re clearing
the light at Seventeenth Street.
If I could, I’d deputize the earth to serve as my agent,
make castles out of forests and knights out of boulders.
Whatever it takes to keep Brennan safe.
“Let’s pack it in,” I call.
My team will be keeping up appearances and monitoring
the mission over a radio subnet. While each of us takes a turn
standing watch in the command center, the rest of the night
shift will remain oblivious, manning their posts around the
White House.
“Anyone want coffee?” Agent Sheridan asks. His eyes dart
around the group and, as always, linger on mine. Sheridan is
young, almost too young for my command team, but he’s
earned this spot beside me. A few of us take him up on the
offer, and he peels off toward the White House mess.
In the basement beneath the Oval Office, the Secret
Service runs the White House command center. It’s a
fortress within a fortress, our Batcave, our secret hideout.
This is where we store our weapons, our tuxes, our radios.
All communications channels in Washington, DC, pass
through this room. We have taps into every law enforcement
agency, including some the public has never heard of. If
you’ve breathed the president’s name, we know.
There’s a brass plaque inset next to the blast proof door,
above the keypad and scanner I use to badge inside.

United States Secret Service

Presidential Protection Division
Special Agent in Charge Reese Theriot

“S ir ?”
The touch on my shoulder brings me back.
I’d sipped my coffee, set my guys on watch, and told the
team I was taking a power nap. I can be snoring minutes
after downing an espresso. Sleep is sacred to the Secret
Service. It’s practically currency.
Sheridan is there, kneeling beside me in the dimly lit back
room stuffed with bunk beds for agents pulling double shifts.
Soft snores and the rustle of bodies play in the darkness. I
check the time. It’s 1:17 a.m.
I haven’t been out long.
“What’s wrong?” I’m on my feet before the words are out
of my mouth, pulling on my shoulder holster and my suit
jacket.
“We lost contact with Cupcake,” Sheridan says. “They
went dark.”
“What do you mean they went dark?”
We can track the president’s position to within a half inch
across the surface of the planet. It’s impossible for us to lose
contact with him. Besides, in terms of surveillance,
Washington is one of the most blanketed cities in the world.
The FAA and NSA can name the insects that fly in and out of
DC airspace, that’s how controlled this postage stamp of real
estate is.
What Sheridan is saying doesn’t make sense.
Sheridan’s face is cast half in shadow and bathed in red, a
dull murmur of light thrown from the single low-watt bulb
we keep in the bunk room.
This must be a prank. Some old-guard initiation of
Sheridan. Normally I’d be in on the joke, but if they want me
to sell panic to him, they’re getting their wish. My heart is
pounding. My pulse is climbing. And that’s fear in his eyes.
“They went dark, sir.” His voice catches. “Cupcake
dropped off our entire grid. We can’t raise them on the
radio.”
“Fuck.”
The command center is chilly and dim, lit by the blue-
tinted glow of dozens of surveillance monitors, camera
feeds, and televisions mounted on the front wall. Usually it’s
filled with the mumble of voices, the click-clack of laptop
keys, and the buzz of radio chatter and static.
Now there’s a crackle in the air, like electricity sparking
off ozone, and an unnatural stillness. The silence of a room
full of people all holding their breath.
Flames fill the center screen on the front wall. It’s playing
a live feed from CNN, an aerial shot from a news chopper
circling over a section of Rock Creek Park. An inferno snakes
off the road and into the woods in an all-too-familiar crash
pattern.
“Sir.” The voice sounds faraway, as if I’m being shouted
at underwater. “The president is missing.”
 Chapter Two

R eese
T hen

T his is my third inauguration, and I’ve hated each one.

Inaugurations are a nightmare from start to finish.
Everyone works double, triple overtime, for months, making
sure it all goes off without a hitch. The swearing-in at the
Capitol. The procession to the White House. I watch
everything from the command center, taking in two hundred
camera feeds and monitoring six dozen radio channels.
My other major responsibility today is overseeing the
changeover. At the White House, we have a five-hour
turnaround between outgoing and incoming
administrations, and during those five hours, the staff has to
erase the former administration and install the new one.
That includes making repairs.
During this changeover, there was a serious need to
upgrade the telecommunications systems in the West Wing,
but that’s not as simple as pulling wires out of the walls.
Beneath the Oval Office and the first floor of the West Wing,
there’s a foot-and-a-half crawl space stuffed with
communications equipment, miles and miles of secure
cabling, and all the electronic cyberdefense sniffers and
digital watchdogs you can imagine.
All morning, we were dodging movers and NSA techs
while cordoning off sections of the West Wing as staffers ran
pell-mell trying to get access to their offices.
No one in DC likes to be told what they can’t do. Less than
an hour into the new administration, the Secret Service had
already pissed off a dozen staffers. That might be a new
record.
President Walker arrived at the White House this
afternoon, and every minute since has been filled with
meetings. A lot of the heavy lifting of learning to be the
president gets done between the election and the
inauguration, and most presidents walk in the doors ready to
hit the ground running with a working knowledge of the
nuts and bolts and the processes of government. Daily
briefings set the tempo for the incoming administration.
But there’s a hell of a difference between being briefed on
concepts and situations in a suite at the Hay-Adams versus
taking that information in while you’re inside the Oval
Office. The first moment a president sits behind the Resolute
desk is a powerful one.
I’ve been running the White House, a world away from
President Walker’s campaign, and until today, I’ve only seen
the incoming president on television screens and through
our internal intelligence assessments. It was Director Britton
who briefed President Walker on our operations during the
transition, but now, it’s time for me to meet the boss.
Six minutes to go. I’m alone in the locker room, a
generously named closet off the Secret Service command
center stuffed with battered lockers and two shower cubicles.
The command team has a larger locker room in the
Eisenhower Building, but we often don’t have the four
minutes to rush between there and the White House, so we
keep our personal belongings and spare clothes here. In this
job, seconds matter.
Henry pushes open the locker room door and catches my
gaze in the mirror. “Five minutes. He’s running right on
time.”
“That’s a first.”
“You’re going to do great.”
Henry started in the Secret Service at the same time I did,
but I moved up the ranks faster. During training, he was the
wise-cracking veteran who was a pain in the ass to our
instructors but who stayed up late and helped the wide-eyed
newbies. He patiently tutored our classmates how to
disassemble and reassemble our weapons and drilled
procedures and protocols until the wee hours of the morning
before tests, even shouting questions in the communal
bathroom while he was taking a shit and waiting for
someone to call out the right answer. He’s a phenomenal
agent, but he’s never had the polish to move into command.
He knew from our academy days he wasn’t ever going to be
in charge.
Once, when we had an overnight pass from the academy
and were out on the town, slamming beers and trying to eye
up women—even though we were so exhausted that if a
woman had given us the time of day, we would have fallen
asleep on her before getting to second base—he told me I
had that blend of “right stuff.” A mixture of guts, grit, and
GQ charm, he said.
Pretty Boy, he called me, with a chuckle. “Pretty Boy will
go pretty fucking far. Just you watch.”
I told him to fuck off, we drank some more, and then we
slept in our car in the parking lot and missed roll call in the
morning. We spent that entire Saturday running and puking
on the track until our instructor finally said she was tired of
watching us.
We stayed close through the churn and grind of the
Service, and Henry has been my closest friend for over a
decade now. When I was named the head of the presidential
protective detail, Henry was the first to call to congratulate
me. I made him my second-in-command on that phone call,
and he’s the rock I have built my command team around.
“Four minutes, fifteen seconds. You look the part, Boss.
Told ya, didn’t I?”
“Ta gueule.” Shut your mouth. I’ve got a mess of Cajun and
Creole inside me, old words from an old people, mixed with
the New Orleans verve that got rubbed into me during my
years working for the New Orleans Police Department.
Roughened Cajun patois, southern-slow French-Creole, and
ragged backwoods grammar all tumble from me.
Henry winks and ducks out of the locker room, giving me
thirty more seconds alone to stare into my own eyes in the
mirror. “Merde,” I whisper.
We take the stairs up from the basement and come out
between the Roosevelt Room and the incoming press
secretary’s office. Melissa Ferraro is a tornado, juggling one
cell phone between her ear and shoulder, texting someone
on another, and guiding the workers where to stack her
mountain of file boxes. Three televisions are on in the
background, replaying President Walker’s arrival at the
White House.
Walker’s face fills each screen.
He’s an easy man to want to like. He’s younger than most
of the candidates either party has put forward for years, and
the electorate seized on that. He comes across as a confident
leader, and the American people decided he was best
equipped to handle this upside-down world.
 He’s not a military veteran, but he spent years overseas as
a humanitarian, and he spoke about values and ethics with
the gravity of someone who has felt the life and death
consequences of each going awry. When he talked about
holding murderous regimes accountable for their crimes, he
said it with an authority none of the other candidates could
come near.
He’d been the outside bet at the start of the campaign, but
here he is: President Brennan Walker, the champion for
change and human rights.
Of course, it would be far from the first time a politician
had been a complete fake and their true personality came out
inside the halls of the White House.
The president’s secretary greets us in the Outer Oval. He’s
young and excited, and the only decoration he’s put up on
his desk is a picture of a gorgeous woman in a wedding
dress. His hair is longer than usual for DC, a shag cut that
curls at the ends. I can picture him on a surfboard easier
than here in the West Wing.
He holds out his hand and beams. “I’m Matt.”
“Agents Theriot and Ellis, here for the president’s
briefing.”
“Absolutely.” Matt is bursting with excitement. “You
guys are right on time.”
We’re two minutes early. I let it slide. Matt will learn a
new definition of punctual soon enough.
Henry shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on
his heels. “So, how’s your first day going, kid? Settling in?”
“It’s amazing,” Matt gushes. “I can’t believe how
incredible this place is. It’s literally a dream come true.”
He’s pure California, effusive and laid-back and in love
with life. He’s been with Walker for years, working with him
in the California governor’s office before the campaign. In
fact, that’s a North Face fleece jacket I spy draped over his
chair.
Henry and I share a quick look. We don’t have to say a
word.
I hope Washington doesn’t change Matt.
Henry leans into my shoulder, a silent moment of support
hidden in the sudden rush of activity as the doors to the Oval
open and the leaders of the national security watch, a gaggle
of civilians and military officers, file past us. I check their
faces, their expressions, reading entire paragraphs in the set
of their jaws and the tilt of their heads. Smiles all around,
and a few of them are laughing. It was a good meeting.
“And you’re up.” Matt smiles and ushers us into the Oval
Office.
Even after all these years, the Oval never fails to awe me.
The moment it does will be the moment I need to turn in my
badge.
Matt is on our heels, drinking in the Oval in sips and
ogling it between meetings. I was like that a decade ago,
brand-new to the White House and straining for peeks inside
as I stood the worst shifts of the detail and paid my dues on
my way up the ladder.
My gaze sweeps over the office: the doors to the
president’s private study, the hallway to the Roosevelt
Room, French doors heading out to the Rose Garden and the
West Colonnade. President Walker has his back to us, and
he’s rolling his neck as he braces himself against the
Resolute desk. It’s a Kennedy-esque moment: shoulders taut
beneath his suit jacket, palms flat on the desktop.
I know that pose. Migraine incoming, Mach 2.
He turns as Matt announces our arrival.
The branches on the cherry trees outside stutter, and
everything screeches to a stop.
 Brennan Walker’s presence—restrained power, raw
masculinity—fills the office, as thick as the ocean is with
salt.
His strength is tempered with some quality that the
campaign and the news tried to define and couldn’t.
Authority wrapped in velvet, leadership and solemnity and
grace combined in equal measures. His eyes are brighter
than blue, and his dark hair is longer on top than previous
presidents’, long enough to rake his fingers through.
An electric silence buzzes through the Oval, a hum that
sinks into my bones. It smears away the edges of the world,
narrowing my focus, drawing me into Walker’s gaze. I’m
about to fall, tip over into those bleu clair eyes, slide into the
center of this man—
Reality snaps back into focus, and suddenly everything is
moving too fast. Henry crosses the office. The door shuts.
President Walker stares, his lips parting as he stays rooted to
the spot.
Henry moves between Walker and me. “Mr. President,
I’m Special Agent Henry Ellis, assistant special agent in
charge of your detail.”
This awkward silence builds as Henry’s hand hangs in the
air. President Walker and I are still lost in each other.
My blood is starting to burn. My pulse is rising. My
thoughts jerk out of sequence, words and images that don’t
make sense. Bleu profond. Captivant. De toute beauté. Merde,
merde.
Finally, Walker turns to Henry, but it takes another
moment before he drags his eyes from mine. He shakes
Henry’s hand and flashes his understated and almost secret
smile, the one that sent spasms through America’s
heartland.
“Mr. President.” I step forward. “Reese Theriot, special
agent in charge of your detail.”
 “Agent Theriot.” There’s a different timbre in his voice
with me than when he spoke to Henry. His fingers tremble,
ever so faintly, in my hold. When he drops my hand, he
makes a fist, his knuckles clenched so tight they’re white as
moondust.
“I’m sure it’s been a long day for you, Mr. President,”
Henry says. He clears his throat. Eyes me. “We won’t take up
too much of your time.”
President Walker gestures for us to join him at the sofas
in front of the fireplace.
Thirty-six inches separate my kneecap from President
Walker’s when we sit.
I’m like a spider dancing on a string of web above a
bonfire. My lungs are tight, my throat clenched. He’s
perfectly poised, as if he’s sitting for a magazine shoot, one
leg thrown over the other, hands clasped in his lap. One of
my hands is twisted in the sofa cushion.
What the fuck is going on?
This is not the way the briefing is supposed to go. This is
not the way briefings ever go.
Henry’s shoulder brushes mine. Get on with it, Reese.
“Mr. President,” I begin. “We’re here to discuss your
security procedures and the Secret Service protection you’ll
have for the next four years.”
He’s staring at me. He’s staring into me.
And I’m staring right back.
 Chapter Three

B rennan
T hen

P rocedures flow past me. Details of advance teams and

travel routes, everything from Air Force One to the
motorcade, fall from my mind.
I should be focusing. I should be remembering every
detail. I’m certain I need to know the things Reese is telling
me: Where the Secret Service posts agents in the White
House. How I signal for help. The call buttons that will bring
agents to my side in less than three seconds. What happens
if an evacuation is ordered.
My mind splinters.
Years ago, I buried a black box on a beach inside myself,
full to the brim of truths I couldn’t face. Reese’s voice is the
tide, and his words are waves crashing against my hidden
shores. The box is unearthing. Rising.
I can’t look away from his eyes.
Not much rattles me anymore, or even surprises me.
Twenty years as a humanitarian, and then almost ten as a
politician, give you a Möbius strip view of the world.
 My political journey began in my home state—mayor of
San Francisco, then governor of California—and it was my
inability to keep my mouth shut about the frustrations of
witnessing a bloodthirsty and ravaging inhumanity spread
unchecked that led me here, to the presidency.
A journey like that inures you to shocks to the system.
Or so I believed. My thoughts chase each other, chase the
sound of Reese’s voice, try to capture the words falling from
his lips.
Damn it, I put this away. It’s been years.
Reese’s brown eyes are flecked with gold, and his light
hair is cut short, military precise. Most everyone I’ve seen so
far has worn the DC standard of black or deep navy blue, but
Reese is in a dove gray suit and a starched white dress shirt,
his blue plaid tie flecked with lines of pale yellow.
I’m not supposed to notice how stunning he looks, or how
the soft gray sets off his tanned skin. Or the sharpness of the
angle of his jaw and the way a muscle has been flexing along
the bone there every time he takes a breath.
His voice is a low rumble, too rough for Washington. He’s
from somewhere else. Somewhere with daylight lingering
between syllables, and where words finish on a subtle growl.
“There’s one last thing, Mr. President,” Reese says. “The
relationship between the president and their Secret Service
agents is one of the most misunderstood in the world.”
Danger. I want to do a little misunderstanding with Reese,
but I’m certain that’s not what he means.
“For us to work seamlessly together, both parties need to
operate with two certainties: that you are the president and
your job is to be the president, and that we are your
protectors and our job is to keep you safe and out of harm’s
way.”
“Sounds right.”
 “Easy to say, but consider, Mr. President, that your detail
agents will spend more time with you than your family. We
see everything. We hear everything. We’re often closer than
your shadow—and we have to be, to do our jobs.”
Reese as close as my shadow—
“Our badges say, ‘Worthy of Trust and Confidence.’
That’s not just the motto of the Secret Service, Mr. President.
It’s the definition of our characters. And it’s important for
you to know that. The worst thing that could happen would
be for you to lose your trust in us. If you felt you couldn’t
trust your detail or thought that you needed to distance
yourself from us, we would not be able to do our jobs. The
bottom line is, what an agent hears or sees goes with them to
their grave, Mr. President.”
I blink. Reese’s words echo in my mind. To the grave.
Closer than your shadow.
Something is reaching for him on an atomic level.
The nerves connecting my brain and my vocal cords
refuse to work. It’s difficult to believe I was sworn into office
today, much less that I ever won an election.
“We work in rings. Your closest circle of protection will be
the most senior agents: me and my command team. If you
need anything clarified regarding your security, you or your
team can reach out to me at any time.”
I should distance myself from Reese. I can have Valerie
Shannon, my chief of staff, handle everything. I never need
to speak to Reese again, other than “Hello” and “Goodbye”
and “Thanks.” I should slam this door and turn my back. Do
my job, like he said. Be the president. No distractions.
Because he is a distraction, from a promise I made years
ago.
“I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Well done, Brennan. Good job with that distancing.
 Reese hesitates. It’s only a moment, easily missed, but
I’ve spent the past twenty minutes committing him to my
memory. “I’m looking forward to working with you as well,
Mr. President.”
It’s the signal that the meeting is over, and I stand,
button my jacket, and hold out my hand, my eyes never
leaving his. My heart rate gets a reprieve as I walk them both
out, but then there’s a brief jockeying for position as Henry
moves in front of Reese and reaches for the door at the same
time I do.
“Sir.” He keeps his hand on the knob.
“First day.” I step back and slap on a smile. “I’m not used
to the formalities yet.”
“You will have a thousand briefings, but not one of them
will tell you there’s a learning curve, sir,” Reese says. “Every
president is overwhelmed on their first day in the White
House. Their whole first week, even.”
He’s smooth. He’s giving me permission to feel these
butterflies, but he doesn’t understand they’re not coming
from the job. “Thanks.”
We walk out to Matt’s office, and he’s on his feet, smile at
the ready for Reese. That pleases me no end. Matt is an
excellent barometer of a person’s character.
“What’s up next, Matt?”
“Sir, that is all you have for today. We begin again bright
and early tomorrow morning.”
I’m not ready for this day—or this moment—to end. Or
for Reese to leave. “Agent Theriot, you mentioned a tour of
the emergency bunker was possible. It seems I have the time,
if you do?”
Reese and Henry share a quick look.
I know nothing about Reese Theriot. I do know I am not
the first person to look upon him and think his world has
stopped turning. Somewhere in this town, there must be a
lucky someone thanking every star in the sky that Reese’s
smile belongs to them. Maybe that person is Henry. They
seem to have a language all their own.
“I’ll handle the shift change,” Henry says softly. Reese
nods as Henry turns to me. “Have a good evening, Mr.
President.”
And then he’s gone, striding down the hall and
disappearing on the stairs.
My heart pounds. “Matt, thank you for everything,” I say,
dragging my eyes from Reese’s. “Please give Rachel my
best.”
“Will do, Mr. President.” Matt shuts down his computer,
zips up his fleece jacket, and follows Henry down the hall.
Reese and I are alone.
I’ve made a huge mistake.
 Chapter Four

R eese
T hen

I don’t stop running until I almost collapse, doubling over as

I heave in lungfuls of air on my fourth lap of the National
Mall. I haven’t stopped moving since I left President Walker.
I can’t. If I stop, I’ll have to face what happened, and I’m not
ready to do that.
The monuments are lit up against the midnight sky,
alongside the glow of the White House’s exterior lights
behind the Washington Monument. My legs burn and my
ears ache, my pulse hammering against my too-cold
eardrums. I’m overheating and freezing at the same time,
and my sweatpants and sweatshirt aren’t helping with
either.
Hands on my head, I turn and head for home.
Which brings me right past the steps of the White House
complex. I splurged when I was assigned to the presidential
protective detail. Too many of my colleagues struggle with
their commutes, spending long hours in their cars or on the
Metro to get home, only to turn around and do it all over
again for their next shift.
Living in DC can be brutal on your paycheck, but the
expense was worth it to me. My apartment is two blocks
from the North Portico of the White House, and my commute
down to my lobby takes longer than it does for me to walk
from the lobby doors to the White House command center.
“Superior dedication,” my record says. When the Secret
Service assigns you to the detail, they also tell you, in no
uncertain terms, that your life is no longer your own. It
belongs to the White House and the whims of the president.
I have loved every day of that life. Even the shit days, the
time spent standing guard in the pouring rain, or the back-
to-back all-nighters, or when I traveled twelve time zones
on Air Force One just to go back on duty for another double
shift.
Tonight, I don’t look to the White House or the Treasury
as I walk up Fifteenth Street. There’s a stitch in my side and
the beginnings of a cramp in my calf. How long was I
running—over an hour? Two?
I can’t get President Walker out of my head.
I’ve replayed our meeting in the Oval Office a hundred
times, and it’s always the same. I choke up. I’m off-balance.
Why? Why did President Walker throw me like that? Why
did time seem to stop and start in freeze-frames, moments
like photographs thrown into the air? I had to pluck each
from over my head as I fumbled for what to say.
The whole while, Walker’s eyes were on me—burrowing
into me—and something caught fire beneath my skin.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve been around presidents, vice
presidents, senators, cabinet members—hell, even foreign
leaders—for over a decade.
After the briefing, we walked side by side to the East Wing
in silence. He is exactly as the media portrays him: warm,
commanding, and kind, saying hello to everyone we passed.
I was reciting the alphabet backward in my head. Heat
lightning prickled in my veins.
The elevator ride down to the PEOC, the presidential
bunker, is not short. There’s enough time to really ponder
the facts of life, and usually I’m thinking about work.
Every micron of my focus was tuned to the man beside
me.
He’d fallen silent, leaning back against the cold steel wall
with his eyes closed. First-day migraine for sure. I was
impressed, though. He was still friendly at the end of the
day, and the same can’t be said of most presidents.
Secret Service agents see the true nature of their
principals, including their underbellies. Over the years, I’ve
learned to judge the people who hold positions of power by
the character they display when the cameras are turned away
—by whether they choose to be kind even when they aren’t
performing.
That will tell you everything you need to know about a
person.
Alone, President Walker let his eyes close, let his head tip
back. I stayed on my side of the elevator, giving him the
courtesy of privacy, at least as much as I could.
Discretion begins at moment zero.
My peripheral gaze traced Walker’s figure, moved from
his long legs to his broad shoulders to his exposed neck and
bobbing Adam’s apple. He was taut, arms locked out at his
sides, grasping the handrail in a white-knuckled grip.
Tension had hardened his shoulders. His sweat-slick palms
slid on the metal rail.
“Long day, sir?”
His gaze met mine in silence long enough for the elevator
to descend another ten levels.
 “The longest of my life.” A moment, and then he asked,
“What about you? Is it challenging to get used to a new
guy?”
“This new guy seems all right so far.”
He laughed. He was still looking at me like he was trying
to read secrets from my bones. “Where are you from?” he
asked. His voice had shifted again. Softened.
“Louisiana. I was a detective with the New Orleans Police
Department before joining the Secret Service.”
I am from the Atchafalaya Basin, the largest of the
swampy wetlands that blankets Louisiana. It’s backwoods
country, full of third- and fourth-generation Cajuns who live
their whole lives within those murky marshes. I grew up
swiping power from the logging companies for our stilt-
legged home, wading through chest-deep water with an
extension cord over my head as I kicked away ’gators that
took too much interest in me.
Unlike most everyone else from the Basin, I left, heading
for the city to strike out in the world. The New Orleans police
are always hiring and firing, and I was picked up for the job
three days after setting foot on Canal Street.
I worked lonely graveyard shifts, hauled roustabouts and
roughnecks to the drunk tank, and chased knife fighters and
crack addicts up and down the Big Easy’s twisted streets. I
moved from patrolman to officer to detective, until I decided
to set my aspirations higher.
Now I’m here, beside the president of the United States.
Still, the bayous and blues are in my blood, and I dream in
the Cajun patois I was raised in. Swamp French rattles
around inside me, and when it rains, I go right back to the
Basin, as if each drop were falling on a memory.
Walker smiled. “Two cities famous for their politics and
their politicians. I bet you have stories.”
 In Louisiana, politicians are always under investigation,
and homicide often isn’t the worst crime they’re indicted for.
DC was a step up on the ladder of moral turpitude. “Sure I
do, but as I said, they’ll go with me to my grave, Mr.
President.”
“Like this conversation?”
“What conversation?” My drawl rolled in. It’s something
I shove away in polite society but it comes out like a party
trick when I’m tired, when I’m stressed, or when I’m
showing off. Which of those I was feeling just then, I don’t
know.
“You’re going to test me on that briefing, aren’t you?”
“When you least expect it, sir.” Jesus, what was I doing?
It was too easy to banter with him.
“We’re closer than each other’s shadow,” he said,
repeating my words back to me. His gaze darkened, le saphir
shifting to the roiling shades of a disquiet ocean. The air
between us grew heavy, charged with something that
seemed ready to spark.
Any reply I might have made was cut off when the
elevator doors slid open on a corridor, exactly the kind you’d
expect deep underground. Cold concrete, humming
fluorescent lights, and a damp, musty smell.
There’s always a team on duty in the bunker, and I led
Walker to the watch room and the wide-eyed, slack-jawed
operators who had never, not in their entire careers, been
visited by the president they served.
We talked him through the drills we run once a month,
always when the president is off-site. During each, an off-
duty agent or one of the military aides plays the president in
a full-scale evacuation of the White House.
When it’s go time, it’s go at full speed. My teams clear the
building to the bunker and bring the “president” down.
From there, we evacuate the actor-president out through
tunnels to the secondary Marine One landing site and then
make an emergency flight to Andrews Air Force Base.
Air Force One is part of the training, too, and as soon as
my guys haul the package—the “president,” moving as fast
as the Secret Service can make him move—on board, those
pilots are taxiing at full speed and leaping into the sky in a
stomach-clenching takeoff that gets us out to safe waters
and a waiting navy patrol while we’re still buckling in.
“Sounds like fun.” Walker laughed at all the right parts,
hung on to the stories the watch standers shared. “Can I tag
along for the next one?”
“We’ve never used the real president in our drills. They’re
usually busy, sir.”
“I’m sure we could work something out.” He grinned at
me like we were planning a conspiracy.
He was more relaxed on the elevator ride back up from
the bunker. We weren’t clinging to opposite walls, either. He
stood beside me, his jacket off. I could smell his cologne,
thin at the end of the day. The fabric draped over his elbow
brushed my forearm.
I should have shut my mouth. I should have kept quiet.
But—
“Good first day, Mr. President?”
Our eyes locked. His chest rose. Held. “It started great and
got better every hour.”
I nodded, tried to smile, and was saved by the elevator
doors gliding open at the ground floor of the East Wing.
I walked him to the Residence, all the way to the Grand
Staircase. The agent on post gave us a few feet of privacy.
“This is where I stop, Mr. President. The Residence is
your private home. We guard the entrances and exits, and we
maintain watches on the roof. If you need our help, there are
phones and intercoms in every room.”
“Thank you, Agent Theriot.”
 “Welcome home, President Walker.”
I pretended to check in with my agent at his post while
the president started up the stairs. I had one ear on what my
agent was saying and two eyes on Walker, and when he
looked back at the turn, pausing with one hand on the railing
—
How long did we stay there, staring at each other? It could
have been a breath or a lifetime, a second or an hour.
I blinked—
He strode up the staircase without looking back.
The memory plays in my head again, and I curse myself
for the thousandth time.
From my apartment, the White House gleams, shining
like the crown jewel of Washington’s midnight. Washington
isn’t a late-night town, and by now, the traffic has died,
everyone has gone home, and nothing but wind slides
through Lafayette Park.
If I close my eyes and listen, I can almost hear the radio
chirps from the perimeter guards and the footfalls of the
Uniformed Division patrols.
Inside the White House, safely within my detail’s
protection, Walker sleeps.
 Chapter Five

B rennan
T hen

D oes any president sleep on their first night in the White

House?
I bet not. I bet it’s one of those secrets former presidents
share once they’re out of office and can trade stories about
their days in the most exclusive club in the world. Did you
sleep your first night? Nope. I didn’t sleep for the first week.
Of course, nearly all of them have, or had, families. It’s
been over 160 years since there was an unwed president in
the White House.
They all had spouses and children, lives that filled the
Residence when they finally pulled back from the West Wing.
Lives they could turn to, escape to, away from this job.
When I walked up those carpeted stairs, I walked into a
wall of silence so heavy, so absolute, I heard my own blood
pumping. The carpet shifted beneath the leather of my
shoes. Every breath I took was as loud as a train.
Dinner was a club sandwich, and it arrived on a silver tray
with a side salad, still-warm potato chips, and a crystal glass
of ice water in the formal dining room, at the head of a
twelve-foot-long table.
Tealights flickered in glass candleholders. Eight feet of
roses in low-cut arrangements lined the center of the grand
table. It was devastatingly gorgeous. Romantic, even. But the
clink of my silverware and the ding of my crystal water glass
echoed far too loudly, and I bailed after eating only half my
sandwich.
Reese said this would be an adjustment.
Maybe so, but I don’t think I’ll ever be used to the
emptiness of the executive mansion and the way this house
almost haunts itself.
I’ve never liked the empty spaces in large homes. They
only put an exclamation point on the holes in my own life,
and the place beside me where someone warm and
wonderful could be.
In California, I shunned the governor’s mansion for a
high-rise condo in downtown Sacramento, and I kept my
father’s place in San Francisco that I lived in when I was
mayor.
That little home in the Presidio has been my life’s
cornerstone. I made all my biggest decisions there, listening
to the cries of the gulls and the rumble of the Pacific, or with
the silent shroud of the fog wrapping its arms around me. I
decided to leave for my first humanitarian mission while I
watched the waves crash on Baker Beach, and I decided to
stay in the United States and attempt to fix the brokenness
I’d found in the world while I walked from one end of the
Golden Gate to the other.
And it was there I fell head over heels for the first time in
my life. I was in high school, and I held hands with a boy two
years older than me. We shared a joint before making out on
the frigid sands edging the Bay.
 He put certainty in my mind, taught my hands and my
lips the truth of who I longed to caress and kiss.
Ten years later, on that walk across the Golden Gate, I
told myself I would put those desires away for good.
How far could my dreams extend, I’d wondered. I wanted
to try to scrape this broken globe back together, but, at least
back then, who I was put a hard limit on how far I could go.
There was never a future where who I wanted and what I
yearned to dream into existence could ever coexist.
Was helping people worth a quiet life and sacrificing the
chance of a relationship? If I could help change the world in
some meaningful way, make this a better place for others,
did it matter that I was lonely?
It’s been years. Decades. So long that I thought I’d starved
these desires, or that part of me had withered away.
Not in this life, but your next one. It’s a whisper that’s
helped me through the long nights when my arm reaches
across the cold mattress and questions rise like flames.
Loneliness has no bottom.
In this life, I’m not meant to find love.
A dusting of snow gathers on the edges of the
windowpane in the West Sitting Hall. My breath fogs the
glass when I rest my forehead against it.
Stillness isn’t the answer. Stillness spins webs of what-ifs
inside me. Nights like this, I end up pacing, trying to escape
my descending thoughts. Up and down I go, one foot falling
in front of the other for the length of the Center Hall, until I
find the staircase going to the third floor of the Residence.
The third floor was the old White House attic, and it’s less
opulent, more creaky. The ceilings are slanted, and the
rooms are dark. Winter moonlight spills through a glass door
at the far end of one black hallway.
That door takes me outside to the Promenade, a porch
with a chest-high solid railing meant to shield presidents
from eyeballs and bullets alike.
It’s like I’ve been dropped into the bottom of a moat. All I
can see are the stars above me.
Voices murmur in the darkness, far too close. My heart
lodges in my throat. Reese said—
A red flashlight flips on, pooling on the ground in front of
me. “Mr. President.”
The voice comes from over my head. My eyes follow the
beam upward and dimly make out a team of black-clad men
on the flat part of the roof. “Everything all right, sir?”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m exploring. I forgot you guys were up
here.”
“We’re here 24-7, Mr. President. For your safety.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Part of the job, sir.” The light flicks off. The sniper and
his team melt into the night. I can’t see their outlines
anymore. I don’t even hear them breathe.
Well, that was smooth. You won an election, right, Brennan?
Embarrassment drives me down the Promenade, as far as
I can get from the snipers. Wind slides through my
shirtsleeves, and bare branches creak in Lafayette Park.
What am I doing out here?
What would it be like to have someone at my side tonight?
Someone I could turn to, someone I could hold close as I try
to wrap my mind around everything I’ve thrown myself into.
Someone to help me stand beneath the weight that now rests
on my shoulders.
What would it be like if that person was Reese?
Jesus. My head sinks into my hands, and I hope those
snipers haven’t turned their night vision scopes on me. I’m
far from presidential right now.
My moments with Reese, once we were alone, were some
of the most human I’ve had all day. Was it because the Secret
Service is beyond the presidential pageantry? They’re
respectful, of course, but not awestruck. In the briefing,
Reese deferred to the office, but when it was him and me…
Am I making this up? Am I so out of practice that I’m
imagining things that weren’t there?
Do I want a connection so desperately that I’m
misremembering—or misinterpreting—what I saw? What I
felt?
Or did Reese feel something, too?
No. Reese threw up boundaries and barricades between us
with every word he said. He emphasized the distance,
reinforced our separation. Hell, he told me to my face that
the relationship between a president and their detail was one
of the most misunderstood in the world.
And here I am, falling right into that misunderstanding.
But there were those moments when our eyes met. Times
I couldn’t breathe, and I thought I heard his breath hitch,
too. Instants when our hands touched, when we shared
fleeting smiles—
You buried this.
There is nothing for you down this path, Brennan.
Don’t let your heart run away with dreams that can never, ever
be.
 Chapter Six

R eese
N ow

T he stench of burning flesh hits me first.

Smoke billows in thick, roiling coils from the steep
gully beside the road. White-hot flames leap from the
overturned SUV, burning so intensely they’ve ignited the
trees in a ten-foot circle around the crash. The tires have
burst, and bits of smoldering rubber lie in a scattered trail
from the blacktop down the embankment. That IED
defensive plate is acting like a lid, keeping the fire contained
within the passenger carriage. Concentrating the inferno.
Flames painted the night sky copper and brass and
carmine as Sheridan and I raced across DC, lights, sirens,
and horns going full blast. The blaze magnified through the
windshield the closer we came, until the conflagration was
all we could see.
Sheridan was the only agent who matched me step for
step when I tore out of the command center. He leapt behind
the wheel of my SUV and drove like the devil himself,
jumping curbs and screaming through intersections without
even tapping his brakes. We lost the rest of my agents at
Black Lives Matter Plaza and made it to Rock Creek Park in
six minutes flat.
I’m out of the front seat before he hits the brakes,
throwing myself toward the hellscape of the crash. Heat
sears my face like I’ve walked into the afterburner of a jet
engine. Any hotter, and my hair would ignite, my clothes
would melt.
But before I can get too close, I’m tackled. Arms wrap
around my waist from behind and lock, dragging me back to
the heat-shimmering road. “You can’t go down there!”
I strain against Sheridan’s hold until he roars and lifts me
off my feet, then hurls us both around the passenger side of
the SUV. We’re about the same weight, but he’s taller than I
am by a few inches. We’ve spent enough time sparring that I
know we’re equals when it comes to a brawl. He’s slender,
where I’m lean, corded muscle built up from a childhood in
the swamps. You can go from zero to animal in three seconds,
Henry told me once. My money is always on you.
Jesus, Henry.
Sheridan and I struggle, me kicking, me trying to throw
off his arm lock, me trying to peel his fingers from where
they’re white-knuckling against my suit. I slam myself
backward against the SUV. His breath leaves him in a grunt.
My elbow digs into his diaphragm. “The president—”
He squeezes tighter, pulling me to his chest as he wraps a
leg around my thigh in a move that threatens to throw me to
the ground. “Don’t,” he begs. “You’ll die if you go down
there.”
I have to. I have to drag Brennan out, and I’ll do it with
my bare hands—
A crack splits the night as a fire-ravaged branch splits
from a scorched tree trunk and slams into the blast-
reinforced undercarriage of Henry and Brennan’s overturned
SUV. Flames bloom like a mushroom cloud, and firefighters
scatter as debris flares out in every direction.
Superheated steel pops and screams. One of the
reinforced struts gives way. The SUV makes a sound like the
devil is groaning, and then caves in on itself, smashing the
roof flat.
Sheridan’s hold slackens.
Parts and pieces of myself are unfastening, sliding
sideways, shattering. The fire robs me of the oxygen in my
lungs, turns my muscles to leather, my bones to dust. It
sears every tear from my eyes.
There’s nothing left to contain the scream that I’ve
become. One raw, ravaging roar as flames lick around the
shape of a body hanging suspended in a seat belt within
Brennan’s SUV.
Sheridan jerks me away. My balance is off, and I fall
against the hood, palms flat and spread, my face inches
above the black plating. Metal sizzles under my hands, too
hot to touch, but I don’t pull away.
Sweat beads on my forehead. A drop falls, lands on the
hood like a broken star, and then boils off.
Sheridan has his hands on his head beside me, looking
absolutely destroyed.
I did this. Merde, I caused this. Brennan—
“Hey! Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?” a
voice rises over the cacophony of approaching sirens.
I’ll be shocked if the White House has any Secret Service
agents left on the grounds. It seems like every last one is
arriving, an army of black SUVs filling the park with red and
blue lights. This mission may have been command-team-
only an hour ago, but now, with our friends and the
president in danger—or worse—everybody on duty knows.
“Special Agent in Charge Reese Theriot, Secret Service.” I
straight-arm my badge into the face of the pudgy DC
Metropolitan cop crowding me.
The cop looks from my badge to my face and pales. His
eyes are wild, and they widen further as he takes in the
flotilla of approaching Secret Service vehicles. “This got
something to do with you?”
I nod.
It will be over the airwaves in moments: the Secret
Service roaring out of the White House to the scene of a DC
crash, the grounds emptying like the dugout during an
infield brawl.
A spotlight from the CNN chopper that broke the news
slices through the trees. “Get that fucking bird out of here!”
I bark.
He cedes command of the scene to me without argument,
reaching for his radio and relaying orders to send up the DC
Metropolitan choppers and cordon off the airspace. Secret
Service helos will be here soon, too, but we need now, not
soon.
“What’s the status of the fire?” I shout over the roar.
“When will it be out?”
“Fire chief says an hour, as long as the winds don’t pick
up. They’re bringing the foam out.”
More wasted time. If I could, I’d douse this fire with the
force of my fury alone.
“Lemme take you to the chief.” He sets off at a jog,
leading Sheridan and me to a DC Fire vehicle parked by the
engines. Firefighters shout to each other, struggling to
smother the white-and-blue flames roaring out of the
burning SUV. Hoses snake across the pavement. The air is
soaked and humid. Water is vaporizing against the edge of
the blaze.
“Chief! Secret Service is here!”
A middle-aged woman in a captain’s uniform barely takes
a second to frown at me. “Chief Mallory,” she grunts. I flash
my badge. So does Sheridan. She’s unimpressed. “If you’re
here, can I assume that vehicle is yours? We’re having a hell
of a time putting out the fire. It would make a lot of sense if
it was one of yours.”
There is a lot extra in our SUVs. They’re fire-resistant, but
one of the cruelest ironies in life is, once something fire-
resistant finally catches, it will burn like hell itself. “It is.”
“We are going to need an hour to put this out—”
“Putain de merde, we don’t have an hour. We need to get
down there right now and rescue—”
“There’s no one down there for you to rescue.”
“You don’t know—”
“My firefighters can see remains.”
Her words are a fist closing around my heart. Brennan.
“Where exactly are the remains located? What seat?”
“There’s at least one body inside in the front. A second
appears to have been ejected from the driver’s side.”
My vision swims until I see four of her. Sheridan spits out
a string of curses. “There were three people in that SUV.”
“I can only confirm two sets of remains right now. We
need to wait for this blaze to come down before we can do
anything else.” She goes back to listening to her radio. Sirens
fill the air again, red lights bouncing off overhanging
branches as three fire engines roar up the road.
She turns aside, and there’s nothing more I can do. All
I’m doing is getting in her way.
I key my wrist mic and snap orders for my people to set
up a perimeter and close all the roads into and out of Rock
Creek Park. “Escort the fire department as they need. They
have full access, but absolutely no one else is allowed in. Not
Metropolitan PD, not the FBI, no one. Someone call
headquarters and get the best forensic team and a crime
scene unit from Uniformed Division out here ASAP.”
Clicks sound, affirmations coming back.
 One voice cuts through the static choking the radio band,
asking the question no one else dares to. “What about medical
response, sir? How many ambulances do we need?”
It isn’t just the president down there in that inferno. It’s
not only my Brennan. Two damn good men were in that SUV
with him. Henry, my right hand, my best friend. Stewart,
the good-natured jokester who held the distance record in
the Secret Service sniper ranks and spent more years holding
post on the White House roof than Sheridan has been alive.
“None. We need body bags.”

An hour later ,
the flames are finally down to a smolder.
There’s a charred crater surrounding the SUV, and the
ground is obsidian black beneath the soggy foam. Crime
scene tape loops through the trees and around the roadway a
hundred yards out in all directions. Parts of the tape
withered in the heat, falling to the ground in dabs like yellow
candle wax.
The fire burned white- and blue-hot, hot enough to
destroy the reinforced frame of the SUV. Melted ballistic
glass lies in puddles.
Whatever ignited blasted right through our millions of
dollars of safety measures that should have prevented exactly
this from happening. Everything that made that vehicle a
fortress turned on us and created this horror show.
We control the scene with an iron fist. Every alphabet
agency and law enforcement unit that isn’t us is out of the
park. DC Metropolitan police are clustered outside the gates.
Three FBI teams are cooling their heels at our checkpoint
and complaining over the radio. A company of Marines has
come to reinforce my agents holding the perimeter.
 No one, not even the FBI, is daring to cross our line.
Incandescent anguish pulses from each of my agents.
Our friends are dead.
Our president is—
Brennan is—
I can’t think the word.
Instead, I watch our forensic team move over the fire-
ravaged crash in their blue coveralls. Secret Service
investigators from Uniformed Division huddle on the road,
measuring a fifty-yard skid of burned rubber leading to the
SUV’s death roll into the gully.
Searing heat still rises from the wreckage. The chemical
tang of the foam has lodged in my throat. Grit crunches
between my molars. Ash, debris, human remains, I’m not
sure.
Sheridan and I stare at the crash, backs to our vehicle,
leaning into one another.
My sanity is disassembling, and the longer I smell
charred flesh and taste bone dust on the back of my tongue,
the closer I am to coming irrevocably apart. This is a
moment that will never cauterize, a tear in my soul that will
go forever, into a black beyond that will envelop the rest of
my existence.
A calcined skeleton hangs upside down over the melted
dashboard.
Fire does strange things to a body. Muscles boil and twist.
Bones snap and fracture. I can make out what looks like an
arm pulled close to a burned rib cage.
Another body, only barely recognizable as human, lies
beside the driver’s door. Were they ejected in the crash? Or
did they try to crawl for freedom before they were overcome?
The rear passenger compartment took the brunt of the
blaze. There’s nothing left but melted steel and ash finer
than sand.
 Snippets of my training fall out of my memories. Human
bones burn at 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit. It takes three hours to
burn a human body completely. Less if the temperature exceeds
2,000 degrees.
“Agent Theriot?” Detective Hudson from Uniformed
Division calls.
He’s squatting at the start of the burned-rubber skid.
“These burnout marks,” he says, pointing to the initial
darker, heavier deposit. “They were made while the vehicle
was stopped.”
Henry should have seen nothing but his headlights
gliding on the blacktop as he wound through the trees. The
park was closed. There would be no reason for Henry to stop.
Even if a deer had picked the exact wrong time to cross,
Henry would have only eased up on the gas and drifted the
wheel.
Sheridan hovers behind me. He’s breathing fast, little
puffs that sound like an animal in distress. Henry was his
best friend, his mentor, and now he’s watching a forensic
team separate fragments of blackened bones from the dirt as
they collect what are most likely Henry’s remains. “Why
would he stop?”
I shake my head. “Henry wouldn’t have stopped. Not for
anything.”
“I’m telling you, sir,” Hudson says, “these marks were
made by a stationary vehicle. The excess rubber”—he points
to the thicker layer on the asphalt—“indicates the wheels
spun out before gaining traction.”
“Our SUVs are all-wheel drive. That’s impossible.”
“It is possible if the vehicle was reversing at high speed
and then quickly shifted into drive while slamming down on
the accelerator. That’s part of our evasive driving training.
We minimize stopping time, but with that shift, there’s
milliseconds where the tires can spin out.” Hudson points to
a separate deposit twenty yards in front of us, parallel lines
of black rubber. “That’s where he slammed on the brakes.”
Hudson knows how fucked this situation is, how we need
to get everything right. The investigations into what
happened here will go on for years. Tonight will burn down
everyone and everything. Careers are ending. Mine, for sure.
Which is fine by me, because the best part of my life—my
unexpected everything—is gone.
“I can’t tell you what happened,” Hudson says carefully.
“I can only tell you what the evidence shows. Agent Ellis
braked there, reversed at a high rate of speed, and then
accelerated so fast he left a fifty-yard burnout before losing
control of his vehicle and going over the side.”
Why, Henry? What did you see?
“Thanks. Good work, Hudson.”
Hudson’s eyes skate over the smoldering wreck in the
gully. His jaw clenches. He moves off before I can say
another word.
“Sir?” the pathologist, June Ahn, calls from the passenger
side of the SUV. “I’ve got some things you need to see.”
Sheridan and I pick our way to the crash. The ground is
slick, and my shoes sink into the mud. Behind me, Sheridan
slips.
Up close, the odor is dizzying. Smell is the recognition of
particulates in the air. I’m breathing death, the burned
molecules of my friends’ bodies. My lover’s body.
The heat is unbearable. Sweat rolls down my temples and
the back of my neck as I kneel beside Ahn. She’s taking
photos of the inside front passenger door, next to the
skeleton hanging upside down in the seat. The seat belt has
burned away, but the fire melted this body to the frame,
joining tissue and bone and steel.
“What do you have?”
 Ahn takes another photo before tucking the camera into
her chest pocket. She pulls out a pencil and a notepad and
shows me a full-page sketch of the open passenger door
beside us.
“Do you see the honeycomb pattern of the burn damage?”
Ahn points first to her sketch, then to the interior of the
door. “That’s the ballistic shielding. It’s stronger than
Kevlar, and it has a much higher flash point. For us to see
this extensive burn damage in the shielding, we’re looking at
an extremely high-temp fire, one that was almost certainly
caused by accelerants.”
Accelerants. Bordel de merde.
“What we don’t know is whether those accelerants were
accidentally or purposely introduced. Ammunition or
incendiaries already present could have cooked off or
detonated during an initial, smaller fire before growing into
this.”
“We keep our SUVs stocked with over three thousand
rounds of ammunition and six thermite grenades.”
“That could be the culprit. We’ll know more once we’ve
processed the vehicle in our lab. Now—” Ahn points her
pencil at the fire-cracked hip bone of the skeleton, then at
one of the ash-filled honeycombs and a dark smudge in the
middle of a hundred other smudges. “Take a look right
here.”
There’s a reason I didn’t go into forensics. I can’t see
anything, and if I stay down here much longer, I’m going to
fucking lose it. I’m hanging on to this earth by a thread, the
fastenings of my sanity fraying into tatters. My soul is
flaming out, and all I want is to crawl into a hole I’ll never
come out of. Scream myself raw, until my heart gives up and
what’s left of me can merge with what’s left of Brennan.
“What am I supposed to see?”
 “There’s a bullet hole, sir. A bullet traveled through this
body and embedded in the interior panel of the passenger
door.”
Ahn found this from a single smudge and the scorched
pelvis eight inches from my face. “Is the bullet recoverable?”
“Yes, sir. I can see the base of the projectile. It looks
significantly deformed, and I won’t know until I examine it
whether that’s from being discharged or from the fire.”
“Could this be a stray round that cooked off?”
Ahn points to the melted dashboard, the windshield
frame, the destroyed center console. “I’ve found
ammunition cook-off in these locations, but none in the
door.”
Sheridan is breathing over my shoulder. Mud clings to the
knees and elbows of his suit. He peers at the smoke-hidden
bullet hole, his eyes huge. “If a shot was fired inside the
SUV…” His voice trails off.
Puzzle pieces are coming together. Burnout marks on the
roadway above us and a bullet embedded within the
president’s—my lover’s—SUV.
This is something that scares the CIA director, Brennan had
said when he asked me to put together this clandestine
excursion. No one can know about this meeting. No one at all.
I can count on my fingers the people who knew Brennan’s
movements tonight. We kept the circle small.
Not small enough, apparently.
Someone knew where Brennan was going.
And someone knew why he was going to meet the CIA
director in the middle of the night.
Someone has murdered—
I am going to hunt them to the ends of the earth, and the
last thing they see will be my face and the barrel of my gun.
“There’s one more thing.” Ahn lowers her voice. Her eyes
dart to Sheridan, then back to me, asking a question.
Whatever she wants to tell me, she’s nervous about it.
“Sheridan is on my command team. He knows everything
I know.”
Ahn’s mask sucks inward as she takes a deep breath, and
her gaze flicks to the melted passenger compartment. To
Brennan’s seat.
I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this. The
world sharpens: the still-cooling metal groaning beside me,
the squish-slick footfalls of the forensic techs. Voices
speaking softly. And the smell, God, the smell.
For a moment, I can make out Brennan’s cologne, laid on
the tender skin of his neck beneath the curve of his jaw. I
kissed him there, months ago, right over his pulse. He’d
looked at me with so much hunger, so much yearning, so
much terror—
“This is only a preliminary determination…”
Ahn is trying to brace me for the truth, though I already
know no one could have survived this inferno. How many
agents have lost the president on their watch?
How many agents loved their president the way I loved
mine?
No one. No man could ever love another like I love
Brennan.
“We need to get the vehicle in our lab, process it all the
way down to the frame to be sure, but we’re pretty confident
—”
“Ahn, I already know. The president burned to death.”
Images flash across my mind, film negatives that melt in
flames. Did Brennan try to escape? Did he call my name? Did
he hope I’d rescue him? Did he die knowing I’d failed him?
She shakes her head. “The human body is highly resilient
to fire. Even when a body is cremated, bone remnants still
need to be ground down, and that’s after three hours of
sustained heat. In a fire like this, there’s always something
left behind. You can see for yourself: there are remains in the
front of the vehicle.”
“But the fire was worse in the passenger compartment
—”
“I don’t think it was hot enough for complete
obliteration.”
“What are you saying?” Sheridan’s voice quakes.
“We haven’t found any evidence of human remains
anywhere other than the front passenger seat and outside
the driver’s door,” Ahn says carefully. “I don’t think anyone
was in the rear of the SUV when the fire destroyed the
vehicle.”
Ahn’s measured tone, her steady, precise manner. She’s
not reaching for fairy tales, not trying to create false hope.
The world tilts, the sky slides sideways, and the ground
comes up fast at my face, until I brace myself against the
still-searing frame of the SUV.
Evidence markers stick out at odd angles, yellow placards
with black numbers that swim in my vision. I reach out with
everything in me, as if my love could pull Brennan’s life out
of this destruction and re-form him into flesh and blood,
paint his smile back onto his face and reignite the light in his
eyes. If he were in front of me, even in pieces, I’d know—
damn it, I would. A love like we had doesn’t just burn away.
I feel nothing.
“If President Walker wasn’t in the SUV,” Sheridan asks,
“then where is he? Was this a murder or an abduction?”
No one says a word.
“Who else knows?” I finally ask Ahn.
“Only my team.”
I count them up quickly. Seven people, plus her. “Keep it
that way. Tell no one.”
She nods. She gets what this means and what will happen
next.
 My radio chirps to life. “SAC Theriot, come in.”
“Go for Theriot.”
“Sir, the director needs you at the White House. Now.”
Fuck. Dawn is still an hour away, but the early morning
news channels are surely playing the fire on loop, along with
our blitz across DC and the Secret Service lockdown at Rock
Creek Park. The media will demand answers, but we have
nothing to give them.
Less than nothing, in fact.
We have to keep a lid on this. Brennan was targeted,
clearly, and the reason is buried somewhere in that CIA
briefing. Until we know more, nothing can get out. We need
every advantage, every angle.
Because if Brennan is out there somewhere, his life will
depend on how we respond and what we do next.
And I must bring him home.
“Roger,” I reply as I climb up the muddy embankment.
Red and blue lights turn the park into a macabre carnival.
The road is still choked with fire engines and Secret Service
vehicles. “Has the vice president been brought to the White
House?”
“He arrived an hour ago, sir. He and the director want to speak
to you, ASAP.”
“I’m on the way. ETA…” I can’t begin to figure out how to
extricate myself from this parking lot. “As soon as I get out
of here. I’m at the scene.”
“Roger, sir. I’ll let the director know.”
Sheridan is at my side, rubbing his muddy palms on his
suit pants. His eyes are ruby red as he grinds out, “I’ll
drive,” and jogs to the driver’s side of my SUV.
It takes seven minutes to clear a path out of the park.
Sheridan flips on the sirens as soon as we’re past the
perimeter, and he gets us back to the White House almost as
fast as he got us to the scene.
 He takes us down to the basement, parking the soot-
stained SUV in the drop-off zone next to the No Parking
sign. I’d chide him, but the presumptive president and the
director of the Secret Service are waiting for us two floors
overhead.
Still, I take a moment before opening the door.
“Sheridan…”
“Yes, sir?”
I shouldn’t take him with me. He looks like his whole
world has collapsed, far from professional or inspiring for
our bosses.
But we’re walking into an inquisition, and I’m not strong
enough right now to face that alone. I’m unbalanced, about
to slide into a gloom so bottomless I may never find my way
out.
So I’m keeping Sheridan with me.
Selfish, yes, but I don’t give a shit.
He may be my anchor through this storm, or the last tie
I’ll sever before I follow Brennan, wherever he’s gone.
“Stay with me.”
 Chapter Seven

B rennan
T hen

I ’ve kept my secret for over twenty years, but after six
weeks at the White House, I might be about to blow
everything. Tear my carefully constructed image apart and
burn it to the ground.
I’m the president, but the White House doesn’t feel like
home. The West Wing belongs to the staff who bring my
administration to life, and to the people who keep our
government churning, and to—
Reese is everywhere. He’s in the hallways checking on his
agents. He’s striding across the West Wing basement,
badging me into the Situation Room. He’s grabbing coffee
from the mess, or checking in with Matt about my schedule,
or we’re crossing through the hallways at the same time,
always frustratingly out of reach.
He’s in the Oval Office once a week. Every Wednesday, he
delivers a Secret Service brief to start off my day. Fifteen
minutes with Reese, one-on-one. Just him and me in that
huge, empty office, the ticktock of the grandfather clock
pressing in on us.
There’s a charge in the air when we’re together, a
crackling expectancy, almost an urgency. Unspoken words
clutter my mind. At the same time, there’s distance that
wasn’t there when we joked on the elevator down to the
bunker. We’d shared smiles that night, and he’d welcomed
me home. He was the first to say that to me about the White
House.
Now, something is coiling between us.
Every time Reese crosses my path, I’m a little more on
edge. My mind is a churning ocean, my thoughts the roar of
the surf, pounding on the beach that holds my buried
secrets.
Why him? Why, after all these years of discipline, is this
the man who makes me dream, and ache, and hunger again?
I barely know him. Certainly not well enough to risk
everything.
But something is pressurizing those moments where we
come together, where our worlds brush and merge and then
part. We’re like gases ready to combust, waiting for a spark.
This is the last, the absolute last thing I should be
thinking about. The desolate reality of my love life is
inconsequential, and my wonderings about the occasional
hitch in Reese’s breath, the slide of his eyes to mine when he
thinks I don’t notice, are going nowhere.
Nothing is going to happen.
My fingers tap the edge of my desk on board Air Force
One. We’re twenty minutes out of DC, a little over an hour
from landing in Ottawa. It’s my first international trip since
the inauguration. I’m strengthening a long-standing alliance
and starting down the path I promised during the election.
The fires of war are threatening to engulf the world again.
Several years ago, Russia invaded Ukraine, seizing it in a
brutal stranglehold. Their military razed entire cities, wiped
towns and villages from the earth, destroyed Ukraine’s fields
and factories. Millions of refugees poured out of the country,
and millions more continue to struggle under Russian
occupation.
We don’t have a full count of how many lives have been
lost. Famine, disease, and unending war now rock Ukraine in
a humanitarian catastrophe that’s only growing worse.
Now, Russia is making new threats. A conflagration could
break out at any moment. The world is on edge and turns to
America.
What is foreign policy if not a series of promises? We
combine hope and action and believe we can make a
difference by showing up, by being there, by holding out a
helping hand.
We don’t always get it right. My own life has been scarred
by American overreach, and there’s a hole in my existence
where a person should be but isn’t.
If America is better, though, what we can achieve in the
world will be better. Good works start close to home and
grow from there. Strength is best measured against
kindness.
What good are American principles if we abandon them?
Do democracies stand together, or do we fall separately? Can
a single dictator intimidate the world into allowing tragedy
to continue?
What is the best response, when every action ratchets this
crisis tighter and tighter?
I pace and debate myself, arguing in circles.
Between pondering a looming world war and an attraction
that is bringing my psyche to its knees, I’m stranded in a
bleak mental moonscape.
My thoughts slide back to Reese.
He’s on board. Right now.
 He was part of the welcoming committee when I came up
the steps. Reese, Henry, the pilots and copilot, my chief
steward, and my chief of staff. I’d held his handshake longer
than I should have.
“Agent Theriot, always a pleasure to see you.”
He didn’t let go right away, either. And there was that
hitch to his breath again, that slight hesitation before he
answered. A little bit of his Louisiana accent slid out: some
Southern drawl, a hint of old world French. “I’ll be running
your detail on the ground in Ottawa, Mr. President, and I’ll
brief you when we’re closer to landing.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
And that was that.
That’s where it should stay. There’s no future to the
questions my subconscious throws at me after midnight.
What would his lips taste like? What would my name sound
like, spoken with his accent?
Restlessness rides my nerves raw, and I’ve already paced
the length of this office a dozen times.
How soon is “closer to landing”? When will Reese make
his way to my office?
I want to see him. For more than a second or two in the
halls, more than fifteen minutes in a once-weekly briefing.
Presidents aren’t allowed to have crushes, especially not
on men, not when that rainbow ceiling doesn’t even have a
dent on it. My secret is a hand grenade with the pin already
pulled.
The smart choice here would be to distance myself from
Reese. Frustrate myself at night with impossible fantasies,
and never take it further than a few furtive strokes of my
hand and his name muffled into my pillow.
But is it possible we could be… friends?
Can I trust myself to try?
 Or is Reese an addict’s temptation, a bottomless glass of
whiskey offered to an alcoholic?

“H ey , D anny .”
“Mr. President.” Danny, my chief steward, freezes in the
galley, eyes wide and still reaching for the coffee grounds
next to my elbow. “Sir, if there’s something you need, all
you have to do is ring.”
“I’m just stretching my legs.” I slouch against the
doorframe, hoping Danny will follow my lead. He doesn’t. In
fact, he’s embarrassed when I pass him the tin of coffee, and
he sets it down and makes a point of giving me his full
attention.
“There are a lot more interesting places than the forward
galley, Mr. President.”
“Every place is interesting to me.”
Finally, I get a tiny smile.
“Have you flown with Agent Theriot before? Do you
happen to know how he takes his coffee? I’ve got a meeting
with him in a few minutes and I’d like to bring a gesture of
goodwill.”
Danny arches an eyebrow as he fires up the coffee pot.
“Usually it’s the Secret Service trying to butter you up, Mr.
President, not the other way around. I’ve flown with Agent
Theriot for six years and served him gallons of coffee. I’m
happy to bring you both fresh cups once your meeting has
begun.”
“I’m going to grab him a bit early. Hence the peace
offering.”
“You don’t need a peace offering, Mr. President.”
But he grabs two paper travel cups. He makes mine first—
adding cream until it’s a perfect off-white—and then
Reese’s.
Reese takes his coffee straight, no cream, no sugar. Of
course.
Danny snaps lids on the cups and passes them to me.
“He’s not picky. He can drink coffee strained through an
engine block if he has to.”
“Let’s hope he never has to.”
Danny lets me make a dignified escape. I head aft. Half a
dozen flight attendants pass me, each one greeting me with
“Mr. President” and a smile.
Air Force One is a lot of things, but it is predominantly
beige. The president flies in style, yes, but that style is
solidly 1980s, as if the whole plane had been outfitted by La-
Z-Boy salesmen with one color sample. Beige leather
recliners, beige carpeting, beige paneling. The only pops of
color are the blue curtains and the presidential seal—which
is stuck on everything within eyeshot.
The portside hallway continues, and beyond a privacy
curtain, the press pool tags along in their section. On my left
is the Secret Service compartment, a huge area mostly
barricaded behind bulkheads and locked doors. I know
there’s an armory, an office, and bunk beds, as well as a
ready room that opens to the corridor. That’s where I slow—
And hear something unexpected: laughter.
That low rumble is Reese’s voice, too. It unsteadies me, as
if the plane had just dropped ten thousand feet, leaving my
stomach an altitude above.
What does Reese look like when he laughs? I’ve only seen
his professional smile, but there must be a bigger, truer one
inside him.
My steps are light, almost silent, as I round the bulkhead
and face the ready room. But my stealthy approach doesn’t
matter. Not a single person notices I’m there. They’re all
facing away from me.
 Reese is sitting on the armrest of one of those beige
leather chairs, counting off with the rest of the agents
crowding the room, while a man and a woman pump out
pull-ups on the rail of the overhead luggage compartment.
They’ve both shed their suit jackets and dress shirts and are
in their undershirts with Kevlar vests strapped on top. Her
muscles ripple as she hauls herself up and lowers back down,
faster than her male counterpart.
“Twelve! Thirteen!” Reese claps as he laughs. My eyes
lock on him, on his easy, open smile.
Across the ready room, the man is slowing. At sixteen
pull-ups, he drops to the floor, hanging his head as the
woman grinds out four more before dropping to her feet. She
barely looks winded, and the whole compartment erupts,
agents clapping and whistling and slapping her on the
shoulders. She hugs the man she beat, and that’s when she
sees me.
“Mr. President!” She comes to military attention, and the
rest of the agents are practically cartoon characters leaving
light trails behind them as they snap from human beings
having fun to no-nonsense professionals. Smiles vanish, and
they’re back to the square-jawed, furrowed-brow monoliths
I see in the West Wing. Personality, gone. Fun, erased.
Disappointment weighs me down like a boulder sinking
into the ocean.
Reese stands in front of his team. “Mr. President! Did we
disturb you?”
The agents behind him have clenched so tight, I don’t
think any of them will shit for a week.
“What was that?”
Silence. Agents eye each other. Reese is out in front, and
no one is coming to help him.
The explanation comes slowly. “Agent Nuñez”—Reese
motions to the victorious woman—“is trying out for CAT,
sir. Agent Roberts challenged her to a friendly pull-up
contest.”
I meet Nuñez’s and Roberts’s gazes. Nuñez has deep
brown eyes and black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Roberts is tall and muscular, but obviously she was his better
in pull-ups. Both are flushed, cheeks and ears red. They’re
standing there in their undershirts and vests, sweat beading
on their skin. “I don’t think I could get ten pull-ups out.
Much less sixteen or twenty.”
Reese flinches.
None of them has relaxed. They’re going to sprain
something if I stay any longer. “Agent Nuñez, I hope to see
you on CAT in the future.”
Nuñez cracks just enough to smile. “Thank you, Mr.
President.”
I’m still holding two cups of coffee like a delivery boy.
“Agent Theriot? Would you join me?”
The temperature in the ready room plunges. Eyes slide to
Reese, despairing, sympathizing. Like I’ve invited him to his
own execution.
“Of course, Mr. President.” He grabs his padfolio from his
seat and follows me. We leave behind what feels like a
funeral.
“I brought you coffee.” I make my first mistake when I
hold it out to Reese. My second is the smile I offer.
Reese reacts like I’ve berated him, not tried to wipe the
slate clean. In the quiet of the hallway, I hear his teeth
scrape. He doesn’t take the coffee, and I remember—too late
—my initial briefing from Secret Service Director Britton:
agents will never accept anything handed to them on duty.
Their hands must always be ready in case they need to draw.
We’re safely on Air Force One, but Reese still won’t
accept. Instead, he pushes my office door open so hard it
ricochets off the bulkhead and slams into his back as he
waits for me to pass.
I take my seat. He shuts the door and faces it, not moving.
His shoulders are clenched, hard and tight beneath his taut
suit jacket.
Four steps bring him in front of me, where he pops to
attention, hands clasped, chin straight, eyes fixed above my
head. Probably glued to the presidential seal on the wall.
The two coffees stand like statues on my desk. “Agent
Theriot—”
“I take full responsibility for what happened, Mr.
President. There’s no excuse for our behavior. I hope you
won’t let what you saw detract from your confidence in my
agents’ abilities.” The muscle in his cheek is firing. “It was a
joke that got out of hand—”
“It looked like fun.”
His eyes dart to mine, then away, lightning fast.
“Please, Agent Theriot. Sit?”
It takes him a moment. He may only comply because he
thinks it’s an order. He’s letting nothing out, not a hint of
emotion. There’s no eye contact, lingering or otherwise. He
might be burning holes in the bulkhead behind me with that
glare.
“This coffee is for you. It may be a little cold, but I can
heat it up.” There’s a microwave in the bulkhead behind me,
which makes me laugh, because who on this plane would
ever allow me to microwave anything on my own?
“Mr. President—”
“Were my predecessors complete assholes?”
He frowns.
“You’re on Air Force One, the second most secure place in
the world. My schedule has me here in my office until we
land. You were on downtime, and I surprised you and your
team. The fault is mine. I’m sorry.”
 It’s my turn to glare at a bulkhead behind his ear. What
was I thinking?
All we need is a ticking clock, and it will be just like we’re
in the Oval. Except worse, because at least before there was
eye contact, and he spoke to me. I thought there was
something friendly between us. Maybe there was, but now,
he’s making it abundantly clear that he wants no part of it.
Or me.
“I was ahead of schedule.” My hand waves across my
empty desk. Everything I needed to review for this trip is
read. “I thought we could get our briefing out of the way.”
He nods, once, and busies himself with his padfolio,
flipping through papers as the cabin air recirculates.
I’ll watch him this last time, allow my eyes to linger on
the arch of his cheekbone, the angle of his jaw. The hint of
stubble he’s sporting, even though it’s barely noon. Maybe
it’s late to him. The Secret Service works on shifts. Maybe
he’s fourteen hours into his day. There’s so much I want to
know about Reese, so much I want to ask him—
Dark eyes rise and catch me. His gaze pins me to my seat.
“Sir?”
I shake my head. He’s trapped me with his stare.
“Is something wrong?”
Yes. Everything is wrong, because I can’t get you out of my
head. “No, I—”
There’s so much I wish I could say. Thoughts I’ve had for
the first time in decades, musings about what it would be
like to make another man laugh, or sigh my name, or look at
me with desire as he takes my hand. You made me dream
again, if only for six weeks.
It’s a cruel gift, because I haven’t wanted like this since I
buried my secret and made my vow, but at least I know this
part of me isn’t dead. Maybe in the future there will be
another man who steals my breath away, like Reese does
right now.
Or maybe this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I’m
watching it fall away.
Not in this life, but in another one. You’re not meant to find
him—whoever he is—in this life.
I fiddle with my coffee cup, thumb flicking over the lid,
my eyes drawn down to the intricacies of plastic and
cardboard. We’ll get through this brief, and this trip, and
then I’ll close the door on my fantasies.
“How are you settling in, Mr. President?” His voice is
soft, the words rolling gently on his accent.
My gaze flicks up. My thumbs still. “You were right. It’s a
huge adjustment. I’m still tripping over things.”
“Such as?”
I arch my brows. “Well…” His cheeks flush, and he flips
pages in his padfolio again as he breaks eye contact. “I feel
insulated. Isolated, too. Your team’s pull-up contest was the
first honest-to-God joking around I’ve seen since moving
into the White House.”
“Your time is valuable, Mr. President. No one is supposed
to waste it.”
“It’s not a waste to get to know the people around me.”
His nostrils flare as he looks up. His pupils have
darkened, and the way he’s gazing at me is making my
vertebrae hum.
“Am I that different?”
Reese’s forehead bunches into a frown.
“From the presidents before?”
Different is always the adjective used to describe me. But I
thought that meant my policies, my beliefs, my background
that took me into the world’s most brutal hellscapes before
coming back to try to change things so those horrors could
never happen again. Not that I was afflicted with a human
decency that my predecessors had managed to escape from.
He takes his time answering. Shuts his padfolio, too, and
studies me. I don’t want to blink, don’t want to sever this
connection with him, but if he keeps looking at me like this,
he’s going to start unearthing things.
“You are,” he finally says. “You are very different.”
Not just my policies, then.
I break our stare, my eyes sliding away, to the window
with its open shade. Sunlight pours on the carpet beside
where Reese is sitting.
“For example—” Reese reaches for the second cup of
coffee and pulls it across the desk. “No principal, ever, in my
entire career, has brought me coffee.”
“I’ve never thought twice about doing things like this.” I
nod to the coffee. “But now, all of a sudden, I’m not
supposed to.”
“Different isn’t necessarily bad.”
His words slide through me like a blade. Different, in this
case, is bad. I’m playing with fire, with my truth and my
secrets. What I want, I can’t have. I knew that years ago, and
nothing has changed. “I appreciate your being patient with
me. New presidents must be challenging to get used to.”
His smile is slow, unfurling like a sunrise on rippling
waters. I spy the glint in his eyes before he speaks, but I have
no context for it. I don’t know what it means when they flash
like that, or when his dimple burrows into the side of his
cheek. My heart turns over, speeds up, and that’s going to
stay in my dreams for a few weeks—
“Truthfully? This new guy is not too bad.”
“Not too bad.” I’m too stunned to react. He grins, and
something else enters the office. That buzz, that hum, that
pressure building, but even as I feel it, his gaze shifts,
darkening with quicksilver shadows.
 No, not yet. Whatever it is, whatever kindness he’s
granting me—hold on. I don’t want to let it go.
“I’m going to have that put on my headstone. ‘He was not
too bad.’”
His smile returns, full force. “My official report to the
director says you are compliant with Secret Service protocol
and there have been no complaints from the agents assigned
to your detail.”
“Now you make me want to run away, just to be a little
noncompliant.”
“Don’t you dare, Mr. President,” he drawls. “I’d hate to
have to arrest you.” A wink. “Or change my report.”
I’m beaming, and my cheeks are starting to ache. We’re
back to staring at each other—staring into each other—and
each inhale feels like it’s scraping me raw. Questions gallop
through me. What does it mean when you smile at me? Why are
you looking at me like this? Why haven’t you looked away?
“How’s living in the Residence?”
“It’s… big.”
His eyebrows rise. His expression turns sardonic, and, if
I’m reading this right, playful in equal measures. Is he— Is
this—
Stop overthinking. “I know how lucky I am to be there, but
it’s a lot of house for one man. I’m not used to more than
two bedrooms.”
He nods. I think he understands, which… Does that mean
he’s single as well? Used to living alone, to the space a life
for one needs?
But why would Reese be single? There must be someone
special, someone as searingly smart and intense as he is,
someone who gets to soak in so many more moments than
I’ve managed to sneak from him.
He waits until I’ve taken a sip before he says, “At least
you have the ghosts for company.”
 Coffee nearly paints the bulkhead, nearly shoots out of
my nose. “The what?” I croak when I’ve recovered what I
can of my dignity.
“The Residence is haunted.”
“Bullshit. The Lincoln bedroom is just a myth.”
“That old chestnut, sure. But, sir, I’m from New Orleans,
and we take ghosts very seriously down there. I know a
haunted house when I see one.”
My lips part.
“Didn’t anyone warn you, Mr. President?”
“Anyone? You mean like the head of my detail?”
He grins. He’s absolutely shameless. “President Truman
used to say he could hear the ghosts of Presidents Lincoln
and Jackson moving through the hallways at night. He said
the floorboards creaked and the drapes moved on their
own.”
“I’ve heard creaking.”
“President Harrison was the first president to die in the
White House. He haunts the third floor. Seems like every few
months, I have to send an agent up to check out reports of
rattling and banging around.”
Now I’m catching on, my shock shifting to chagrin as I
try to give as good as he is dishing out. “Right. Harrison’s
ghost. Surely not your snipers on the roof playing a prank on
the new agents on the detail.”
His eyes hold mine. He doesn’t speak, not right away. The
air between us is vibrating. “Now that you mention it, Mr.
President, it does seem to always be the new agents who are
sent on ghost sweeps in the White House attic.” His voice is
a honey-drawl, smooth as silk, slow as summertime.
This is what I wanted. To peek beneath the outer layers,
to see the man I’ve caught glimpses of from the shadows.
See his unbridled smile, hear his playful chuckle. Listen to
him say something that isn’t procedure or a report.
 I want to know him, because I haven’t known any man in
a meaningful way since I cut my heart out all those years
ago.
Too risky. Too dangerous. This is what could happen if I
let myself slide into my secrets. Wanting. Craving.
Falling.
Stop now, while you still can.
If I still can.
Reese takes a hearty sip from his coffee. Our eye contact,
finally, breaks, and I drag in a shuddering breath as
discreetly as I can. I’ve shredded the wrapper on my own
coffee cup. Paper pulp covers my lap like I’ve tried to
disassemble the cardboard into atoms.
“Would you like to go over the security procedures for
when we land, sir?”
For the next ten minutes, Reese details the timeline of our
arrival and the choreography of moving me through the
world. “After the cocktail reception, we’ll depart the prime
minister’s residence at twenty-one hundred and return to
Air Force One. Pushback is scheduled at twenty-one thirty,
with wheels down in Washington at twenty-three hundred.
Marine One will bring you to the White House at twenty-
three forty-five. Any questions, Mr. President?”
If I met you in another life, would you let me take you to
dinner?
No questions. His brief is as professional and tight as he
is. Beneath my feet, the deck begins to pitch forward. We’re
on the descent to Ottawa. Our time is almost up.
I watch Reese, and he studies me in turn. And then—
His eyes dart down to my mouth, and lower, to my chest,
then to my hand clutching my coffee in my lap. A moment
later, his gaze slides back up and locks onto mine again.
Surely not. Surely, completely not. Don’t imagine things
that aren’t there. The Secret Service agents in the West Wing
take in every person they meet, eyes scanning from head to
toe and everywhere in between. He’s not checking you out.
Heat waves build inside me. Say something. Salvage this
moment. I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I, uh,
thought there weren’t any women on the Counter Assault
Team.”
“There aren’t yet. But anyone who meets the physical
standards can try out. Hundreds of agents do. CAT accepts
less than 1 percent of all agents who apply.”
“Is Roberts trying out?”
Another slow draw of that dimpled smile. “Not after
today, sir.”
Silence fills the office again. Questions build. Within me,
within his gaze. They carpet the floor, crawl up the walls. I
ask none of them.
“Thank you. Excellent briefing.”
My ears pop. Across from me, Reese works his jaw,
helping his own along. In a commercial flight, we’d be
stowing our tray tables and buckling seat belts, but I suppose
no one is going to tell me to sit down and turn off my cell
phone and laptop.
He stands, and so do I. “Once we’re on the ground, the
team and I will deplane first and make sure everything is
secure. When you get the signal, you’ll come down the stairs.
Get ready for the cheers.”
“I’ll have my smile and bells on.” I hold out my hand for
his coffee cup. “I’ll toss it for you?”
He hesitates before passing it over. A tiny bump of
turbulence, the first in the whole flight, brings our fingers
together.
This is the feeling I’ve been trying to convince myself was
nothing but my fantasies running wild. That it didn’t happen
when we met, that I made it up, that it was all in my head.
But here it is again: raw lightning and black honey and
midnight blues, bodies moving in harmony, quiet gasps
smothered against shoulders. The glide of a man’s back
beneath my palm, and the clench of my thighs around his
hips. Hands in my hair, my mouth falling open, stubble
scraping along my neck and jaw—
This is what has kept me up at night, this electricity and
the curve of his smile and the flicker of light in those nearly
impenetrable eyes.
He pulls away.
I toss our cups and clear my throat, trying to blink my
brain back to operational.
He stills in the open doorway and looks back at me.
The wheels touch down, burning rubber screeching on the
runway. “Mr. President,” he says. “I’ll see you on the ground
in ten minutes.”
 Chapter Eight

R eese
N ow

“W hat the fuck happened?”

Dean McClintock, the national security advisor,
speaks first. Rage makes his hands shake, and he clasps
them in front of his mouth. His East Texas twang—piney
woods and swampy earth—is more pronounced than usual.
Like mine, it crawls out when he’s stressed, when he’s tired.
Unlike mine, it also comes out when he’s butting heads with
Brennan. I’ve heard them go at it at full volume, bellowing
over each other everywhere from the Oval to the Situation
Room.
It’s hard to meet McClintock’s gaze. “We’re trying to
understand that, sir.”
McClintock curses again. He pushes his fingers into his
red-rimmed eyes and lets out a slow, haggard sigh.
Patrick Marshall, the vice president, sits in one of the
Queen Anne chairs. He’s frozen, his fingers steepled in front
of his lips while he stares into the fireplace as if answers are
buried in the cold coals.
Director Peter Britton, my boss, has his elbows on his
knees and is looking at the ground like he hopes it will open
and swallow him whole.
Devastation hangs in the stale air. Despair slides down the
wallpaper and puddles on the floor. Panic sublimates
through the carpet.
I wasn’t allowed into the Oval right away. Sheridan and I
were stopped by a red-faced, tear-soaked Matt. “You’ll have
to wait,” he’d gasped, barely able to choke out the words.
“The vice president is on the phone with Director Liu.”
I almost shoved Matt aside and stormed in. CIA Director
Liu is exactly who I need to speak to. He’s the one Brennan
was supposed to meet.
What was Liu going to brief him on? What was so
dangerous that Brennan had to keep it from everyone in his
own administration?
Why are good men dead, and why is Brennan missing?
Director Britton raises his head. “What happened,
Theriot? President Walker’s schedule has him upstairs in the
Residence at the time of the accident.”
Sheridan squirms. Britton’s gaze darts to him, sweeping
over his ruined, mud-covered suit, then skips back to me. I
don’t look any better. Sweat has dried in sheets on my skin.
Soot and ash are smeared over my face. I’ll never get the
smoke or the stench of death out of my suit.
How much can I say? Brennan made me promise I would
keep the briefing a secret.
See how that turned out?
“President Walker scheduled an off-the-books briefing
with Director Liu at two a.m. I assisted the president by
providing cover for the meeting, and I arranged secure,
clandestine transport to Langley for him. We ran a closed op.
Two-on-one protection. A single car, running dark. It was
need-to-know only.”
McClintock’s head snaps up as Britton pales, but Marshall
is the first to respond. “Do you know what this meeting was
about?” His gaze doesn’t move from the fireplace until after
he’s spoken.
When his eyes meet mine, my breath stops. Merde,
Marshall is out for blood. Fury has settled inside him like a
new set of bones.
“No, Mr. Vice President.”
“We need to discuss how we’re going to brief the public,”
Britton says. “The media is rumbling. We’ve managed to
hold them off with President Walker’s official schedule from
last night, and I’ve had my staff leak to the press that it was
a Secret Service agent who crashed in the park after his shift.
But that won’t last long.”
“Has the attorney general arrived?” Marshall asks.
“Not yet.” McClintock shakes his head. “I couldn’t tell
him what happened over the phone, so he’s taking his time.
You know that bastard.”
“He’s holding up Patrick’s swearing-in,” Britton snaps.
“The nation needs a president!”
They’re getting ahead of themselves. “President Walker
isn’t dead.”
Silence sweeps the Oval. Three heads swivel to me.
“Theriot—” Britton starts.
“Forensics at the scene point to a kidnapping. There’s
only two sets of human remains, most likely Agents Ellis and
Stewart, who were both in the front seats. There were no
human remains, not even partials, in the passenger
compartment. Someone fired a shot inside the SUV. There’s a
bullet embedded in the inside front door panel. There’s also
tire burnout on the road. Henry—Agent Ellis, the driver—
tried to evade something or someone, and when he did, he
lost control of the vehicle and went over the embankment.
Somebody attacked them, sir.”
Marshall is staring me dead in the eye, and I cling to that,
hold his gaze. I’m not going to lose it. I can’t. Brennan needs
me. My jaw clenches until my teeth scream.
“Who else knows this?” Marshall’s voice is maddeningly
calm.
“I ordered the forensic team to keep it under wraps. As of
this moment, only that team of eight, myself, Agent
Sheridan, and the three of you.”
“Do you have any idea where President Walker could be?”
“No, sir.”
“Why haven’t you brought the damn dogs out?”
McClintock bellows. “Can’t you track his phone? If the
president was kidnapped, we need to be on his trail!”
“The fire obliterated any physical trail he or his
kidnappers might have left. His personal phone is in the
Residence, and both of my agents’ cell phones were
destroyed in the blaze. Physically and digitally, we have no
leads, not from the crash.”
McClintock curses.
I press on. “Whoever did this, whoever attacked the
president, they knew where he was going to be, which means
they had to know about last night’s briefing, too.”
“How many people knew about the meeting at Langley?”
“Very few.”
“Mainly, your Secret Service detail.” Marshall’s voice
skins me. “It sounds as if there is a leak in your team, Agent
Theriot. Is it the position of the Secret Service that the
failure lies in your hands?”
“Hold on—” Britton starts.
“No, sir. I trust the members of my team with my life and
with the president’s life. It wasn’t us.”
“You just lost the president.”
Those words nearly bring me to my knees. “Mr. Vice
President, the Secret Service lost two good men tonight.
They were my friends. You can smell what remains of them
on me.” I hold out my blackened, blistered hands. “And see,
right here.”
Britton’s eyes hit the floor.
Marshall isn’t moved. “Emotions don’t change facts. The
president is gone on your watch.”
I know. I fucking know. Putain de bordel de merde, I want
to rip out my heart—or close my eyes and wake up in the
future, when all this has passed and Brennan is lying on the
pillow beside me, smiling while he runs his fingers over my
collarbone and down my chest.
But that future won’t exist until I make it. I have to find
him.
“Sir, you can hate me when this is over, but right now,
I’m your best chance of finding President Walker.”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s no one the president trusted more than me.”
Arched eyebrows all around. Disbelief echoes. “He didn’t tell
any of you about the briefing, did he?” Silence. I’ve made my
fucking point. “I know where he was going. I know exactly
where the SUV was when it stopped. I know the two men who
were in the vehicle with him. I’ve served with both for over
ten years.”
“A team of FBI agents can read these details in your
handoff report—”
“That will take time! Time we don’t have, if President
Walker is still alive. Mr. Vice President, I know where he was
going, and I know who he was meeting. I know my people.
What I don’t know is the CIA side of this equation—”
“Are you seriously suggesting that the director of the CIA
organized a hit on the president?” Incredulity strains
Marshall’s voice almost to breaking.
“You accused the Secret Service a moment ago, Mr. Vice
President.” Britton’s voice is soft, but ice cold.
Marshall shoots him a withering glare.
 “Not the director, but possibly someone inside his circle
at the CIA. Someone who knew about this meeting.”
“Why should I, or anyone in this government, ever trust
you again, Agent Theriot?” Marshall asks. “Tell me why I
shouldn’t take your badge and your gun and have you
escorted off the grounds this minute.”
“Because there is no one on the planet more motivated to
find President Walker than me.”
Marshall is silent as he takes me in. His expression is flat,
and he’s unnaturally still.
“The briefing was scheduled two days ago, and the route
wasn’t confirmed until yesterday morning.”
“And you shared the president’s route with the
CIA?” McClintock asks.
“With the director, yes.”
“Dean, if this is an inside job, what are the odds we’ll see
a public message from the kidnappers? Does this seem like a
situation that will end in an execution video uploaded to
YouTube in a few hours?” Marshall’s words are nails
hammered into my brain.
McClintock’s sixty-six years seem to blow out of him.
“How am I supposed to answer that, Mr. Vice President?”
Marshall doesn’t blink.
McClintock’s hands spread. “If they knew to detonate the
SUV and scorch the scene, they’ll know enough to stay one
step ahead of our investigation. My gut says we may be
looking at a situation where the president is just gone. Maybe
he’s already dead, or maybe whoever took him is trying to
make the body disappear. What would be worse? A martyr or
a missing man?”
“You can still cut down a missing man,” Marshall muses.
“Martyrs live forever in the people’s mind.”
“I don’t know what would be better for President Walker
at this point: for us to find his body or for him to vanish.”
McClintock’s jowls bulge, spreading out over the collar of his
white shirt. He keeps sinking into himself, one big ball of
cantankerous old cuss.
I’m three seconds from charging the room, hauling him
off the sofa, shaking him until he takes those words back,
until he fucking apologizes—
“What if it’s something else?” Sheridan blurts out. He
hadn’t said a word since we walked in the door. He’s the
most junior person in this room, and he’s not supposed to let
anyone hear him breathe, let alone open his mouth and
speak. “Is it possible President Walker was able to escape
whatever happened this morning?”
“You’re suggesting he’s on the run?” Britton shakes his
head.
It’s a decent idea, but Sheridan doesn’t know I already
had it and discarded it. If Brennan were on the run or needed
help, the very first call he’d have made would be to me, and
I’d already be at his side.
Brennan has one of the most recognizable faces in the
world. If he were out there, someone would have seen him.
No one would leave the president in the gutter or an
emergency room and not pick up the phone.
What if he can’t call? What if he’s unconscious in the
park? What if he’s facedown in the dirt—
In 2001, an intern working at the Capitol was murdered
and dumped not far from the crash. Her remains weren’t
found for over a year.
I can’t read in the newspaper, some indefinable day from
now, that two bodies were found in the depths of the park.
Recovered with the skeletonized remains are a Secret Service
badge, a rusted nine-millimeter pistol, and gold cuff links with
the presidential seal—
No, the NPS and the Marines will be sweeping through
Rock Creek Park as soon as the sun rises. They’ll put a bird in
the air with a thermal scope and then visually check
everything with a heartbeat, walk a grid search, turn over
every leaf and blade of grass.
The door to the Outer Oval opens. No one enters without
permission, especially not in the middle of something like
this. Matt stumbles in, tears still streaming down his face.
Marshall briefed him with the basics before Sheridan and I
arrived, which is why he’s gulping down sobs and not
waiting for Brennan to walk into his office.
He clutches a folded piece of paper in his shaking hand,
and then passes it to Marshall. Marshall squeezes Matt’s arm
as he reads, which would seem comforting if Marshall
weren’t behaving like a vulture circling the remains of
Brennan’s presidency.
Marshall refolds the note and tucks it into his jacket, then
tilts his head, looking my way again. “Fourteen people know
the truth about President Walker, Agent Theriot. How long
can you keep it that way?”
“My people don’t talk.”
“How quickly can you figure out what happened? How
soon can you find President Walker?”
Give me a loaded gun and a few hours. Give me Director
Liu and a locked room. Give me permission to unleash my
heartbreak. Give me the power to rip the world from its axis
and shred electrons out of atomic orbits.
“I’ll know double what I know now in an hour, sir. Double
that in another hour. And double that in the next. I will have
whoever did this on their knees before the end of today.”
Marshall arches an eyebrow and stares me down.
Two can play that game.
“That message was from Director Liu,” Marshall finally
says. “A member of his team who was supposed to be at the
briefing with the president last night is missing. An
intelligence analyst, Clint Cross.”
 Clint Cross. The name sears into the white matter of my
brain. “That’s where I’ll start.”
Marshall’s gaze sweeps the Oval. He waits until he has
everyone’s attention. “Not a word leaves this office. Not one
breath.”
McClintock frowns. “The attorney general is coming to
swear you in—”
“Call him off. False alarm.”
“Sir—”
“Push the story that the crash was an off-duty Secret
Service agent. A beloved agent who met his tragic end. None
of you breathes a word that President Walker is not upstairs
at this moment, sleeping comfortably.”
Britton looks like he’s going to faint. Sheridan’s exhale is
the only sound in the room. There’s nothing even close to
legal about what the vice president is ordering us to do. Not
in the same zip code. Not on the same continent.
“We need to buy time,” Marshall continues. “If Walker’s
remains aren’t found at the crash site, we have to assume
he’s been kidnapped. Silence is our best friend right now.
Silence keeps whoever is behind this off-balance. They can’t
counteract our moves if they don’t know what we’re doing.
And if it’s terror they’re after, they will be disappointed
when all they see is business as usual when the sun rises.”
Marshall grips Matt’s elbow again. “Dry your eyes and get
back to work, or go home. That goes for everyone. I need you
all to put your game faces on.”
That sends Matt into spasms of tears again, but he bucks
up and swallows them down. We all give him a minute, and,
under the glares of the most powerful men in America, Matt
forces himself to calm. “I can do this, Mr. Vice President.”
Marshall looks to McClintock and Britton. McClintock
nods. Britton hesitates. He’s imagining the congressional
hearings that are barreling toward us all. What did you choose
to do in this moment of crisis?
“It would help my investigation if I knew what the CIA
briefing was about—” I start.
“The substance of the president’s brief is not part of your
investigation, Agent Theriot. You already have a lead. Track
down Clint Cross.” Marshall stands and buttons his suit
jacket.
He’s shorter than Brennan, and his hair is prematurely
white, unlike Brennan’s thick strands. His eyes are also
colder than Brennan’s.
When I started falling for Brennan, it was the kindness in
his eyes that drew me in first. Those eyes asked me to trust
him, and, damn it, I did. I trusted him, and I fell in love with
him, and he was supposed to be able to trust me back.
As I stand here, I can’t say I know with certainty what
Marshall is capable of. What is happening behind that poker
face? What is he really thinking?
“You’re dismissed, Agent Theriot,” Marshall says. “Agent
Sheridan? Stay behind. Everyone else, thank you. You have
your orders.”
McClintock, Britton, Matt, and I file out. McClintock
throws his hand up when Britton calls his name. He’s either
going to pound four shots of bourbon in his office or call the
media. What would be the better endgame? I need to keep an
eye on him.
And I need to keep an eye on Sheridan. What the fuck is he
doing in a one-on-one with Vice President Marshall?
Matt flees into the bathroom to probably puke, then wash
his face and try to pull off the biggest lie of his life. If he can
make it to lunch, he’ll be able to handle anything.
Britton stops whatever I try to say. “Don’t speak, Reese.
Think instead about what you’re going to say on the Hill.”
He disappears before the door to the Oval reopens and spits
Sheridan out.
Now, Sheridan won’t make eye contact. Fine. Marshall
wants to turn my people against me? I’ll do this on my own. I
don’t need anyone.
I don’t need anyone except Brennan.
Fifty yards of burned rubber. An overturned, fire-ravaged
SUV. Two blackened skeletons. A bullet embedded on the
interior of the door.
Brennan, calling my name, begging for help that isn’t
coming.
My vision fades, the West Wing walls wavering like
they’re underwater. Every molecule of adrenaline that
soaked my muscles earlier is gone. The horrors of tonight
have emptied the deepest part of me. I can barely stand,
barely move.
Sheridan is on my heels as I head for the command
center. Downstairs, word has already gone out, probably
from Britton, for everyone to keep their mouths shut. Eyes,
too, apparently. No one looks our way. I’m a dead man
walking, already a ghost in my own command center.
Sheridan stays with me and shuts us in the locker room.
We’re alone, and I slump against the wall, my head between
my knees, my heart hammering like the devil’s own anvil.
Sheridan pulls a spare suit out of my locker for me before
going to his. He comes back with a change of clothes and
hands me a bottle of Gatorade and a granola bar.
I’m two bites into the granola bar when he explodes,
hurling his fresh suit across the room. The hanger clatters in
one of the empty shower stalls. He punches the locker,
denting the metal and the chipped hunter green paint until it
bows inward. Finally, he loses steam, sliding to his knees
with his forehead against the door.
I watch and wait.
 Sheridan twists around until he’s sitting on his ass. “The
vice president told me to spy on you. He said to stay by your
side and text him everything we do.” He pulls out a new cell
phone from his pocket. “He gave me this, and he said he’ll
give me immunity when the investigation begins if I do what
he says.”
I take the cell and turn it over. It’s a burner, not
government issue. Untraceable. Everyone in the White House
has a half dozen of these squirreled away in their desk
drawers, ready to give to a journalist, a secret contact, a
paramour. A burner can squeak around the Federal Records
Act. If the feds can’t find it, it can’t be recorded or
subpoenaed, can it?
There’s one number saved.
I pass the phone back.
“I’m going to flush it.”
“No. Do what Marshall says.”
“I’m not going to spy on you—”
“Sheridan, this is all going down hard. Do what Marshall
says. If he thinks you’re not involved, you can survive this.”
He swallows. His lips thin, go white.
We sit in silence. I finish the granola bar and drink half
the Gatorade, then pass the bottle to Sheridan. He finishes it
as if it’s his last meal before being led to the gallows and
then chucks the empty bottle against the wall. His eyes are
red, his jaw clenching and unclenching, knuckles cracking as
he makes fists between his knees.
Henry would have told the vice president to go fuck
himself. He would have shoved that phone up Marshall’s ass,
too. My best friend, my right hand, my partner in crime. The
man who kept my—and Brennan’s—secret.
It hits me then, like a car slamming into a brick wall:
Henry is gone.
He’s gone, and so is Brennan.
 All of this is my fault.
I’m not the only one in agony right now, though. Henry
had taken Sheridan under his wing, mentored him, guided
him. I’ll turn that knucklehead into a decent agent. Just you wait.
We are the two agents with the most-shattered hearts.
“Sheridan…” My voice breaks.
Will you help me cut the ropes that hold this world together?
Will you stand with me and kick open a door in our souls that
should never be unlocked, and unleash a fury that can never be
taken back?
He doesn’t hesitate. I don’t even need to finish my
thought. “I’m right beside you.”
 Chapter Nine

R eese
T hen

C anada is a blur. Maple leaves, smiling faces, and me

eyeballing Walker every other moment.
His itinerary is limited, most of his time focused with the
prime minister. I’m his body man for this trip, and when
we’re on the move, we’re inside each other’s shadow.
Just like I said we’d be.
The sun seems to burn out of Walker, because every time
he’s near, I’m broiling over. So hot I feel like glass on the
verge of shattering. Completely transparent, too. This
turmoil, this prickly anxiety. Everyone must see it. Everyone
must see how I can barely look at Walker, how stepping
beside him makes my hands clench into fists, turns the back
of my neck as dark as a blackberry lily.
The Service doesn’t befriend the president. Ever. This job
is easier when you don’t care about your principal as an
individual, when you’re not personally invested in who they
are as human beings. Most times, the principal helps you
along in not giving a shit. We’re furniture in their worlds.
The potted plants, the ugly side tables.
But President Walker is… different.
There’s something he’s keeping drawn tight and hidden
from the world, like he’s got a live wire wrapped around his
soul.
I’m different with him, too. The way I look at him is
different. How I approach him. How I treat him.
How I think about him.
Dangerous thoughts swim in the waters of my mind.
I don’t want to know that Walker is kind and friendly
one-on-one. I don’t want to know that he watched that pull-
up contest long enough to count how many Nuñez and
Roberts each managed to crank out, or that he’s been
generous to my team all day, trying with grace to apologize
for the interruption and the skyrocketing blood pressure he
caused.
I don’t want to know that there’s something between us.
Something that makes my bones too large, my skin too tight,
my heart too frantic.
I should slip Henry into the lead slot. I should put
distance between us. I should not chase this tumult, or try to
name these feelings President Walker stirs up inside me.
I should do a lot of things, and none of them include
hanging out with Walker in his office on Air Force One,
trading jokes and gentle banter.
The rational part of me knows that whatever this is, it’s
nothing good. Not for him, not for me.
No one needs lightning to strike their lives. I don’t need
to know why the storm is coming. I just need to get clear.
But the charge in the air is rising. The thunderheads on
the horizon are building into a hurricane.
I don’t know where this is leading, or what’s hiding
inside Walker’s eyes, or why both being and not being
around him makes my chest ache.
I should stay away from him.
He’s different.
Dangerous.

W e were late taking off from Ottawa thanks to Walker and

the prime minister getting along like brand new best friends,
and we didn’t get back to Andrews Air Force Base until after
midnight. Henry and his team met us there with Marine One
to take the president to the White House while my team
stood down on Air Force One.
My people were wound tighter than screws twisted past
their threads. All day, Walker made it a point to look them in
the eye and smile and say hello and to thank them as often
as he could.
His friendliness helped and hurt. Helped: they were able
to unclench their sphincters bit by bit. Hurt: they were
thrown by his friendliness, and that keyed them all the way
back up. If Secret Service agents are one thing, it’s
suspicious—of everything. Especially a smile.
When I got back to the command center, around three
a.m., I changed the duty roster to move my travel team out of
the White House and give them an in-office day in the
Eisenhower Building. That’s code for Go take a nap.
As for me, I’m back at the White House before eight. First
up for the day, a travel debrief with the president.
Walker meets me in the Oval with a grin. Something
inside me tenses, holds, and doesn’t release.
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Agent Theriot, good morning.”
He looks good for having had so little sleep. I don’t. After
trips like this, I look like Dracula’s been woken up too early.
But he’s bright-eyed and alert, looking sharp in a navy suit
and fuchsia tie. A bold choice, but he pulls it off. I yanked the
tie I’m wearing off the floor of my apartment this morning,
and it looks limp and flat.
“How is your team? Are they signing their resignation
letters and preparing to fall on their swords?”
Walker leads me to the sofas. He sits first, and I…
I sit beside him.
Not on the other sofa, on the other side of the coffee table.
I’m closer to him, suddenly, much closer, than our usual
huddles on our separate couches. If he put his hand on the
cushion between us, his thumb could brush my leg.
Even to myself, I have no way to explain what I’m doing.
Or why.
Walker’s eyes widen, but he angles toward me. Carefully.
Every move he makes is deliberate. He crosses one leg over
the other, and both hands wrap around his knee. His
knuckles are bone white, clasped tight.
“I think they may survive,” I tell him. “It was touch and
go for a few of them. I gave them light duty over at the
Eisenhower today. As an added benefit, they won’t risk
running into you in the halls.”
His hidden smile emerges. “I have something for Agent
Roberts.”
There’s a paper bag on the carpet, next to the empty
space on the sofa where I should be sitting. Walker tugs it
over and hands it to me.
Inside is a container of protein powder with an image of a
body builder on the label. He’s taped a handwritten note to
the top—on presidential stationery no less.

Agent Roberts,
Better luck next time.
Best, Brennan Walker
 “Mr. President.” Now I’m smiling. “Are you seriously
shit-talking someone who is supposed to take a bullet for
you?”
“Maybe a little.” He holds up his fingers, pinched
together. “But come on. Even I could see he was outmatched.
He was asking for that trouncing.”
This is the kind of thing that will live in infamy in the
Secret Service. If someone gets video of Roberts receiving
this—and I’ll make sure of that—it will be trotted out at
morning briefings and advance team stand-ups anytime
Roberts takes the lead for the next four years. It will play
behind him every time he’s promoted, and he’ll have to tell
the story again and again and again.
It’s a gesture Walker didn’t need to make, and it will
create incalculable goodwill on my team. It’s a kindness
where none was required or even expected.
“Thank you. This will mean a lot to everyone.”
“You’ll have to describe his reaction to me.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll record it for you.”
He laughs, and I get it. I get how this man captivated
millions. Right now, I want to sit back and forget the world,
spend the rest of the day laughing with him.
The thought catches me off guard.
I can smell Walker’s cologne. Cedar, bergamot, and
amber. It’s dizzying.
His laughter fades, and we stare at each other.
His pulse flutters above the starched collar of his shirt.
Morning sunlight winks through the ballistic windows,
distorted as if the rays are traveling underwater to reach
him. His breathing is even, each inhale and exhale exactly
three seconds. Too controlled, especially for a man who is
squeezing the blood from his fingers. Those brilliant bleu
clair eyes are guarded, ringed with something I can’t put my
finger on.
 He hasn’t blinked or looked away. Intensity hums from
him and into me.
I dreamed about his eyes on the flight home from Ottawa.
How they shine, and burn, and how blue can be both ice and
flame.
I should not be dreaming about the president.
Words need to be said, but I don’t know what they are.
The silence lengthens, grows thin. Outside the Oval, two
women laugh as they pass by the Roosevelt Room.
“Thank you for the coffee. Yesterday.”
That’s what I went with?
Another slow inhale. “It was my pleasure.”
Exhale. His lips part. Close. Part again. “Agent Theriot… If
anything I’m doing is making you uncomfortable, please let
me know.”
There’s my out.
I am uncomfortable, but not because of him. No, because
I’m dangerously over the line, already thinking things like
good guy and thoughtful and considerate, and, worse, looking
forward to seeing him again.
Uncomfortable is the way down the list of words I’d use
here. Trouble is, I don’t know what the right one is. Wrong.
Forbidden. Dangerous.
Wild. He makes some deep-down part of me feel wild.
There’s something here, something between us, like the
oxygen we’re breathing is igniting before each inhale.
He’s the president. He’s the job. At best, I’m a distraction
to him, and at worst, he’s a distraction to me. Where we are,
right this moment, sitting so close I can count his pulse and
feel the heat of his body? This is so far off course it’s not on
the maps.
Apprehension is clawing into his eyes. His fingers tighten
around his knee again.
 There’s a path I should be walking, steps I should be
taking. Closing this down, whatever it is, and clearing the
air.
“I was actually thinking, Mr. President, that it might be
beneficial to increase our morning briefings to twice a
week.”
I didn’t just say those words. Mon Dieu, I didn’t.
Justification spins in the wake of my senseless offer. “It
might be useful for you to have a closer look at our
operations and procedures. And, from our end, it would be
helpful to understand your needs more, sir.”
I don’t want to spend more time with him to teach him
policies and procedures. I want to see his smile again. I want
to hear his laugh. I want to dig and dig until I understand
why he looks at me the way he does, and what it means when
those looks flip my world upside down.
He hasn’t breathed in twelve seconds. His rhythm broke
on an inhale, and he held his breath as I rambled. He’s
staring at me, his eyes wider, his expression more open than
I’ve seen before. This isn’t President Walker in front of me.
I’m looking at Brennan.
“If you think it would be helpful,” he finally says, “I’d be
delighted.”
It’s going to be something. There’s a match set against
my heart, ready to strike.
He blinks, and the president is back. “Your guidance has
been invaluable to me. I’m very pleased you’re running my
detail. Who else could seamlessly manage my security across
two countries and countless agencies?”
“Anyone on my command team, sir. It’s our job.”
“But who could do it all and referee a pull-up contest?”
And there’s that grin again—
There goes the twist inside me. The air thickens. I can’t
look away.
 He checks his watch. “Should we begin our meeting?”
We’ve blown past five minutes, ten, fifteen. Time flies out
the window whenever we’re together. I clear my throat,
straighten. “Of course. Sorry, Mr. President, I’ve gone way
over time.”
“It’s not a problem. Our conversations have been
highlights of my days.”
There’s nothing I can say to that, nothing that’s fit for
public or my career.
Outside these walls, the West Wing is waking up. It’s shift
change. People are arriving for their workday. Meetings are
beginning.
The post-travel debrief is straightforward. I recount the
trip and the SNAFUs that occurred—other than the pull-ups
on Air Force One, none—and he gives his input on what
worked and didn’t work for him. Sometimes these meetings
turn into bitch sessions, where the president rails at the cage
the Secret Service builds around him. In the past, I’ve
nodded, yes-sirred, and changed not a single thing about our
operations or procedures.
Brennan has no complaints. “Please express my gratitude
to your team for a job well done.”
“Yes, sir.”
We rise together, and it’s the first time our gazes drag
away from each other. Suddenly, he can’t look at me, and he
busies himself with buttoning his jacket and clearing his
throat as he escorts me to the Oval Office door. Everything is
backward as he pulls the door open for me. “Thank you,
again.”
“My pleasure, Mr. President.”
I’m across the hall and into the Roosevelt Room before
the door to the Oval shuts behind me, before my agent on
post can call my name. The Roosevelt Room is empty until
nine a.m., when the deputies from the cabinet are meeting. I
know this place inside and out, know every room, every
schedule, every agent on duty.
I know how to take down an armed attacker within a
three-foot kill zone, how to pull an unconscious man from a
sinking car and swim him to shore. I can sling lead
downrange into perfect bull’s-eyes every time I pick up a
weapon.
But I don’t know what the hell is going on now.
 Chapter Ten

R eese
N ow

S heridan and I kick down the door to Clint Cross’s

apartment forty-five minutes later.
“Secret Service!” I bellow, sliding inside and to the right.
Sheridan goes left, and we clear the small apartment in
thirty seconds.
“No one home,” I say after Sheridan calls the final clear
from the tiny bedroom and bathroom.
Clint lives in Friendship Heights, an urban neighborhood
in northwest Washington, twenty minutes out on the Metro.
Another ten minutes on the train would put us in suburban
Bethesda, where Henry lives—lived.
The immensity of this loss is too overwhelming. I can’t
keep my tenses straight. I can’t even begin to accept that
Henry is gone.
Clint’s cramped one-bedroom apartment is a den of filth:
dirty clothes piled in corners, pizza boxes beneath the
breakfast bar, a black garbage bag in a corner overflowing
with empty Monster Energy and Mountain Dew cans. There’s
barely any furniture: a beanbag mended with duct tape, a
folding table and single chair, and in the bedroom, a twin
mattress on the floor. Instead of a dresser, there are more
piles of clothes. A handful of T-shirts hang in the closet next
to a dust-covered suit in a style that went out in the late
nineties. There’s still a Goodwill tag on the label.
The only item of substance in the apartment is a sixty-
inch flat-screen mounted on the wall. The beanbag is
plopped right in front of it with a PlayStation controller
tossed on the grimy carpet. Empty frozen burrito wrappers
and three cans of Mountain Dew complete the gamer’s nest.
The whole place smells like grunge, unwashed male, and
a cloying attempt to cover everything up with Axe body
spray. I cough as I flip over the trash next to Clint’s
mattress, scatter clothes, check every electrical outlet in
every room. Give me a cell phone charger, a laptop cord, a
tablet, an e-reader. Anything that might lead us to a digital
trail. Anything I can use to track Clint.
Sheridan stands amid the mess, disgust twisting his
features.
“You know how to work that?” I point to the PlayStation.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get on it. Search his account and see what he plays.
Judging by all this, that’s going to be the biggest key to his
psychology.”
Sheridan flips through Clint’s stack of games, taking
pictures of the titles with his cell phone. “Bunch of first-
person shooters. He wants to pretend he’s an action hero.”
He throws the games down and powers on the PlayStation.
Nothing so far on my search for Clint’s technological
footprint. Other than the PlayStation, he seems unplugged.
Footsteps sound outside, and Sheridan and I grab our
weapons and dive for cover. The steps pause at the front
door. The doorknob turns. Sheridan’s huge eyes find mine
across the living room—
“Friendly,” a gruff voice calls. “Agent Theriot?”
“Who the hell are you?”
No one should know we’re here.
“Director Liu. I’m coming in. I’m alone.”
Merde, what is the CIA director doing here? “Did Marshall
tell you he was sending the director?” I mutter to Sheridan.
He shakes his head.
Liu appears in the hallway, silhouetted in the kitchen
lights. He, like all the directors in all the alphabet agencies,
is on the older side of middle age. He’s fitter than his peers,
with only a small belly, though his silver hair is going thin.
Today, he’s sporting the most haggard expression I’ve seen
on a politician in two decades. His shoulders are bowed, and
he reeks of despair.
“Sir.” I don’t holster my weapon until I see he truly is
alone. Sheridan follows my lead, albeit more slowly. “What
are you doing here?” No time for niceties.
“The vice president called me. He told me you were
investigating Clint.” Liu holds out a folder stuffed with loose
papers and wrapped with a rubber band.
“What’s that?”
“Clint’s personnel record.”
Just taking that folder is a crime. CIA personnel records
are classified.
Add it to the list of charges that I’m sure Congress—and
Marshall—will be slapping me with.
Clint Cross’s service photo is on top. He’s young—maybe
Sheridan’s age. He’s tall and well built, presumably from
genetics and not his diet. In his photo, he’s standing beside
an American flag, wearing the Goodwill suit that’s still
hanging in his closet. He isn’t smiling, and while he was
probably trying to look serious, he looks like he’s playing
dress-up with his dad’s clothes.
His file is more redactions than content. Page after page
of blacked-out text. This is useless. All I can glean from this
shit pile are dates. Clint was recruited to the CIA out of
college in Seattle eight years ago. And six months ago, he
was moved to the director’s personal task force.
“What was Clint working on?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Director—”
“Only President Walker knew the details. He classified it.
His eyes only.”
“You briefed the vice president this morning.”
Liu swallows. He stares over my shoulder, looking as if he
might be sick. “Vice President Marshall is the acting
president now. He has to know.”
“And McClintock and Director Britton? Were they
listening?”
“No. I only spoke to the vice president.”
Sheridan and I share another long look. He’s moving
through Clint’s PlayStation hard drive, snapping photos of
every screen with his cell phone.
“What can you tell me, Director? Why are you here?”
Liu’s jaw tightens before he speaks. “Clint was the best
intelligence analyst I ever met. He saw patterns no one else
did. He applied mathematics theory to human intelligence,
psychology to signals intelligence. He could pull secrets from
thin air. He came to me six months ago with a concern.
Something was bothering him, he said, and he slept at his
desk for three weeks until he chased it down.”
“What was it?”
Liu shakes his head. “I’m not going there, Agent
Theriot.”
 “I need to see his desk. I need access to everything he
touched, everything he was working on during the past six
months.”
“There’s nothing to see. He worked out of a loft in
Chinatown. I kept him separated from headquarters once he
came to work for me.”
“Why? You didn’t trust him?”
“On the contrary. I couldn’t take the risk that anyone
would find out what he was doing. I didn’t want him to be a
target.”
“Is that what you think happened? That Clint was
targeted?”
“I can’t imagine anything else. He wasn’t capable of
treachery or violence.”
Sheridan, still on the PlayStation, speaks up.
“Respectfully, sir, that’s not what I’m seeing. He’s got some
gruesome stuff saved here.” Sheridan flips through a
carousel of saved clips, some from video games, some from
YouTube. Brutal Takedowns. Instant Kill Shots. The Ukraine
Liberation followed by three Russian flag emojis. Z Is the Way.
“I knew Clint,” Liu insists.
“Knew? Meaning he’s dead?”
“At this point, I’m not hopeful that he’s alive.”
“Tell me everything. You worked with him for six
months? How closely?”
“I didn’t spend every day with him. He briefed me once a
week, always in person, always at his off-site office. I got the
impression he didn’t have much social interaction.”
We’re ankle-deep in Clint’s shithole of an apartment, the
stench thick enough to burn my eyes. “Putting together
intelligence like that is what they pay you the big bucks for,
sir.”
“And the New Orleans Police Department is where you
learned all about constitutional procedure, right, Theriot? I
noticed the warrant you left on the door on my way in.”
I hold his stare. No warrant. Not today. This isn’t going to
trial. I’m not searching for a conviction—I’m searching for
Brennan.
“He didn’t have friends. He didn’t have romantic
partners. His supervisors said he was a handful. Obstinate,
opinionated, convinced he was right. The problem is, he was.
Every time. He had no friends in the Agency, but no one
could afford to get rid of him.”
“You ever have a run-in with him?”
“I knew how to manage his personality.”
“And how is that?”
“I gave him all the rope he wanted. I figured he would
either hang himself or bring me a masterpiece. He brought
me a masterpiece.”
“Do you have any idea where Clint is right now?”
Liu shakes his head. “I checked the Chinatown annex as
soon as I heard about the president’s crash. It’s untouched.
Clint and I were both there yesterday morning preparing for
the president’s briefing. We downloaded the intel to a secure
hard drive and purged the data from all systems. We shut
down the annex.”
My teeth grind. My head is throbbing. Not knowing what
Brennan was being briefed on is shredding my last nerve.
“What happened to that hard drive?”
“I personally drove it to my office. It’s locked in my safe.”
The CIA director’s office is one of the most secure
locations in the world. More secure, even, than the Oval
Office. It’s private, buried at Langley, behind impenetrable
walls of security. The Secret Service has to protect the
world’s most powerful man all the way out in public. We
don’t get to hide.
Sheridan finishes with the PlayStation and tosses the
controller onto the beanbag. He storms out of the cramped
living room, trash scattering in his wake. He slides a dark
glare toward Liu before disappearing into Clint’s bedroom.
“Yours is the only copy of the brief? Or of the raw source
intelligence backing it up?”
“It is.”
“Why can’t we go to the Chinatown annex? What’s
there?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing left. You’re welcome to the
place. You won’t find anything. It’s four walls and an
extension cord now. Clint cleaned everything out after I took
the hard drive and data.”
“And you don’t think he made a copy of the brief? Took
off with his laptop and sold out to the highest bidder? The
CIA has had the most traitors of any agency in the
government.” I’m being an asshole. I don’t care.
“No,” Liu growls. “I don’t.”
“Sir, you gotta see this.” Sheridan’s call cuts off my next
question.
He’s tearing apart Clint’s bedroom, and he’s flipped
Clint’s mattress. On the bottom, the center is hollowed out,
fabric and foam ripped away to create an inverted crater.
Chunks dangle from the ragged edges. And on the floor,
where the carved-out space was, sits a stack of books.
The New World Order. Exposing the Truth. The Real
Government in Shadows. Who Really Pulls the Strings? Freedom
Isn’t Free. YOU Need to FIGHT for the WORLD YOU WANT.
This is the kind of library we find when we raid the homes
of whack-jobs who think governments are controlled by a
global conspiracy and everything that happens is directed by
a cabal of evildoers. Usually there are aliens in the mix, too.
The current president is always the bad guy, so the Service
has to keep on top of their propaganda. Occasionally, the
rhetoric turns into action, and that’s when we get involved.
 Clint’s books are well-thumbed, with dog-eared pages
and highlighter marks. I flip through the pages of one,
scanning—
A picture of Brennan flutters to the floor.
He’s striding across the South Lawn, Marine One in the
background, and waving at the camera, his smile as big and
bright as the sun. The sky is uninterrupted cobalt, not a
cloud for miles, and the grass is an emerald carpet. The
Washington Monument rises beyond the burbling fountain,
offset by wine-dark roses in full bloom.
I remember this day. It was September, one of the last
days of summer, and Brennan had waited for me at the
White House for hours. When I’d finally arrived, I broke his
heart so badly I thought it would never heal.
“He’s written something.” Sheridan takes the photo from
me and flips it over.
Against all enemies, foreign and domestic—President Walker!
is scrawled on the back. Domestic is circled violently and
underlined three times.
Liu followed me into Clint’s bedroom, and now he’s
beside me, ashen as he reads Clint’s words.
“So, Director, do you still think Clint is worthy of your
trust?”
The fear in his eyes tells me he isn’t. Not anymore.
Sheridan snaps photos of the books before putting them
all in a garbage bag to take with us. Maybe we’ll get lucky
and learn Clint was part of a domestic terrorism book club.
Tracking a loner is the worst way to start an
investigation, but no one is a complete island. Someone
knows something about Clint Cross. Maybe that someone is
only the guy who made his sandwiches or the woman who
spied on what music and podcasts he listened to on the
Metro every day. He existed in this world, and he left
footprints. Now we find them and we run him down.
 We toss his apartment, emptying every cupboard, flipping
every pile of clothes. We cut into the beanbag and lift the
carpet to search the floorboards before pulling each
baseboard from the walls. I unscrew the pipes under the
sinks and search the traps. We drain the toilet, empty the
tank, and rip the pedestal from the floor.
Ahn calls me as Sheridan is wrestling the toilet into the
bathtub. They’ve transported Brennan’s SUV to the lab at
headquarters. “I’m about to start on the recovered remains,”
she says. “I should have something in an hour.”
I empty the fridge and freezer—mustard, Mountain Dew,
and frozen burritos—as Sheridan sticks his hand down the
disposal. It’s the last place to check before we book it. Liu left
around dawn.
Sheridan flinches, forearm-deep. He pulls out his hand—
covered in black sludge and food particles—and holds out a
balled-up piece of soaked paper.
It’s too waterlogged to unroll without destroying it. We’ll
have to dry it out.
“There’s always something,” I say to Sheridan.
People think they’re clever when they try to throw
evidence away. Disposals and toilets are favorite places, but a
disposal isn’t a paper shredder, and this isn’t the first time
I’ve gotten lucky down there.
There’s an empty burrito wrapper on the counter, and I
grab it for Sheridan to drop the mess into.
He washes his hands three times before we leave. Our
soot-stained SUV, which we left half on the curb, has a
parking ticket on the windshield. I crumple it and toss it on
the back seat as Sheridan loads in Clint’s books. The burrito
wrapper is safe inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“Text Marshall,” I say as I pull into traffic, cutting off an
Audi and getting the middle finger from a man on his cell
phone. “Tell him we tossed Clint’s apartment.”
 Sheridan makes a face, but he pulls out the burner phone.
“Do I tell him what we found?”
“The books, sure. We don’t know what we found in the
disposal yet.”
He doesn’t answer me, and I don’t read over his shoulder
as he types out a message to the vice president. When he’s
done, he powers down the phone and shoves it into his
pocket.
“Sheridan, you need to come out of this on your feet. If
you need to cut me loose—”
“Stop,” he growls.
“Sheridan—”
“Sir.” I’ve never heard this tone from him. He’s gruff,
hard, and angry. No, he’s furious. “I’m not abandoning you.”
I turn onto Connecticut and head back toward downtown.
Neither of us says another word.
 Chapter Eleven

R eese
T hen

I t’s terrifying how quickly wrong starts feeling right.

And how our illicit morning meetings—briefings in
name only—become the foundation of my days.
Brennan Walker is a puzzle only I can assemble, because
to the world, he’s complete, but to me, he’s a mystery I’m
determined to unlock. He’s an addiction I can’t satiate, a
craving I can’t fill.
I’m constantly aware of him.
As the head of the detail, I have his schedule, down to
minute-by-minute increments.
Now I’m in the halls when I don’t need to be, just to catch
a glimpse of him moving through the West Wing. He smiles
at me as he slouches against Shannon’s doorframe, or when
he’s walking into Ferraro’s office. I poke my head into the
Oval and wave hello after lunch, when I know he has five
minutes alone before a meeting with the national security
watch.
Every interaction brings more questions than answers.
 The wildness inside me is growing. The ache I feel when
I’m with him lingers, bleeds from moment to moment.
His cologne follows me through the day. I stop whenever
it catches up to me. More than once, Henry has caught me
with my eyes closed, Yves Saint Laurent gliding over me like
a memory.
Frustration spikes, and I end up pounding the pavement
at all hours of the night, like I can outrun myself or these
formless, senseless thoughts.
I shouldn’t have an ache in my chest whenever I think of
President Walker. I shouldn’t be dreaming of his eyes or his
smile.
And I absolutely shouldn’t have woken with his name on
my lips and a steel-hard erection between my legs.
I’d been on my belly, humping the mattress, his name a
gasp buried in my pillow. The next moment, I was diving out
of bed, moving so fast I fell to my hands and knees and
crawled across my bedroom, trying to escape the indistinct
images propelling my dream. Flame-blue eyes, dark hair
sliding through my fingers. A firm body moving against
mine. A man’s hand gliding down my stomach, down—
I stopped before I could do anything unforgettable, or
unforgiveable. A blistering cold shower took care of those
thoughts.
I’ve been straight my whole life. I’ve never looked at a
man and thought, Yes. New Orleans is a place where you can
devour anything you ever dreamed of. A man going for a roll
in the night with another man is part of the mosaic of life.
Some guys don’t mind too much who they get down with as
long as they get off.
But it’s never crossed my mind. Women are what I’ve
known. Women are what I’m familiar with.
How do I even begin to understand this?
Maybe the dream wasn’t about him.
 Long hours at the White House, a sexual drought since
meeting Walker that I don’t want to think too hard on, and
whatever this is between us have given me strange thoughts.
Fever dreams.
Stress. Friction. Exhaustion, too. Wires crossing in an
overheated mind.
That’s all.

T wice - weekly morning briefs turn into an invitation from

Walker for coffee on a Friday morning. One Friday becomes
another, and then Mondays get thrown in, until we carve
minutes out of every day for each other. We create inside
jokes and share smiles that belong to no one else.
We laugh. He tells me about an almost-disastrous phone
call involving the Italian prime minister and a
misunderstood phrase. I tell him some of the shareable
gossip from the West Wing my agents have overheard. The
White House, at times, is worse than a soap opera.
He takes his coffee with cream, until it’s the color of bone
china. He holds his cup on his knee and looks me in the eye
when we talk. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.
He asks for stories from my past. I tell him about advance
trips for past presidents, managing Secret Service protection
alongside forty different nations’ police forces. I tell him
about training, about coordinating operations with my team
down to the second, about how I can drive the tactical course
at full speed in reverse without scratching the paint on the
limo. I tell him about the obstacle course, how we must
complete the three-mile route—running, climbing,
crawling, jumping—and stop to qualify on each of the
Service’s issued weapons as we go. Even with jelly legs and
shaking arms, we need 90 percent accuracy or better or
we’re sent packing.
He hangs on my every word. He makes me feel like a
superhero. He looks at me like I’m wondrous, like I’m
Captain America. Like I’ve defined something for him.
He makes my days—the long hours, the endless shifts,
the constantly changing threat assessments—feel amazing,
because each morning, he looks at me like that, and that
reorders my whole fucking world.
And then there are the reactions I pull from him. How he
laughs, tipping his head back against the sofa as a smile
lights him up. How he holds my gaze and makes me want to
stay, as if I can stop time and live inside the Oval forever.
I ask him for stories of his own. He tells me how he
moved overseas right after law school, bouncing around the
globe as a human rights lawyer. He helped excavate mass
graves in the Balkans and Rwanda and Cambodia. He’s
testified at the International Criminal Court.
He tells me that every time he pulled a bone out of the
ground, he made a promise to that lost life that he’d do
something to stop those horrors from happening yet again.
Eventually, he says, he realized the only way to change the
world was to change the people who were making the
decisions for it.
He went home to California. He burned from the inside
out, passionately advocating for the individual human
dignity of every life. He won the mayor’s office in a landslide.
He spent weekends in soup kitchens and homeless
shelters and built houses with his own hands. He created job
training programs funded by city businesses in exchange for
tax breaks, fighting inequality with an “Everyone helps
everyone together” approach. Community policing became
more than a fancy phrase, and the police and the public
worked together to build trust. Law enforcement officers
volunteered in schools and shelters and community centers,
substitute taught in classrooms, worked shifts in the city’s
emergency rooms.
I hear about the people he’s collected. Half his cabinet
came from California and have been with him for decades.
The loyalty he creates is inspiring. It would be hard to
believe if it weren’t working so deeply, so perfectly, on me.
Why—how—is he single? Why do I get chunks of his free
time? Why isn’t he spending his mornings with a beautiful
wife and gorgeous children? Walker dated a small army of
women when he was mayor, but no one has been linked to
him since his first term as governor.
One Friday, I ask, “And you never met anyone you wanted
to marry?” Merde, I want to swallow my tongue. What right
do I have to interrogate him? “That was way too personal.
I’m sorry.”
“It’s not too personal. That door closed a while ago, for
multiple reasons. I’ve never been close enough to anyone to
think about marriage. The higher I climbed in politics, the
more I realized the people around me wanted what I could do
for them rather than who I was.”
“Your team adores you.”
“My people believe in my vision. That’s a world apart
from finding someone to share my life with. For that, I want
to be loved for who I am when I’m not the president.” His
gaze shifts back to me. “You’ve never mentioned someone
special.” His voice rises, a question.
“No woman was interested in signing up for this ride.”
My voice is half laughter, half derision, the way all single
men talk about their failing love lives.
“Why not?” He sounds genuinely confused. A frown
furrows his forehead.
“It’s hard to build a relationship with someone who’s
never home. They see the badge and the gun, and maybe
they’re interested in the idea, but then they get a taste of the
duty schedule and they book it for the hills. If I’m not
standing post for twelve hours in a row, I’m flying off on
advance trips for weeks at a time. That’s not the life that
women want to sign up for.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing.”
We’re in our places on the sofa—our places, because we
spend so much time together—and the minutes are bleeding
away. Matt arrives in the Outer Oval, puttering around at his
desk. He’s singing along with something I can’t hear
through the walls, probably still wearing his earbuds.
“It’s time, Mr. President.” I stand.
He stands with me. We’re so close our forearms brush as
we button up our suit jackets. Even through layers of fabric,
his touch is enough to undo me.
Reflections of my dream from two nights ago slice my
thoughts: a man’s hand on my arm, a man’s fingers sliding
along my skin, the touch so hot it burns. Bare chests pressed
together, strong arms wrapping around my waist, a puff of
breath over my lips. Starlit eyes, impossibly blue.
The dreams are coming more frequently now. Each time I
wake from one, I close the door on them forever.
Or so I lie to myself.
We’re staring at each other as our time runs out and three
quick raps sound on the Oval Office door. Matt enters with
the president’s agenda and says, “Good morning, Mr.
President. Good morning, Agent Theriot,” no longer
surprised to see me here first thing.
“Morning, Matt.” I give him a nod, though my attention
is locked on President Walker. He’s taken the agenda from
Matt, but he hasn’t looked at it. Instead, he’s watching me as
if the world can wait.
Matt slips out, and it’s just Walker and me in the Oval as
the West Wing comes to life.
 I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but that’s become
my mantra these days. “There’s one more thing, Mr.
President. I won’t be here next week.”
Surprise flicks across his features. “Vacation? You’ve
more than earned one.” He smiles. “Have to say, I’m jealous.
I’d love to get away.”
“Sadly, not a vacation. Every agent on the detail rotates
out for refresher training twice a quarter. It’s my turn, and
I’ll be at Rowley—the Secret Service training center—all
next week.”
We have to stay razor sharp on our skills. Every six weeks,
we’re back on the courses, qualifying on driving, weapons,
and scenario drills. We have to be at the absolute edge of our
limits, always.
I’ve known for weeks that this has been coming, but I
haven’t wanted to look too closely at the way it’s set my
mind on edge. I’m wrestling with impossibilities, too
frustrated and annoyed to examine what’s moving beneath
these currents inside me.
Six days away—six days without seeing him, or talking to
him, or being near him. I’m so angry about it I want to claw
at my skin.
“Oh.” His teeth scrape over his bottom lip, once, twice.
Then he’s moving, turning to his desk, grabbing a pen. He
scrawls something on the corner of the schedule Matt just
gave him and tears it off, then walks back to me. His pupils
dilate when our eyes meet and he passes me the slip of
paper.
It’s his phone number. His personal cell.
“Just in case.” His voice is light, like him giving me his
private number doesn’t mean we’re stepping out into thin
fucking air. “If you get bored, I’ll be here. Rattling around
this haunted house.”
 I’m juggling lit matches that he’s passing to me over a
tank of rocket fuel. My brain is screaming to disengage, to
walk away before it’s too late. Nothing irrevocable has been
done yet. Dreams can be forgotten.
I want answers to my whys and to the riddles Brennan
Walker is giving me, but I’m on the verge of sliding into
discoveries and truths that maybe I’m not ready for. I’m
dreaming of a man in my arms and in my bed, and of
Walker’s eyes, and Walker’s scent, and Walker’s touch, and
it’s only my brute stubbornness that’s refusing to connect
those dots.
Push the note back into his hands. Say no.
I slide his phone number into my pocket. “Give President
Harrison’s ghost my regards, sir.”
 Chapter Twelve

B rennan
T hen

A irplanes pass beyond the Washington Monument, dots

from their wing lights flashing against a cotton candy
sky. Spring is on its way, and an unseasonably warm evening
brought me out to the Truman Balcony.
I’m in a T-shirt and my running leggings, sprawled on a
chaise lounge overlooking the South Lawn. There are two
lounges out here, but of course, I’m alone. I threw my hoodie
and my water bottle onto the other one.
I’m trying to keep myself focused, keep my mind right,
but the whole weekend has passed and Reese never texted.
I have no right to be bothered. What are we to each other,
really? Colleagues, at best. Two people whose duties bring
them in proximity.
One man hopelessly crushing on the other.
A week apart will help calm my mind. I try to keep my
fantasies contained, hem them into the walls of my
bedroom, but during the day, my attention wanders from my
binders and briefs, and suddenly I’m replaying our
conversations or remembering the shape of Reese’s smile.
There is a quiet loneliness inside of me. It’s always been
there, but since I met Reese, it has grown larger. Deeper. It
reaches out more often, like ice-cold fingers drifting up my
spine.
Tonight is supposed to be about returning to my center.
Finding myself again and settling my thoughts.
Remembering the promises I made, and why.
Sérgio Vieira de Mello’s biography is beside me. He was a
complicated man, but he was my hero, and a man who made
me truly believe that one person’s hope turned into action
could change the world. The fires of his too-short life lit my
own need to seek answers that will solve the mountains of
intractable problems tearing apart our world. There are
solutions, if we’re only brave enough to find them beyond
our anger and our pain.
I found my solution years ago. What is one man’s
loneliness, set against the world’s hurt?
For a few hours, I need to be me. There’s no presidency
out here. No briefs or binders, no secure BlackBerry, no
statements or speeches to read through and edit. There are
times when I wish I could strip off this office, hang it up, and
let myself be a man for a day. Or a night.
One night where I could ask Reese to dinner.
Stop. Eyes closed. Inhale.
Not this life, Brennan.
Another chapter, or maybe another series of asanas—
Buzz, buzz.
It was a fool’s optimism that had me bring my personal
cell with me outside. Reese has had my number for over sixty
hours, and he hasn’t texted once. What’s the likelihood the
next few hours will unfurl any differently?
Buzz, buzz. Another text.
 It could be from Matt, or from any of the small handful of
people who keep in contact with me personally. My private
and professional lives have always been rigorously divided.
Work has a separate phone—a BlackBerry, secured by the
NSA, impenetrable to hackers or foreign governments—and
I have a lonely little Android, the screen gleaming from the
chaise beside me. The background is a picture I took from
Baker Beach, nothing but fog and crashing waves and the
unknown stretching into infinity.
I don’t recognize the number that’s texted. Area code 202.
Washington, DC. Please, not a reporter who uncovered my
private number.
Please, let it be him.
The first text is short and to the point.
Hey. Followed by, This is Theriot. Reese. Just got checked in
here at RTC.
Four minutes have passed between his last message and
now, and as I read the words for the eighth time, three little
dots appear, dancing below his message.

Reese: Anyway, have a good week.

Hi, I text back. I’m glad to hear from you.

Reese: Oh, hey. I thought you might be busy.

I should be. If not with the world, then with the serious
business of getting over Reese, but… I’m taking the evening
off. From both, it seems.

Me: Where’s RTC?

 My navigational prowess is limited to the West Coast, and
the Eastern Seaboard still befuddles me occasionally.

Reese: Sorry, RTC is the Rowley Training Center. Laurel, Maryland.

I’m sixteen miles northeast of you.

I look to my left, as if I can peer around the White House

and all of DC, gaze to the northeast, and somehow spot Reese
out there.

Me: What’s the Secret Service training center like? I’m imagining
something impressively high-tech.

He sends a picture in response: a stark, plain room,

cinderblock walls painted white. A single bed, nightstand,
lamp. The only sign of human presence is an unzipped duffel
on a luggage rack.

Reese: Grim

Me: Looks like some of the camps I stayed in when I first went
overseas.

Reese: Yeah?

I share more with him in one text than I have with most
people who ask me about my time working abroad.

Me: When I first went to the Balkans, we were staying in a

dilapidated warehouse. There were probably thirty of us altogether.
Forensic anthropologists, technicians, lawyers, legal attachés,
human rights advisors, and gravediggers. It rained so much that the
mud slipped beneath the warehouse walls and started piling up
inside. It unmoored the foundations, and by the time we left, the
warehouse was ninety degrees off from where it had started. We
called it the spinning top.

Silence. Reese’s dots dance, and then stop. Dance and

stop.

Reese: What was it like? Doing what you did?

Me: Harrowing.

With the first mass grave I helped excavate, we recovered

thirteen bodies, all piled on top of one another like they’d
been heaved in a pit. They’d been there for years. They were
skeletonized.
Plastic and nylon decay far slower than flesh, and the ties
and blindfolds their executioners had used were still there,
as if they’d just been knotted on. Fabric over empty eye
sockets, plastic twine around brittle arm and leg bones.
It rained the whole time, mud slipping into and around
each skeleton, as if the earth didn’t want to give up the dead.
One thought echoed through me after: this should not
happen in this world. Not ever again, to anyone.

Me: It was enlightening in a cruel way. I saw how far people can go
into their own hatred, and what happens when they throw their
humanity away.

I never talk about these parts of my past. They are public,

of course, in the way that my resume is public. But the things
I saw, the horrors I dug up with my own hands… those
belong to me.
Another long pause, and then Reese changes the subject.
Reese: What’s a night off look like for you?

It looks like I’m trying to get over you. Of course, I don’t type
that. I snap a picture of the sunset off the Truman Balcony,
capturing the end of my chaise lounge, my leggings-
wrapped calves, my bare feet. The sky is peach and
periwinkle and streaked with wisps of clouds. Cherry
blossom buds hover on the trees, and the lawns are brilliant
once again. The roses around the South Fountain are in their
first scarlet bloom.

Reese: Wow. I’m jealous. I only had traffic for a view on my drive up
tonight.

Me: I thought you were going yesterday.

Reese: I was, but we had a threat come across the squeal sheets,
and I wanted to go check it out personally. That ate up my Saturday.
I missed check-in and the physical fitness test. I’ll do them tomorrow
morning, before the first weapons re-qual.

Me: A threat?

Reese: Turned out just to be a ranter. Someone running their mouth

and getting too hot under the collar. He was very contrite after we
showed up at his house at five a.m. and hauled him downtown. We
let him off with a warning, but I’ll be keeping an eye on him.

This is not the first time someone has raged against my

policies or against me personally. It is the first time since
I’ve had Reese as my protector, though, and that’s doing
strange things to me.
 Images flash, scenes constructed out of fantasy and thin
air. Reese protecting me. Reese beside me. Reese above me,
elbows bracketing my head as his hair falls forward—
Get your mind clear, Brennan.

Reese: You’ll probably hear about it in your brief on Wednesday.

Nuñez will be running it.

Me: Thank you.

Reese: Just the job, sir.

God, I can hear him when he types that, hear the lilt and
drawl, the slow rumble of his voice moving through those
words.
I want to know everything about him. I want to know
what sunsets look like where he’s from, what schools he
went to, how he spent his summers growing up. I want to
know where he got the freckles across his nose and how he
learned to smile so laconically, like he’s the one with the
perpetual punchline. What shaped him as a man? Why is he
crossing paths with me, right now?

Reese: I should let you get back to your evening.

Me: No, it’s fine.

Did I text that too quickly? Was that too eager?

Me: There’s not much going on here. The only thing I have planned
is another round of yoga.

Reese: You do yoga?

Me: I can hear the shock in your text.

Reese: Yoga is not in your file.

A few things are not in my file, but that’s not the right
thing to say to Reese. He’s a man who likes to have all the
answers. Maybe I can convince him yoga is the deepest
secret I’m carrying.

Me: I did thirty minutes of asanas before coming out here. It helps
settle me.

Usually.

Reese: Wow. So are you like Madonna? Can you do all the fancy
poses?

My grin is soft, but it’s steady enough to make my cheeks

ache. I’m curled around my phone as the sunlight fades,
biting on my lip like a lovesick young man.

Me: I focus more on core exercises. I’m pretty good at handstands,

though.

Reese: This I’ve got to see.

Me: Don’t believe me?

Reese: I’ve seen a lot of powerful people do a lot of things, but not
one of em has ever done serious yoga. I don’t think most of the
people I’ve worked for could put their BlackBerrys down long enough
to focus.
Me: No BlackBerry with me right now.

Reese: You’re going to give your body man a heart attack if they
need to find you.

Me: I’m locked in the White House. How hard am I to find?

Reese: You’d be surprised. There’s been some pretty epic hide and
seek games we’ve played there over the years. Not all of them on
purpose.

Me: Well, I’m alone when I do my yoga, but I’ll see what I can do
about trying to get you picture proof.

No bouncing dots, and no texts. I chew my lip and reread

my last message.

Reese: I should go. I need to be up at zero-four for the fitness test.

Me: I’d say good luck, but you definitely don’t need it.

Reese has the hardened musculature and fit body of a

man who dedicates himself to maintaining peak human
abilities.

Reese: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Me: It was good to hear from you. Have a good week.

Reese: You too. Enjoy your yoga.

Again with his voice playing in my mind. My eyes close,

and I squeeze my phone as hard as I can.
 You have to let this go.

N ot seeing Reese first thing sends my Monday morning off-

kilter. I prowl around the Residence, whiling away the
minutes we’d normally be in the Oval.
Last night’s texts loop in my mind. I’ve reread them a
dozen times. Lying in bed, and again this morning as I
sipped my coffee and wondered about his fitness test. How
easily did he pass? How far off the charts was he?
Normally, I leave my personal phone in the Residence
during the day. My work and my self are separate, and the
little things I do help reinforce that. Personal phone upstairs,
usually on the kitchen counter, where I leave my book and
my coffee cup.
But… You’re a fool, Brennan.
My day is a blur of meetings, policy proposals, phone
calls, and negotiation. I’m in the Oval, the Situation Room,
the Cabinet Room. When I can grab five minutes, I escape to
the West Colonnade and the Rose Garden.
Blush-hued roses are blooming, the hot-house flowers
large enough to cradle in my palm. Daffodils, buttercups, and
tulips line the flagstones, and sun-dappled shade filters
through the wavering branches of the crab apple trees.
Eyes closed, I breathe in the moment: the peace, the
serenity. The intruding sounds of traffic on Seventeenth
Street. The braying rise and fall of too-loud voices coming
and going around the back side of the West Wing.
My phone vibrates in my pants pocket.
Hold on to this. To roses and sunshine and the hope
budding in my chest. For a second, I can imagine Reese has
texted me. When I check, I’ll surely be disappointed. But for
a moment, one moment, hope can be mine.
 It is him.
He’s texted me a picture of a target, the center completely
obliterated, as if he shot out the same spot so many times he
created a new bull’s-eye. The bullets must have whistled
through empty air by the time he was done.
Though I’m Californian, I also spent twenty years in war
and conflict zones. I have more than a passing familiarity
with weapons and with what this kind of shooting
arrangement means. Reese is good. Damn good.

Reese: Handgun qual passed. I can hit a target. How’s the office?

I smile. The office. Like we’re any other pair of coworkers.

Me: Busy. How’s RTC?

Reese: Also busy. About to go into a refresher class on psych and

profiling. Then there’s a drill this evening.

Me: Drill?

Reese: We’re going to roleplay a hit on the motorcade. I’ll be detail

lead. I’ve got to get our POTUS to the evac spot in under ninety
seconds.

Here I am, watching a butterfly bouncing over the Rose

Garden, and there Reese is, obliterating targets and role-
playing how to save my life.

Me: Try to keep the president alive?

Reese: I always do.

I t takes a dozen tries , but I finally get the angle right. I’ve
got my phone on its side, raised on a stack of books and
tilted against my water bottle, recording as I clench my abs,
inhale, and roll my hips upward. My knees are bent, my
forearms flat on the ground. I hold the tuck position through
a long exhale before I extend my legs, slowly, into the pincha
mayurasana.
If I got the shot right, I’ve just recorded myself extending
into a forearm stand in front of the Washington Monument,
silhouetted against the setting sun and a clementine sky.
Ideally, I look strong, and fit, and maybe even a little
breathtaking. If my legs are straight and I didn’t shiver on
the rise, I might even look impressive.
Or maybe I look ridiculous.
Normally, I hold this asana for at least two minutes,
focusing on my breath work and grounding myself. My abs
are firing by the end, little quivers and clenches popping off
as I hold my body and my mind in line. Discipline. Control.
Breathe in, and out.
Twenty-three seconds after I lift my legs, I fall out,
dropping with a heavy thud to my bare feet. This isn’t the
end of my routine, but my concentration is shot, and all I’m
thinking about is whether the angle for the video worked
and, if so, should I send it to Reese?
It worked. The light is perfect, all fiery orange with the
marble of the Washington Monument as bright as the full
moon. I’m a shadow, so silhouetted you can’t make out my
face. Vanity had me pulling on my favorite running leggings
for this, which I chided myself for, but now? Every line of my
quads and hamstrings and calves look carved from stone.
The whole video is too much to send, but I clip out three
seconds of my lift and then a screenshot of the final asana.
And hesitate.
Why am I doing this? It’s wrong, all wrong. Delete the
picture, Brennan. Don’t send it.
I send it.
And then I silence my phone and go back to my yoga mat,
and I spend the next hour wrenching Reese Theriot from my
thoughts.
Two hours pass before I’m brave enough to check my
phone.
I’ve read the nightly intelligence assessment from the
national security watch, read the daily status updates from
the Joint Chiefs, and traded emails with Matt about moving
around a meeting with a congressional caucus that I don’t
want to spend time with. I’ve asked Matt to pass the ball to
the vice president for now. Their request for a meeting falls
more into the portfolio of policies that I’ve asked Patrick to
take the lead on anyway.
I’m still feeling my way around Patrick Marshall. When I
threw my hat into the presidential ring, I hadn’t thought
seriously about vice presidential candidates. I didn’t expect
to have much of a chance—mostly, I hoped my policy
proposals and views could make an impact on the other
candidates. Maybe I could begin something.
But then I won Iowa, and New Hampshire, and Nevada,
and the rest of Super Tuesday went my way. Suddenly I was
the front-runner, and everything was becoming real. My
ideals, my dreams, my policies.
And I needed a vice president.
Patrick manifested in one of those backroom deals
political parties are fond of. He was not a presidential
candidate, but he had been a two-term governor of a
midwestern state with stable growth, a happy populace, and
a steadily growing economy. He was the safe option, the
moderate, the balance to my West Coast ways. If half of
America looked at me and thought, “Too much, too soon,”
they could shift their gaze to Patrick.
We don’t clash, but we haven’t found our footing yet.
He’s respectful, deferential to the office, but he’s also fifteen
years older than I am, and there are moments when it seems
like he comes at me paternalistically instead of as my vice
president and my supposed right hand.
As Reese said, the presidency is an adjustment. The truth
of those words sinks in deeper every day.
Finally, while I’m finishing dinner, I check my phone.
There are three texts from Reese.
My stomach flutters. I’m my own worst enemy.

Reese: Wow

Reese: Really, wow.

I’m back to grinning and staring at the screen. All he said

was “Wow,” but it’s exactly what I was hoping for. I wanted
to impress him, somehow, someway.

Reese: I’m a fit guy but I can’t do that at all.

There’s a ten-minute gap, and then another text.

Reese: I just tried a regular handstand and, well, I’m glad I wasn’t
being recorded. I don’t think my body has moved like that since I was
four years old.

Me: I’m pleased you approve.

He may not even be near his phone anymore. There’s no

reason for me to hang around mine, refreshing the screen
every time it dims. It’s late enough that he might have gone
out for a beer, with his colleagues or with someone else, and
I’m being ridiculous hoping for those three little dots to
appear.
But they do, and my heart leaps as I wait for his text.

Reese: I’m going to have to update your file. And I’m going to have
to amend that report of mine to the Director. Unknown yoga activity
must be investigated.

He makes me smile too much.

Me: Going to have to arrest me?

Reese: If I tried, you’d probably be able to wiggle away.

My breath is shaky, like the air has gone out of the

Residence’s kitchen, and it takes me a moment to recenter
myself. He’s not flirting with you, Brennan.

Me: How’d the drill go? Did you save the president?

Reese: I did. She lived to teach ethics tomorrow morning and score
the next round of our marksmanship quals.

Me: She’s an instructor?

Reese: Yeah. A good one. She taught me when I first came through
the academy. She thought I was a knucklehead, and told me so, and
still thinks it’s wild that I’m running the detail these days.

Reese is as far from a knucklehead as I could imagine a

man to be.
Me: Do you get a chance to go out while you’re there? Have dinner,
have a drink?

Reese: A lot of the guys do. They went out tonight, but I’m wiped. I
ate in the cafeteria with the trainees.

Dancing dots again.

Reese: One of the only good things about coming out here for
training is there’s a damn good Cajun place nearby. I’ll grab dinner
there at least twice. Maybe three times.

Me: Now I’m really jealous.

Reese: Christa can whip up some Cajun food for you. She’s not half
bad, for someone not from the bayou.

Christa Delos Santos is the executive chef at the White

House, and in addition to planning and preparing the meals
for every state function and overseeing the kitchen staff,
she’s in charge of personally cooking all my meals.
Or she would be, if I hadn’t quietly asked her for that
responsibility back.

Me: I’m cooking for myself these days. Is that something else not in
your file?

The stunned silence from his end is palpable.

Reese: It’s not. I have to say, I’m impressed at your evasive skills.

Me: No evasion. I asked to do it. She gives me recipes and

ingredients most days, but there are also times I’m left to improvise.
Reese: So you like to cook?

Me: I do. And Matt is kind enough to take my leftovers for lunch.

Reese: Lucky guy.

Me: Would you like some leftovers?

Reese: Lunch is more of a conceptual thing to the Service. I’ve

heard other people eat it, but can’t say I’ve ever had the time to.

Have lunch with me. I want to say it. We could eat on the
patio off the Oval, behind the wisteria and the climbing roses. I
could hear your laughter in the sunshine.

Reese: What did you make for dinner?

The remnants of my salmon and spinach salad are cold,

and I mostly picked at the plate. Still, I snap a photo and
send it to Reese.

Reese: Very healthy. Looks better than the mystery meat and
mashed veggies I ate.

Come over. It’s on the tips of my fingers to type out. Come

over, and I’ll make dinner for you. Tell me your favorite food, and
I’ll devote all day to learning how to make it.
All I text is Thanks.

Reese: So, cooking, yoga, going places without your BlackBerry.

You’re a regular renegade.

Me: I was only on the Truman Balcony.

 Silence settles between us, enough to where I stop
refreshing the screen, then ditch my phone on the counter
and clear my plate, wash it, and leave it out to dry.
Still no text. What should I expect, though? A Goodnight,
sleep tight from Reese?
It’s almost midnight when my phone buzzes again. I tried
to be strong and leave it in the kitchen, but after only ten
minutes, I brought it to my bedroom. The quiet has become
oppressive. Not even Sérgio can distract me from my
wandering thoughts.
Reese should be asleep, and so should I, but if I were, I
would have missed his text. It’s simple, and there’s not a
single thing I should read into it.

Reese: Have a good day tomorrow.

My heart is a balloon, floating away.

Me: You too.

 Chapter Thirteen

R eese
T hen

I t’s the absolute stupidest thing I’ve done, bar none.

Texting the president?
His number burned a hole in my suit pants all day Friday.
I told myself a dozen times to throw it away, and a dozen
more times, I convinced myself to keep it. In fact, I tucked
that little slip of paper into my wallet to keep it safe.
Saturday morning, I drove out to Anacostia and bought a
disposable phone from a gas station mini-mart and loaded
up on prepaid minutes and texts. I still hadn’t decided
whether I was going to text him or not, but if I was, it was
going to be on a burner. Something I could fling into the
ocean if any hint of a scandal started creeping near Brennan
Walker.
The rest of the weekend was full of enough crap to keep
my mind off the problem of texting or not texting the
president.
And then I was in my dorm room at Rowley, burner phone
in one hand, his handwritten number in the other.
 I’d had the dream again Saturday night.
Blue eyes, warm hands, firm body. Skin against skin. This
time, my dream man’s lips were on the back of my neck. His
arms wrapped around me from behind, and our fingers
tangled together as he held me to him. His nose ran through
my hair, his breath ghosting over the curve of my jaw.
It woke me before dawn, yanking me from unconscious to
fully awake in less than a second. I was on my back with one
hand down my boxers. My heart raced, my lungs burned, and
my cock was hot and hard and heavy in my grasp. My toes
curled, and I tipped my head back against my pillow, like I
was leaning into the memory of my dream. I moaned as I
came.
Don’t you dare text him. Don’t you dare, Reese.
Of course, I did.

R efresher training is simultaneously exhilarating and mind-

numbing. Weapons recertification is great. There’s nothing I
love more than the meditative state I drop into while
slinging five hundred rounds of lead downrange. I can drop
bullets on top of each other, lay ten shots in a perfect circle
like I’ve only fired a single round. Some of my targets are up
on the walls at RTC.
Driving, too. We do it all. Shooting from the limos and the
SUVs, suppressive and covering fire, takedown shots and
surgical strikes. We practice driving at ninety miles an hour,
evading an assassin, an angry mob, an insurrection. Then we
do it all over again, in reverse.
After an adrenaline-fueled morning, we’re shuffled into
classes and fed PowerPoints, and the agents who fall asleep
have to pump out push-ups for the rest of the lecture. Henry
and I keep each other awake by flicking rubber bands on each
other’s arms.
Henry’s got a group of agents together after class ready to
hit the happening nightlife of Laurel, Maryland, but I head
east, straight for my Cajun comfort food. All day, I’d thought
about boudin balls and seafood boils, crab legs and crawfish,
creole seasoning and cush cush.
All day, I’d thought about him, too. And our texts.
Something is happening here, within me, to me, but I’m
not the most introspective guy on the planet, and it’s easier
to keep pushing the deep and soulful reflection I need to
have out past my more immediate concerns. Traffic. Boudin
balls.
Texting a picture of my massive basket of fried seafood to
Walker.

Brennan: I’m out of my mind with jealousy.

I eat one-handed so I can text.

Me: What did you make?

Brennan: Still cooking.

He sends a picture of a single chicken breast in a skillet,

covered in lemon slices and pads of butter and scattered
capers.

Brennan: Late finish downstairs. I only just got back.

It’s almost nine p.m. Not that the Situation Room and the
West Wing aren’t all hours, but most presidents try to keep a
regular schedule. Walker has been better about it than others
have, and now that I’m seeing a few more sides of the man,
I’m starting to understand why.

Me: No yoga?

Brennan: Not yet, no. Might just do corpse pose tonight.

Me: I know that one. I’m good at it.

I type, “Good at downward dog, too,” and then delete that.

The fuck are you doing, Reese? Eat a boudin ball.

Brennan: Tell me about life outside?

I’m in a hole-in-the-wall joint with the smell of deep-

fried grease in the paint. The kind of place where the
upholstery is duct-taped together and cardboard is shoved
under the wobbly table legs. Traffic was a beast, but it’s
always a beast on the East Coast. I’d stop-and-go-ed for
twenty miles, and by the time I parked, I was ready to down
a beer, throw my feet up, and text Walker.
I didn’t want to look too closely at that last one.
The point is, there is nothing special about where I am or
what I’m doing. The West Wing may be my daily office, and,
sure, that’s taken a little shine off the place, but it’s still far
grander than anywhere around here. If I need a breath of
fresh air at Rowley, my option is to hang out on the rickety
balcony surrounded by my fellow agents and smokers. If I
want air at the White House, I can grab a few minutes in the
Rose Garden, or walk the South Lawn, or, even better, say
hello to Walker on the Oval Office patio.
Me: Not much to share. Traffic. Crowds. I’d rather be back at the
White House.

Brennan: And miss out on that food?

Me: I’ll get it to go.

Walker goes quiet, which is unusual. But, I’m not the only
thing on his plate. A thousand things could have come up in
the past minute to drag him away, from his dinner to an
outbreak of nuclear war. If I were there, I’d know. Maybe I’d
be beside him on the way into the Situation Room. Or maybe
we’d be having this conversation in person instead of over
text. In his kitchen. In the Residence.
Leave him alone. Let him do his job. Which is being the
president, not texting me because I can’t get him out of my
mind.
Not even a minute passes before I text him.

Me: You okay?

Brennan: Yes.

I wait.
His text bubble reappears, three dots bouncing. Stopping.
Bouncing. Stopping.

Brennan: I’m restless. Feeling a little… caged in.

I should have seen this coming.

Prior to arriving at the White House, Brennan Walker was
known as something of an adrenaline junkie. In California, it
wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for a weekend, then
come back to Sacramento and the state capitol with a few
bruises and stories of white-water rafting, rock climbing, or
back-country skiing. I’d thought, and the Service thought,
that those impulses had been tempered by the demands of
the campaign and then the presidency.
Maybe I could figure out an excursion. Balance
adrenaline-seeking and Secret Service safety.
What would that look like? A bounce house on the South
Lawn?

Me: You work out, yeah? More than yoga?

Brennan: Yes. In San Francisco, I used to run the Presidio. I’d go

out to Battery Park and then down to Baker Beach and back on the
overlook trail. Nothing but the waves and the fog.

A beat, and then,

Brennan: Have you ever been to San Francisco?

Me: A few times with the Service. Never for pleasure.

Another long silence. I finish my boudin balls and all of

my shrimp and scallops. I’m halfway through my second
beer when he texts again.

Brennan: I’d love to show you the cliffs on Baker Beach.

My beer bottle stills halfway to my lips. I stare at the

screen so long it goes dark, and I have to swipe to bring it
back to life to reread those words.
I’m imagining this, aren’t I? He doesn’t mean, at all, the
lies my mind is trying to tell me.
 What’s the right way to respond?
Well, the right way was to never be in a situation like this
where you needed to worry about it. Solve the problem before it
arises. Didn’t I relearn that this afternoon?
There’s a rule in the Service that isn’t written down:
don’t make trouble for the president.
I’m the last thing he needs to be troubled with. Me and
these reckless thoughts, this wildness inside me.

Me: The Service can arrange an outing for you whenever you want
to go back to California.

Brennan: Sure. Thank you.

More silence. I finish my beer, throw away my trash,

leave. In my SUV, I stare at our text thread, as if I haven’t
been holding the phone in my hand this entire time and
don’t know it hasn’t vibrated with any incoming message.
Don’t trouble the president. Leave him be.
I leave him be all the way back to Rowley, while my mind
spins and frets and chews over our last messages. Restless.
Hemmed in. I’d love to show you the cliffs on Baker Beach.
I’m texting as soon as I throw my SUV into park outside
the dormitory.

Me: Hey, so. Just a thought. There’s a jogging track around the
South Lawn. Would you want to run it? It’s not like running beside
the ocean, but it’s better than a treadmill.

My fingers tap the side of the burner phone. My foot joins

in, until I’m like a drummer working up to a riff at a blues
dive off Decatur Street.
Give him a minute, Reese.
 I haul myself up to my room, passing a gaggle of agents I
know from other field offices with a chin lift and a distracted
wave. There’s what sounds like a pretty decent party
underway two floors down and around the corner. I’m
invited, but I wave off, pulling the kind of face you do when
you’ve got loads of work and that’s your excuse for not going
out.
As soon as my key hits the lock, the burner vibrates.

Brennan: Do you run?

Me: I do.

My next thought fires like a busted synapse, a cruise

missile without guidance software.

Me: Want to run together?

Brennan: We can?

Me: Sure.

Definitely not. Bravado buoys me, though, and I keep

going with my bullshit.

Me: I love the South Lawn. It’s private, and the gardens out there
are great. I’ll take any excuse to hit that track.

Brennan: Oh, I see. You’re using me. :)

My shoulders finally relax. I’ve got him back, at least

enough to tease and joke around. Brennan Walker wraps
himself in a curtain of quiet solemnity, but I’ve been given a
peek at a warmth he guards.

Me: I am definitely using you. :)

And I barrel further ahead.

Me: We could run when I get back. Do you want to meet up in the
mornings?

His reply seems to take forever. The more the dots

bounce, the more certain I am that he’s going to chew me
out, tell me how inappropriate I’m being, how I’m rude and
an asshole to boot. Bounce, stop. Bounce, stop.

Brennan: I’d like that.

Oh, the bullshit I am going to have to spin to justify this.

But I don’t know how to stop. Not when it comes to Brennan
Walker.

Me: I’ll try and think up something else, too. I know we cage you in.

Brennan: This helps.

Me: My pictures of incredible Cajun food and impeccably shot

targets?

Brennan: Talking to you.

What the fuck do I say to that?

What would it be like if he weren’t the president and I
weren’t his detail lead? If he weren’t the president, would I
take a chance on figuring out… whatever this is that’s going
on inside me? Would I chase those neon eyes? Find out what
it means to be held in real life the way someone—someone
maybe him—has been holding me in my dreams?
But how would we have ever met, if not for who we are?
Him, a California boy, and me, born and bred in the
backwoods bayou. There was never a moment when I would
have bumped into him on the foggy streets of San Francisco
or he would have run into me down in the muggy heat of
New Orleans. DC drew us together, but DC keeps us apart,
too.
I take the coward’s way out.

Me: I’m glad, sir.

His response comes almost an hour later, after I’ve

brushed my teeth and am tucked into my shitty little dorm
bed, holding on to the burner phone and willing it to buzz.

Brennan: Goodnight.

I watch his yoga video another six times before I power

off the phone.
In my dreams, I run, chasing a pair of bleu clair eyes and
a hidden smile. This time, my hands are doing the exploring.
It’s my fingers running over firm legs, granite-hard abs, and
defined hips. My lips landing on his collarbone and kissing a
path down into the valley of his pecs. Down to a man’s belly
button and his happy trail, and then farther, down to the
waistband of a pair of leggings and—
I wake stroking myself, and there’s a half second between
my dream and full wakefulness, and then my orgasm slams
into me. I curl forward, gasping, squeezing my eyes closed,
groaning through the aftershocks.
 My heart is racing, and there’s a name on my lips that I
can’t say. I can’t, because if I do, I’m fucked. I can’t desire
him. I can’t crave him.
But, damn it, I do.
It feels like a desecration. Like I am polluting something
wonderful, or like I’ve taken something treasured and gifted
to me and smashed it on the ground. Like I can’t be trusted
with his kindness or his respect, his smiles or his attention,
because this is what I’m doing with it.
“Brennan…” I breathe.

T he morning is full of EMT recert classes, which means our

real-world drill later on will be a wounded president.
Everything hits different now, as I slap the bandage on
Henry, who’s role-playing my downed president. Gunshot to
the chest, above the arc of his vest. We’re supposed to
prevent the bullet from being fired in the first place, but if
we’ve fucked up so badly our guy gets shot, the next best
thing we can do is keep him alive until he gets to the
hospital.
Henry and I usually jerk each other around. I had to go in
for mouth-to-mouth once, and Henry met me with his lips
puckered. A few years back, Henry pulled the emergency
birth scenario from the grab bag, and I gave an Oscar-
worthy birth performance in the back seat of one our SUVs
out on our mock airstrip, pretending to be a Swedish
princess. By the time the baby was born, it seemed like all of
RTC was gathered around him and me, howling.
I can’t get into the hilarity this time. It’s just Henry
beneath these bandages, and these injuries and plunging
vital signs aren’t real, and there’s no actual gunshot wound
—
 But what if there was? What if Brennan does get hurt on
my watch? What if something terrible happens, and I can’t
save him?
I’m flustered, out of my element, and I barely pass my
recert after missing the signs for Cushing’s triad.
Henry knows something is up. His eyes linger on me
throughout the rest of the morning.
At lunch, I grab him and we split from Rowley for a dive
bar that doubles as a greasy burger joint during the day. We
snag a corner table and dig into mushroom-and-swiss
burgers, splitting a plate of fries.
If I talk fast, maybe he won’t notice the bullshit. “So,
President Walker is going to start running on the South
Lawn track in the mornings. I’ll run pace with him. What do
you think of staging agents every hundred yards?”
He chews and stares at me. “You wanna run pace for
Walker?”
Of course, he zeroes in on exactly what I hoped he
wouldn’t. He misses nothing. “You know I like that track.”
He keeps staring. “How do you know he’s going to be
running when we’re back at the big house?”
Shit. “Email. Walker requested a change.” A bald-faced
lie.
“Why does he wanna run outside? The weather is going to
turn to shit soon.”
We’ve got a short window of good weather before the heat
and humidity skyrocket. DC was built on a swamp, and while
I grew up breathing through water vapor, most everyone else
transplanted to the city hates the summer.
“He’ll run early.” That’s only part of why I suggested the
time. DC is groggy in the morning. Though the South Lawn
track is private, there’s still a chance the wrong someone
could see. “Look, he ran the beach in California. Staring at a
wall on a treadmill can’t replicate that. He’s unhappy.”
 “Unhappy?” Henry snorts. “Mr. Happy himself? You’re
kidding!”
“Mr. Happy?” My burger drops.
He downs a long gulp of soda as red darkens his
cheekbones. “It’s a nickname some of the guys have for him.
You gotta admit, Walker seems to be pretty upbeat. At least,
he does in the mornings.”
Mornings are when he and I meet. My face is stone, not a
single flinch. If Henry wants to say something, now is the
time.
“Five agents around the track should work fine,” he says,
breaking the silence. “I can move things around and free up
some guys from the end of the overnight shift. I’ll take the
fifth slot. I’m not running.” He points a fry at me, shaking it.
“I only run when it’s required for the job. I hated it in the
Marines, and I hate it now. I’m gonna drink my coffee while
you’re sweating your ass off.”
“That’s the point. Like I said, I want to run the track. I’m
using him.”
“Uh-huh.” He stands and wipes his hands before
grabbing both our plates. “C’mon.”
I only picked at my food. Usually, I can polish off a burger
in no time, but he doesn’t say a word about my lack of
appetite.
We’re out the door and on the way back to my SUV when
he says, “Let’s move some people around on the detail.
There’s this new kid on the night shift I wanna bring up.
He’s got potential.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“Name’s Sheridan.”
I know everyone at the White House. I run through my
agents’ personnel files in my mind. He’s a former Marine,
like Henry. He’s young, too. “Agent Leigh Sheridan? The one
from the case on the campaign? After what he did, the
director put him on the fast track to the White House.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“He only joined the Service two years ago. That’s pretty
fast to be moving up on the detail.”
I don’t want to play games with hotshots who have the
director’s favor because they made one great move and had
the good-guy glow on them for a few minutes. The Secret
Service isn’t about the spotlight, and I don’t have time to
teach prima donnas that truth.
Especially when I’m trying to cover up my own
questionable decisions.
“Sheridan is a good agent. I know what you’re thinking,
and he’s not like that. He’s here at Rowley doing his recert
this week, too. You should meet him. You’ll like him.”
The list of people I truly like is small.
“I’ll take him under my wing.” Henry grins. “You’ll see.”
“Playing favorites with your fellow Marines?”
“Always.”

H enry ’ s right . I do like Sheridan.

We meet in the Rowley gym, in the boxing ring. I boxed
through high school and on the New Orleans police team,
and it’s a skill and a hobby I keep on top of.
Sheridan is fast on his feet, but we’re well matched. He’s
tough. I could break my hands on his face and he’d still have
his fists up, ready for an opening to strike back. After a few
rounds, an audience gathers, and two dozen of our fellow
agents watch Sheridan and me get to know each other by
beating the shit out of each other.
We finish in a draw, and when I shake his hand, I see
Henry leaning on the ropes, smiling.
 “It’s an honor to meet you,” Sheridan says as we down
water and untape our hands. We’d worn headgear and
mouthguards, and now his hair is fucked, all sweaty and
disheveled. Mine has to look the same, or worse, because it’s
longer than his.
I want to take a selfie and send it to Brennan.
“Henry says you’re a decent agent. He wants to move you
up. You ready for the big show?”
“Yes, sir. I am.” He doesn’t sound cocky, or like an
asshole who thinks the director’s touch is his ticket to fame.
“Hope so. I’ll see you at the White House.” I clap Sheridan
on the shoulder before I grab my gym bag and head back to
my room.
On the way, my burner phone winds up in my hand, and
before I know what I’m doing, I’ve got my texts open and
I’m reading over the conversation from last night.
Brennan and I haven’t spoken yet today. Should I text
first? Or should I wait and see what he does?
I have only myself to blame for this mental shitstorm.
Earlier, I recorded footage from the driving course of one
of our agents making an evasive escape, and it’s bad ass.
Tires squealing, rubber burning, the presidential limo
rocking and rolling like it never does in real life. He might
get a kick out of that.
I send it to Brennan before I can overthink my impulse.
He replies almost immediately.

Brennan: Hi. Are you alone?

My heart jackhammers.

Me: Yes.

Brennan: Can I call you?

 Fuck. We’ve blurred a dozen lines here, but I can maybe
get away with saying these texts are innocuous and mean
nothing. A phone call, though?
What the hell does he want to talk to me about? My
behavior? Us? No, there is no us.
I shove my towel against the bottom of my door, as if that
will soundproof this shitty little dorm room.

Me: Yes.

The burner rings twenty seconds later.

“Hi,” Brennan says, and, merde, that is the voice I’m
hearing in my dreams, isn’t it? My teeth clench, and my free
hand closes into a fist, and every part of me squeezes.
“Hey.” I try for casual. I’m sure I fail.
“I need to get out of my head. I’m spinning in circles.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen the news?”
Every morning, I wake up to some new horror Russia is
inflicting. They’ve ramped up their offensive again, most
likely thanks to Brennan’s election.
Russia has been moving in Eastern Europe for ten years,
but during the last administration, the Russians put their
money where their mouth was and invaded Ukraine. There
was a lot of noise beforehand about how the Russians were
going to steamroll the smaller country, but Ukraine fought to
a stalemate.
Unfortunately, Russia isn’t a one-and-done kind of show,
and its long-term military objectives are more about
subjugation and despair than winning hearts and minds.
Russian military tactics punish civilian populations. Line up
pictures of Chechnya, Syria, and Ukraine, and you’ll think
you’re looking at the same hellscape.
 Today, Ukraine is a divided country, with a Russian-
occupied eastern zone trembling with rage and insurgency.
We will get our way through negotiation or war, Russian
president Nikita Kirilov said. He pursued both, and he
succeeded: when the cease-fire was signed, half of Ukraine
became part of New Russia, and Kirilov moved his forces
deeper into Europe.
Ukraine is a near-impossible country to occupy. Its
mountains swallow Russian forces, as do the forests and the
countryside. Fallow fields are strewn with the invaders’
bones. The Ukrainians vowed to never surrender, to never
give up the fight, and to never rest until every Russian
soldier was out of their country.
This morning, the news alert on my phone said Russian
forces were crossing the cease-fire lines to hunt down
Ukrainian insurgents.
“Those units that crossed the cease-fire lines decimated
three towns,” Brennan says. “It’s the same tactics they used
in Chechnya and the Middle East. Civilians are being
slaughtered. Do you remember what happened to Grozny?”
“I do.”
“This feels like a prelude to ethnic cleansing.”
If anyone would know, it would be Brennan.
I’m not allowed to be read into national security issues.
But that’s pain in his voice. He reached out to me to talk.
How can I turn him away? “What are you going to do?”
Frustration growls out of him, followed by a weary sigh.
“Everyone’s arguing in a different direction, and no one
seems to be listening when I say that the current trajectory is
unacceptable. We cannot allow this to unfold.”
All those different directions were debated when Russia
first occupied Ukraine. According to the experts, to stand up
to Russia meant certain nuclear war. Russia would push the
big red button, and that was lights-out for the world. There
were no good options, and nothing to do but watch the
invasion happen.
He’s quiet, and I can hear him breathing before he
continues, “Where’s the point where we say, ‘No farther’? Is
it a line on a map? The borders of an alliance of nations?
NATO? Once, the world said, ‘Never again,’ but it hasn’t
done a great job upholding that promise.”
Cambodia. Darfur. Rwanda. The Balkans.
He keeps going. “Don’t provoke Russia. That’s rule
number one, right? But they provoke themselves to make up
justifications for whatever they want to do. Where is the
balance between smart deterrence and matching aggression
when the cost is paid in human lives and suffering? How can
we stand by while evil is unleashed?”
I know him well enough now to know this is the part
that’s tearing him up inside. “This is where you want to take
a stand.”
“I do. We’re supposed to be a rules-based world, but that
only works when everyone plays by the same set of rules.
Sovereign rights. Human rights. What good are they if no one
will fight for them?”
“The American people elected you because they believed
in you.”
“Do they believe in me all the way to war? I’m at a fork in
the road, and there’s that saying about roads and good
intentions.”
“You know the line you want to hold. What are you willing
to live with?”
I hear the breath go out of him, long and slow, like he’s
finishing up one of his yoga poses. “Thank you, Reese.
That’s the perfect question to ask me.”
Reese. My name. He’s said it before, but not since these
dreams have taken root within me. Reese. Merde, it is him.
That’s his voice in my dreams.
 “I hope I helped.”
“You did.” There’s noise in the background. A door
opening, people walking into a room. Matt’s voice saying,
“Your next meeting, Mr. President. The CIA working group.”
“I’ll let you go.”
“Text me later.” He hangs up.

A fter the last session of the day, I text Brennan a picture of

my dinner—fast food tacos, which I barely eat—and receive
nothing in response. An hour later, I tie on my sneakers and
hit the track. After five miles and a bucket of sweat, I head
back in.
No text from Brennan.
He’s the president. There’s a lot of shit going on in the
world.
A shower brings me back down from where I’d propelled
myself into orbit. The spray hits my muscles right where
Brennan’s dream hands caressed me, and I spend too long in
the steam replaying each fantasy. My cock swells, and for the
first time, I jerk myself while actually thinking about
Brennan Walker.
A man. The president.
I imagine his arms around me and his hand on mine—
touching me, taking over—and then him kissing me. My
head hits the tile wall, and I fight back a groan as I come
harder than I have in a long time.
There’s no hiding from the truth when I face myself in
the mirror. You’re fucked, Reese.
It’s not that I’m fantasizing about a man. There’s a
dearth of good people in this world, and if the one who
captures my heart ends up being a man, well then. Guess I
wasn’t as straight as I thought all those years.
 It’s that the man I fell for, the best man I’ve ever met, is
Brennan Walker.
Fucking high standards you have, asshole. I glare at my own
reflection. Fall for a king next time. He’ll be just as unattainable.
Mais quel con, how am I going to handle this when I’m
back at the White House? Having a crush is cute when I’m
sixteen miles away from Brennan, but how am I going to
look him in the eye and talk to him like I haven’t been
dreaming about his lips on me? Or like I didn’t just stroke
myself to orgasm while imagining my hand was his?
Buzzing cuts through my self-flagellation, and I dart
from the bathroom and grab the burner off the charger on
the nightstand. It’s Brennan, but he’s not texting, he’s
calling. I swipe to answer before I notice he sent a video call
request.
And there he is: soft and subdued in the glow of the lamp
shining from the end table in the West Sitting Hall. He’s
dressed down in his undershirt and the same running
leggings I spied from the picture he took of himself on the
Truman Balcony. His hair is ruffled, like maybe he’s been
upside down in a yoga pose, and he’s got black-framed
reading glasses on. He’s tucked into the corner of the couch,
one leg propped up next to his chest, one arm loosely thrown
on top of his knee. The kind of limber flexibility most men
can only dream of.
His eyes go comically wide, and his lips part as his gaze
falls to the center of the screen. Shit. I bolted out of the
bathroom in nothing but a towel. My hair is still wet, and
drops of water are running down my chest.
“Sorry. Hang on, lemme grab a shirt.”
Brennan goes screen-down on my bed while I fly to my
duffel, tugging on boxers and an undershirt at the same
time. I’m a hopping mess, but in eight seconds I manage to
run my hands through my hair, shake off a little more water,
and not have a heart attack, so that’s a win. Then it’s my
turn to plop down, but I can’t sit like he is. Best I can do is
cross-legged.
“Hey.” I smile.
“Hey.” He smiles back.
It should be weird, but it’s not. He’s the president and I’m
nobody, but for the next twenty minutes, we’re just two guys
talking. He makes fun of my drive-thru tacos, and I tease
him for being a health nut. He shrugs, says, “California,”
and, yeah, I get that. It’s a reason in and of itself.
I tell him about the boxing match and meeting Sheridan,
and how Henry was a little too pleased at being right about
me liking him. “So you’re going to see a new face around the
detail. Young guy, but, I’m hopeful.”
“I’m sure he’ll be great.”
Then, apparently, it’s story time, because I tell him a half
dozen: My short stint on diplomatic protection, before I
transferred to cybercrimes and then moved to the White
House. My first time in Washington, which was the first day
of my training with the Secret Service. Rolling into New
Orleans with nothing but three hundred dollars in my pocket
and my ‘gator skin boots on my feet.
“Am I boring you? I’m sorry, I’m just rambling.”
He has a soft smile on his face. “Not at all. Listening to
you talk is very soothing.”
“Me? With this accent?”
“I love your accent.”
His eyes are shining, so I say the first thing that comes to
mind. “You rougarouin’, mon cher.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you’re trouble.” It means you’re trouble, dear, as
in, darling of mine, but I let that part slide right off my
explanation.
 “Me?” His eyebrows rise. “I think you mean you. You’re
trouble.”
“Alohrs pas! I’m no possede.” Okay, maybe I am. I am a
bad boy, but it’s him that’s making me this way.
“Will you teach me? We could have a secret language.”
He’s playful again, teasing me, and, quel con, I love it.
“Bien sûr. Ça c’est bon.”
“I know that one. I took two years of French in middle
school. That was a million years ago, but a few things have
stuck. I was able to say hello to the French president, at
least.” I laugh—
And then he shocks the hell out me when he asks, “Je
peux te voir demain soir?”
Tomorrow is the last day of training. We’re cut loose in
the afternoon, and I was planning on going home to catch up
on the week of missed work and then try to front-load a full
night of sleep before going back on the detail.
But… Can I see you tomorrow night?
I don’t trust myself to speak. I nod instead.
What the hell am I going to do?
For now, I change the subject, because we can’t stay on
this topic. “Did your advisors finally help you instead of
spinning you in circles?”
He laughs, but it’s a resigned half chuckle, and he picks at
a thread on the side of his knee. “I think you should be my
advisor. Talking to you was more helpful than hours and
hours of meetings.”
“Everyone wants to protect their turf?”
“We went around the Situation Room, and everyone’s
proposal was an exact rehash of their department’s position.
I get that State doesn’t want to upset the balance of power,
and I understand that Defense is looking for an expanded,
no-holds-barred mission, but—”
“But neither of those are what you believe in.”
 “Exactly. See? You need to be here, with me.”
Oh, I do, in so many ways. I clear my throat. “You put
your foot down?”
Usually there’s a moment like this early on in each
president’s administration: the tug and pull between the
entrenched departments’ policies and the new direction
pursued by the incoming president.
“I did. Told them all to come back tomorrow with
proposals that support my policies, not ones that anchor
their own interests. I’m the president. This is my
government. I need people to start supporting that.”
“They will.”
Brennan Walker has proved, time and time again, that he
cannot be underestimated. Not in California, not on the
campaign. Not in his administration or on the global stage. If
anyone is going to change this world, it will be him.
He’s already changed my life.
Wherever this conversational jack-in-the-box is going to
go next is cut off when a yawn splits his face. He covers his
mouth, squeezes his eyes closed, and then waves his hand in
front of the camera. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Happy to bore you anytime, Mr. President.”
“You’re far from boring. You’re as far from boring as
California is from DC.”
“Three thousand miles away from boring. Got it. That’s
still kind of boring, you know.”
He laughs again, but it’s interrupted by another yawn.
Now I’m laughing at him, and he’s laughing at himself. “Go
to bed, Mr. President.”
“I will.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s nothing and everything left to
say: sleep well, mon cher, and fais de beaux rêves, and your eyes
are the color of my dreams. But my words are lodged in my
throat, and so, it seems, are his.
 He waves to the camera, and I wave back, and he ends the
call.
And I’m alone in my dorm room at Rowley, with the echo
of Brennan’s voice in my soul.
Ten minutes later, when I’m lying in the dark, the phone
buzzes.
Brennan has texted. Goodnight.
I text back. Bonne nuit.
 Chapter Fourteen

R eese
T hen

T he last day of training dawns with a peal of thunder that

shakes the walls of the dorm and a downpour that floods
the track, the gun range, and the obstacle course.
We run the course anyway, and by the end, we’re more
Swamp Thing than Secret Service agents. Henry’s pissed. He
likes his comfort. Sheridan, though, seems to revel in the
challenge.
Mud spatters us as we fast rope and rappel, slaps me in
my face as I help heft and heave my fellow agents over the
climbing wall. Some of the guys’ fingers slip on their triggers
at the firing range, and they’re yanked off, told to go back
and start over. I drop with them, shadow each, and help
them clear their weapons before they try again.
I don’t finish until everyone else has cleared the course.
Henry waits for me wearing a miserable expression, as
soaked as a drowned rat and just as pleasant. Sheridan is
beside him, beaming, covered from the tips of his hair to his
toes in thick, sticky mud.
 It’s the kind of disgusting that takes at least two showers
to clean off. By the time we’re all washed and back into our
class gear, we’re behind schedule, and the rest of the
afternoon is a rush to finalize the last few re-quals and sign-
offs. Plans are made for beers afterward. Henry tries to get
me to tag along. Behind him, Sheridan looks hopeful.
But there’s a text on my phone from Brennan that says, If
you haven’t eaten after you’re done today, swing by.
Like it’s the most casual offer in the world. The president
asking me to drop in. To the Residence.
I’ve got a few extra meetings with the bigwigs to take care
of, since I’m the head cookie at the White House. I’m late
leaving Rowley, and it’s after six p.m. when I finally pull out.
I get as far as one left turn onto the parkway before I’m
stuck in traffic. The rain is still coming down in sheets, and
my wipers can barely keep up. Crimson brake lights fracture
through the torrential downpour. My thoughts are rootless,
like the rivers flowing down the gutters on the sides of the
highway.
In New Orleans, rain makes the city shimmer, turns the
streets into time warps and magic mirrors. Spanish moss
gleams like crusted diamonds where it drapes overhead.
Soaked brick and oleander, melons and magnolia, tickle your
nose, and water collects and then overflows off the banana
and the canna lily and the cypress into neon-lit puddles.
On those evenings after a good storm, the blues and the
jazz and the rock and roll sound clearer. More vibrant. Like
everything has been given a fresh slate. All the haze and
humidity has been knocked away, and with it, the
complications in your life have been banished, too. The
streets, the city, even the music, feel renewed. Anything
could happen.
Rain in DC is snarling traffic, horns blaring, and a
thousand migraines railroading your brain at once. Moving
the president in the rain raises the pucker factor to eleven.
Someone’s brakes are going to slip, or someone is going to
hydroplane. Timelines need to be extended, which pushes
into other people’s schedules and pisses them off. Storms
fuck with the radios, with how much you can hear, how
much you can see. Here, rain obscures. Frustrates.
When I was young, I’d sleep on a hammock on my
father’s porch and listen to the drops of rain pound the tin
roof like I was on the inside of a drum. No time, no space,
just me and the rain.
Where did that version of me go? Am I a man who can still
listen to the rain and let my mind float?
For the moment, no. My teeth grind as I ride my brakes,
my fender right up on the sedan in front of me. This rain
isn’t meditative or peaceful. This rain is keeping me from
Brennan.
Does he like storms? Is he doing yoga on the Truman
Balcony? What would he look like rising into a handstand
with spider-webbed lightning crackling across the sky?
He texts a few times, the first asking if I’m still interested
in swinging by, and then, after I say I definitely am, he tells
me not to rush, and to come on up whenever I arrive. That
he’s in the kitchen.
I’m living in a splintered reality, in a place where the
president talks to me like I’m someone special to him.
I knead the steering wheel down the entire parkway, until
I’ve ground out the cartilage between my knuckles. My
hands are bone white when I turn off New York Avenue onto
Fifteenth Street and park beneath the Treasury Department.
It’s late enough that the East Wing is silent. Since
Brennan doesn’t have a First Lady, the East Wing has the feel
of an understaffed museum. My boots squeak on the tile
floors. I’m in Rowley’s tactical classroom dress: cargo khakis
belted tight, black polo with the gold Secret Service crest.
Weapon on my hip, next to my cuffs, radio—which is off—
and spare ammunition.
The East Wing leads me to the ground floor of the
Residence, where tour guides lead parades of visitors twice a
week past the Vermeil Room, the Map Room, and the
Diplomatic Reception Room. These are the unused rooms,
the show-off rooms, and at eight p.m., they’re the realm of
ghosts.
The medical suites are at the end of the hallway, though,
and those are staffed all hours.
There’s no real reason for me to be here, and though I
could bullshit an excuse for being on the grounds, I can’t
begin to formulate a rationale for why I’m badging into the
president’s residence after hours.
When the elevator doors glide open on the West Sitting
Hall, the pitter-patter of rain falling on the windows washes
over me. That, and the smell of the holy trinity: onion, bell
peppers, and celery, along with a mean dose of garlic,
paprika, cayenne, and black pepper. Melted butter and warm
cream, stewed tomatoes, and the unmistakable aroma of
perfectly steamed crawfish.
The president’s private kitchen is at the far end of the
hall, and my nose and my feet take me straight there. He’s at
the stove, wearing slim jeans and a fitted T-shirt, his back to
me as he makes lazy figure eights in a pan. A rouge-colored
roux simmers on the stove.
It’s like he’s unlocked secret doors inside of me, found
the keys to turn me inside out. The smells of my childhood,
the sound of rain pattering on the windows. Him, at the
center of everything: my past and my future and the
confusion of now. He’s a part of it all, calm as can be, even
though he’s taken my soul and shaken it loose from all my
moorings.
 “Ga lee, are you kidding me?” I lock both hands on the
doorframe and lean into the kitchen. Breathe it all in, one
giant sniff.
He sees me, and a smile lights up his face. “Perfect
timing. I think it’s done.”
“Smells done. Good God, how did you know crawfish
étouffée is my favorite dish of all time?”
“Lucky guess.” He’s beaming so brightly he could shatter
glass. “Come try it and tell me how I did. I’ve never made
this before.”
“No? It smells like a bayou kitchen in here. Like you know
your way around the chaudière, mon cher.”
He’s flushing, crimson spreading across his cheeks and
down the hollow of his throat. The pulse at the side of his
neck is fluttering.
We face each other in front of the stove, him at ease, me
like I’ve just been issued arms and legs and I have no idea
how to use them. Where have I put my hands for the past
thirty-seven years of my life? They want to reach for him,
slide around his tight waist, tug him to me—
Hands in your pockets, Theriot.
Brennan turns off the burner and swirls the étouffée
again.
“You made it the Creole way,” I say.
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all.” Our words are soft, our voices deep. Mine
sounds like the roll of the Gulf after a hurricane. His is
ragged on the trailing edges. He won’t meet my gaze.
“Here.” He holds the spoon out, piled with juicy crawfish
smothered in roux. “Tell me how I did.”
Flavor explodes, and I’m falling through time to Decatur
Street jazz, to digging the last remnants of étouffée out of
to-go cartons as I lean against my patrol car outside the
Ninth Ward. To chaudières in the swamps, lily pads
blooming, birds calling through the mists, the slap of muddy
waters against the clapboard sides of our home. It’s the
bayou and blues, neon-soaked nights, humidity-drenched
afternoons.
My eyes close as I moan.
He starts, the spoon jumping, and a dash of roux slips
down my chin. “Sorry.”
He moves at the same time I do. Our hands collide, his
warm and spicy from the cooking, from bell pepper and
onion and paprika. Mine are cold from the rain and the air
conditioning in my SUV.
He stills.
My fingers wrap around his, drawing him closer, until
I’ve tangled us together in his kitchen in front of the still-
bubbling étouffée.
Roux is sliding down my thumb. Brennan tugs while
stepping forward, moving until there’s no space between us.
Our thighs meet. Our hips. Our chests brush on an inhale,
and our gazes lock.
He slides my thumb into his mouth. Licks away the roux
with his tongue.
I snap.
I move before my brain can fire, in a moment when
instinct and need overcome thoughts. I back Brennan up,
walking him three steps to the fridge, where I cage him to
the stainless steel. Arms to the chilled metal, hips against
Brennan’s, every inch of me pressing into every inch of him.
His eyes are huge, a maelstrom of emotions, too many to
parse or name.
This is a moment I’ve hovered over in my dreams.
They’ve teased me with the promise of a kiss and never
delivered.
My head tilts, and I brush my nose against Brennan’s
before closing those uncrossable millimeters and pressing
our lips together.
It’s like plunging into the ocean. Silence descends,
followed by a dull roar, the sound of reality held at bay. I
tumble inside myself and cling to Brennan. His frantic pulse
becomes mine. I cradle Brennan’s face and kiss him deeper,
my thumb traveling over the arc of his cheekbone. His
stubble scratches the center of my palm.
Hands on my chest. Pulling me in, and then—
Pushing me away.
Our kiss breaks on a gasp, and I dig my forehead against
his as my eyes clench shut.
Fuck, what a way to blow it. Twenty-four hours ago, I
wondered how I was going to behave myself around
Brennan, now that I’d acknowledged and absorbed the truth
of my head-over-heels fall for the man. How many minutes
has it been since I stepped off the elevator?
The definition of behave doesn’t include pressing the
president against the fridge and kissing him.
Brennan is breathing hard, fingers locked in the fabric of
my polo. What is he thinking? God, he’s really shaking. His
tremors run right through me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Brennan, I’m sorry.” I’ve fucked
up, bad.
A groan, and then his arms snake around my neck. I’m
taller by an inch, but right now, it seems like an important
inch as he pulls me down and slams our lips together again.
It’s unexpected—him, kissing me?—and I have no
explanation or rationalization for this sudden change. I’m
boneless in his arms, stunned as his lips move over mine, as
he draws me close, as one of his legs twines around the back
of my thigh.
My mind ricochets, snapping between speed and stillness.
Moments hang and then blur, and I’m dizzy, trying to keep
up.
 Brennan’s tongue tangles with mine. He growls and sucks
my lip into his mouth, nibbles on my skin. Someone—me—
cries out. My head falls back, and his teeth scrape along my
neck, bite down on the angle of my jaw.
This time, I’m the one being backed up, until I hit the
kitchen island with a grunt. Brennan’s touch is everywhere,
hands gliding over my arms, across my shoulders, down my
chest, over my waist and to my belt—
A tug, and a pull, and then my belt is undone and Brennan
Walker, the president of the United States, is on his knees in
front of me, pulling my pants and boxers down.
“Bordel de merde.” What do I grab? The granite behind
me or Brennan? Do I stop this or go for it? Half a second ago,
I would have sworn on the Bible that my fantasies were
nothing but ridiculous imaginings. But, fuck, here he is,
looking at my swollen cock like it’s the one thing he wants
most. Not world peace, but to get his lips around me and
suck me to the bone.
Brennan nuzzles my belly. Exhales, and closes his eyes.
Naked desire bolts across his face. His hands are shaking as
they grip my thighs.
He buries his face in my crotch and licks, one long, slow
glide of his tongue that ends with his eyes looking up and
into mine.
“Merde…” I can’t look away. My hands are going to crush
this granite countertop.
Heat. Suction. Brennan’s mouth around me, going down,
down, all the way down. Jesus, he’s done this before. He’s
really fucking good at it, too.
I keen, one leg locking, the other collapsing, and only my
grasp on the counter keeps me standing. Everything is
quaking—my arms, my legs, my mind. My muscles clench
and release, fighting a primal need to buck, to chase this
glory, to thrust into Brennan’s mouth over and over and over
—
He’s in control, though, and he’s got me wrapped around
his fingers. He runs his tongue up my underside, swirls it
around my head. Hollows his cheeks and hums, his gaze
locked on mine on every deep dive. He sucks until my eyes
roll back, until I forget to breathe, until I’m gasping and
groaning.
“Brennan— Mon Dieu— Merde, mon cher—"
His eyes flare. Black lightning crashes. His fingernails dig
into my thighs, his cheeks hollow, and he sucks me all the
way down, his lips and his nose buried in the tangle of my
pubes.
I tear my hands from the counter and sink my fingers into
his hair—the president’s hair—as I try to smother my roar.
Don’t trouble the president. The rule flashes a moment
before my orgasm hits, and I frantically try to pull him off,
my fevered brain firing impossible thoughts like, Don’t make
the president swallow your come.
But he wants it, apparently, because he fights my hand
from pushing him back and tangles our fingers together.
Looks me in the eye.
I come apart with his name on my lips. We stare at each
other through the whole thing, as I tremble and shiver, as he
swallows, and then I fall to my knees in front of him and
press an open-mouthed, panting kiss to the side of his face.
He’s quiet and still, like the hesitating air in front of a
storm. He lifts his hand to wipe his mouth. When I lean back,
he draws away, collapsing like he’s folding himself into
origami. A minute later, he drops his head into his palms.
I need to speak, to say something, but he’s sucked my
brain into another dimension. There’s a cataclysm
happening, dreams and truths colliding. I kissed Brennan
Walker. Brennan Walker kissed me. Brennan Walker—
 Realizations are rattling inside me, but what’s happening
inside him? Those were not the fumbles of an inexperienced
man. Brennan Walker is a man of secrets, and, months ago, I
wanted to dig them up, unearth each from the ground and
inspect the building blocks of his soul. Here’s a secret I
didn’t expect to find, but, mon Dieu.
I look at him—
The delirious joy I’m wandering in isn’t what Brennan
seems to be feeling right now. Regret is a sinkhole opening
within him.
I tuck myself back into my cargo pants and then slide
across the floor. I wrap my arms around him, my hands
gliding up his back, fingers dancing over the knobs of his
spine. My knees are outside his, and every inhale he takes
brings his chest against mine. I nuzzle him until we’re
forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lip to lip, and then cradle
his cheek in my hand again, a mirror of our first kiss.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He flinches. I press my lips to the angle of his jaw, the
soft skin fluttering above his pulse.
“I didn’t…” He hesitates. “I didn’t ask you here for that.”
“Look, when a man makes a good roux…” I’m trying to
get him to smile, and, finally, he does. He sighs into me, a
part of him releasing while another part of him is still
vibrating. “You know, this isn’t in your file, either.”
He shakes his head.
“How long?”
“Have I been gay?” He finds my hand behind his back and
threads our fingers together. My thumb rolls over his
knuckles. “My whole life. How long have I hid it? Decades.
Forever, really. I’ve never been the most open man in the
world. What about you?” His question is a molecule of sound.
“I didn’t think you were…”
 “I don’t think I am, either. Or maybe I don’t know the
answer yet. I’ve never kissed a man before.”
He goes so still, so suddenly, it’s like all atomic motion
has ceased. Fear cranks out of him. “Did I—” He can’t get
the words out, physically can’t push them out. “I’m sorry—
Did I—”
“Mon cher, no. Nothing like that. I’ve been dreaming of
you.”
“What?”
I can still taste his kiss on my lips. “I’ve never been
attracted to a man before, but ever since we met, it’s like…” I
sigh. “You’re under my skin. You’re inside my mind. You’re
down deep in my bones. You’re everywhere, and you’re
everything. I can’t escape, but I also don’t want to escape.
From you, or from this.” His eyes are huge, tumbled
sapphires lit on fire. “You feel inevitable. Like I’ve been
waiting for you.”
He’s blinking, looking down, looking away. Jaw
clenching, holding. “That’s how you make me feel. I’ve kept
this inside myself for years, and then I met you, and… You
make me dream impossible dreams.”
You make me wild. You make me believe I can fall for a man
like you. You make me believe that this crackle in reality between
us is alive, like destiny and fate can be measured by physics.
“Not so impossible, hmm? Here we are, after all.” I try for
lighthearted, but I think I fail.
Here we are, but for how much longer? We were already
dancing on the edge of a blade, and now, with this… There
are truths between us, but there are also truths outside of
these walls.
Brennan can change the world. I believe that to the core of
my being, but he can only do so if the world doesn’t destroy
him first.
And the world would destroy him over this. Us. Me.
 Dangerous.
Brennan sighs and buries his face in my neck. “Stay? For
a little while.”
“Of course. There’s étouffée to eat.” I feel the shape of his
smile against my skin. “Will you watch the rain with me?”
I want to hold him. Kiss him. Explore him, though this
undiscovered place between us feels fragile.
Slowly. We’ll have to go slowly. He said decades. Why
now? Why me?
Why him? I don’t know the answers, but maybe I don’t
need to. Maybe we just need to be together and watch this
rain.
He nods, and we climb to our feet. We hold hands as we
eat étouffée straight from the pan, sharing a spoon and
feeding each other. We steal kisses on lips and fingertips,
nuzzle each other’s necks and temples.
At midnight, I hold him in my arms in front of the West
Sitting Hall’s windows. The White House is dark at our
backs, while the lights of the West Wing, the Eisenhower,
and all of DC—and the rest of the world—seem to spread out
forever.
His fingers lace through mine, squeezing hard, like he
never wants to let go.
 Chapter Fifteen

R eese
N ow

H eadquarters is on H Street, five blocks from the White

House. It’s all brick and glass and looks like the head
office of a bank. There isn’t even a sign outside. Still, it’s a
far better place than the Hoover Building. The old FBI
headquarters is a brutalist labyrinth as welcoming as a
prison.
Sheridan and I drive into the underground garage.
Headquarters is on lockdown, and Sheridan’s badge doesn’t
give him access, but mine does.
The basement is where the forensic teams work their
magic. Labs stretch the length of a city block: ballistics,
fingerprints, trace evidence, serology, toxicology. Even the
famous ink lab is down here.
People seem to forget the Secret Service is a law
enforcement agency. We’re not just bodyguards. We’ve got
some of the best forensic technicians in the field—no matter
what the FBI claims—but this is going to be the biggest
investigation of everyone’s life.
 Between the underground garage and the labs is a
cavernous, warehouse-like space jutting several stories up
into the belly of HQ. It’s where we bring our fleet vehicles
and haul in evidence for processing. Cars, trucks, even boats.
Automotive bays line one wall, each outfitted with
computers, portable X-ray machines, and digital imaging
arrays.
Right now, the burned wreckage of Brennan’s SUV is laid
out in the center, inside a portable clean room with walls of
plastic sheeting strung up on a PVC frame. Techs in anti-
static coveralls are disassembling the SUV piece by piece.
One bags a broken screw and sets it on a metal tray next
to dozens of other individually bagged screws.
Two techs up front are pulling apart the blackened
remains of the engine. All the ash from the fire was
collected, and in another clean room, techs sift through it
grain by grain.
They’re hunting for human remains. Brennan’s remains.
Sheridan’s steps slow as we pass.
I’m not here for the SUV. I’m here for the room at the far
end of this hall: the morgue.
Sheridan doesn’t need to come in with me. That’s his best
friend, too, laid out on the morgue’s cold steel. Ahn has
already started slicing and dicing, and though most agents
will stand in on an autopsy, or at least review the gory
aftermath, several times in their career, no one should ever
see someone they loved carved up and dissected.
Sheridan should remember Henry the way he was. The
older brother, the jokester, his mentor. He looked up to
Henry so much—
We’re both moving on adrenaline and rage, though. We’re
thirsting for justice. No, not justice. Revenge. And there’s no
fuel more potent than fury. Sheridan was a Marine. He’s seen
death up close.
 But it’s different when it’s someone you loved.
I still before I yank open the steel door. Sheridan almost
runs into me, and his hand lands on my shoulder as he
steadies himself. He’s trembling.
“You sure you want to see this?”
“Are you ordering me to stay out?”
“No. I’m giving you the choice. Do you want to see what’s
on the other side of this door?”
His jaw clenches. He looks away. Fluorescent lights burn
on both of us, highlighting all the ways we’re broken.
There’s still mud on his neck, right above the line of his
collar. My own skin pulls where mud and soot have dried.
“We’re wasting time,” he finally grunts. “Let’s go.”
The smell hits first: formaldehyde, smoke, and the mix of
rot, blood and bleach that all morgues share. That smell is
baked into the walls, seared into the air, and no matter how
clean the place is scrubbed, the stench of death lingers.
Sheridan gags, and his steps falter. He turns to the side,
braces one hand against the wall by the door. I keep going.
Ahn is leaning over a blackened body on a gurney. On the
wall overhead, digital displays play a close-up video feed of
her work, zoomed in to magnify the exact cuts her scalpel is
making into charred flesh along burned-black bone.
There’s another gurney against the wall, the remains
covered with a sheet. A shield lies on the corpse’s chest. It’s
not the one either Stewart or Henry was wearing last night.
Those melted. Someone brought a replacement down as soon
as the body was identified.
I need to know. I go to him first.
It’s Stewart. I know Henry’s badge number, and this isn’t
his. I grasp the edges of the gurney, and the cold steel burns
through the thin cotton sheet against my palms. “I’m
sorry.”
If this is Stewart, then Ahn is with Henry.
 Heat pricks the back of my eyes as I breathe in, hold the
putrid air inside me. Sheridan is still against the wall,
forehead braced on the back of his hand, shoulder blades
high and tight.
Three burned fingers hang off the edge of the gurney by
Ahn’s thigh, and that’s all I see as I cross the morgue.
A halo of LEDs above Ahn banishes any shadows as she
works on Henry’s corpse. The horrors are exposed, laid bare:
every scorched curl of flesh and muscle, all the ashen knobs
of his vertebrae.
He’s mostly gone. Burned away. All that remains are
fragmented patches of desiccated tissue stretched across
fire-ravaged bones. The skull lies on its side, resting on a
cracked cheekbone.
Ahn’s opened the chest and removed the brittle sternum
and ribs. My gaze follows the seared aortic arch until it
disappears behind a mass of charred lung tissue as she slices
through the pericardium.
Shoes squeak behind me. Sheridan’s breath shivers
against the back of my neck.
“What do you have?” I ask Ahn. It’s like speaking in a
crypt. I can’t get my voice soft enough.
She cups the charcoal heart and eases it free from the
chest. It goes onto a dissection tray between us. The stench
of smoke, the tang of despair, hang unmoving over the
corpse.
“There’s a question about the identity of this body.”
My hand flies to the gurney. I squeeze down on frigid
metal, hard enough the blisters that formed when I pressed
my palms to the overheated metal of my SUV burst. I’ve
jostled the corpse, and the lower jaw falls open as if it’s
laughing at me. “What?”
“I’m not certain this is Agent Ellis.”
 Ahn grabs a remote and points it at the computer
terminal above us. A spinal X-ray dated five years ago fills
the screen. The upper left-hand corner reads, Ellis, Henry.
“Five years ago, Agent Ellis was in a car accident on an
advance trip in Paris. He was taken to the US embassy for
examination after two days of back pain.”
“He told me it was no big deal.”
I remember when it happened. He called me from the
embassy and told me he was fine, that he’d be back on the
advance. I’d wanted to send him home. He refused.
“According to the X-rays the embassy took, Agent Ellis
did not have a spinal injury. He was prescribed painkillers
and told to follow up stateside. It doesn’t look like he did.
There’s nothing in his records.”
Ahn changes screens. A new X-ray appears. It’s another
spinal shot, but instead of a name, the image is marked Doe,
John, and the date is today.
“Do you see this sliver of white?” She points to a half-
inch-long line running down the left lateral portion of the
cervical spine. It looks like a hair or a scratch on the film. If
it weren’t for Ahn, I would have blinked right past it.
“What am I looking at?”
“That may be evidence of bone growth running along
multiple vertebrae. We sometimes see it on people who have
had spinal surgeries. Compressed disks, minor fractures,
removed screws. Things like that. If you compare this X-ray
to the one from Agent Ellis’s medical file…”
She pulls them up side by side. There is extensive damage
from the fire in one: the arms have separated from the
shoulders, the long bones of the thighs are split in half, and
both scapulae are cracked in two. “Five years ago, that bone
growth wasn’t present.”
“Henry never had spinal surgery.”
 “An overgrowth can also happen after trauma, such as a
car accident. Did Henry ever complain of a stiff neck?”
He did, but the words don’t want to be said. It’s like if I
say, yes, he bitched about his neck all the time, then that’s it,
this corpse is him, and there’s no possibility that my friend
is still alive.
I want to believe in fairy tales, in magical possibilities
where there’s a happy ending for this story. If there’s a
question about the identity of this body, then maybe it’s not
Henry.
Which means this could be—
My mind slams shut on that thought.
“Right now, I cannot say with certainty that this is or
isn’t Agent Ellis. That could be an artifact from the fire or
trauma that I can’t clearly see. I need to open the spinal
column and physically examine the vertebrae. I also need to
check if Agent Ellis had any recent X-rays taken.”
“Aren’t there other ways? Dental? DNA? Body
measurements? Is this body the same height as Henry?”
There are a dozen different ways to identify remains.
“Because of the extent of the tissue destruction, I can’t
get an accurate height and weight. When I tried to form a
dental impression, the teeth cracked and disintegrated. I
tried DNA, too. Typically, even after a fire, the ventricles of
the heart still contain liquid blood we can draw for a sample.
Not this time. The heat inside that SUV was off the charts.”
“How soon can you know for sure who this is?”
“I need several hours.”
“Every second counts.”
“I’m doing everything I can.”
For the first time, Sheridan speaks. “But this may not be
Henry?” There’s so much raw hope in Sheridan’s voice, it’s
excruciating.
 Ahn looks at him, her brown eyes saying more than she
could put into words. Don’t hope.
“What can you tell me about the passenger compartment?
Have you recovered any remains, anything at all, from the
back seat?”
“No. We do not have a third set of remains.”
My knees buckle, and the world tilts, and I crumple until
my forehead rests on the edge of the gurney. This close, the
corpse stench is overwhelming. Seared flesh. Boiled blood.
I’ll never eat steak again.
“We recovered two samples of DNA along the left rear
passenger door and window frame. They’re too degraded for
a complete profile, but both samples came back with a
tentative partial match to President Walker’s. He may have
been dragged out of the SUV through the window.”
Memories assail me. Henry and Brennan, side by side.
Almost the same height, both tall, strong men. This body in
front of me was found outside the SUV. An ejection, it was
called on the scene, but after that much fire damage, there’s
no way to tell whether it was an ejection or…
The thought I didn’t want to complete earlier roars back.
My eyes flash to the heart on the dissection tray.
If this corpse isn’t Henry—
I’m going to be fucking sick.
I make it to the sink on the wall before I puke Gatorade
and granola bar and bile until I’m dry heaving in cold sweat.
Sheridan’s clammy palm lands on the back of my neck. He’s
still shaking, standing inside my shadow.
When I return to Ahn, I can’t tear my eyes away from the
corpse.
Is this my best friend or my lover?
“Have you checked President Walker’s X-rays?” My voice
is hollow.
 “No.” Ahn blanches. “I’ll need to request them from the
White House. There will be questions. That’s bound to leak.”
“Go through the director. He’ll coordinate with the vice
president. They won’t let it leak.”
She nods, and when she looks down at the disfigured
corpse, she does so differently. More reverently, as if she,
too, is now considering it.
Maybe more than just considering it. Maybe she believes
this corpse is Brennan.
My gaze follows the exposed cheekbone, the collapsed eye
socket. The skull is still lying on its side.
I have memories of Brennan lying exactly like this. Him
on his side, his face half buried in the pillow. I was watching
you sleep. He’s laid his cheek on my chest more times than I
can count, and I’ve run my fingers through his hair and
danced the tip of each across the line of his jaw and his
temples.
If I curled my hand around this skull, would I hold it as I
cradled Brennan? Would these bones fit my palm the way my
lover’s did?
“There’s more,” Ahn says. “I recovered four separate
bullet fragments from the two bodies. One was embedded on
the inside of Agent Stewart’s right hip bone, and three were
melted into the tissues of this man. Which, if your suspicions
are correct—”
“We don’t know who he is,” I snarl. “I want to eliminate
that theory, not prove it.”
I’m being an asshole. She lets it pass. “The bullet
fragments from Agent Stewart’s hip match the bullet we
recovered from the inside panel of the front passenger door.
A copper hollow-point. Forty-five caliber.”
The .45 is not an issued Secret Service weapon. It’s not
something either Henry or Stewart carried last night, which
means it came from whoever attacked the motorcade.
 Did Clint own a weapon? There’s nothing registered in his
name, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not with the vibrant
black market of guns in America.
“And him? How did he die?” I don’t say either Henry’s or
Brennan’s name when I look at the body. It can’t be Brennan.
It can’t be Henry. It can’t be either of those men. It just
can’t.
“He was shot point-blank. Two bullets collapsed his
lungs and shredded his diaphragm and ascending aorta. The
bullets were fused in the remnants of his tissues after the
fire.”
I’m both thankful for her clinical speak and despise it to
my core. “Also a .45?”
“No. All three came from a nine-millimeter.” She pauses.
“He was dead before the fire started. There was no soot or
particulate matter in his lungs or his airway.”
What’s worse? To imagine your lover was executed in cold
blood, or that he burned alive? In both nightmares, I imagine
Brennan calling my name, desperately holding on, waiting
for me to save him—
“Henry carried a nine.” Sheridan’s voice is small. Broken.
“We were unable to locate any fragments or remnants of
Agent Ellis’s service weapon. We did recover the melted
casing of Agent Stewart’s weapon in the front footwell.”
Sheridan paces away, his hands gripping the back of his
head.
My mind hauls up theories, discards them, rebuilds them
out of wreckage. The only scenarios where Henry gave up his
weapon are apocalyptic. Henry, crawling out of that inferno,
determined to get to Brennan. Henry, wounded, in agony,
dying, but struggling to his last breath to save Brennan.
In those moments, someone could have gotten his
weapon off him.
 These facts are puzzle pieces thrown across a pitch-black
room. Things aren’t adding up.
One unidentified corpse and two missing men. Both men
meant the world to me in entirely different ways. Best friend.
Lover.
Love of my life.
President of the United States.
And Clint Cross, missing CIA analyst, with a domestic
terrorist’s library and a photo of Brennan.
Clint found something, Director Liu said. He brought his
concerns and the raw intelligence straight to the director. He
had a reputation for always being right. He pulled
intelligence out of thin air.
What if it was all out of thin air?
What if he set the whole thing, the whole damn thing, in
motion six months ago?
If Clint thought the world needed to be rid of Brennan, he
could have used his position and reputation at the CIA to
spin a fake reality out of his own delusions. What if
everything, from the moment Clint went to Liu, was a
fantasy? The first step in a long, patient plan that came to
fruition on an isolated road in Rock Creek Park at one in the
morning, where Clint Cross waited to ambush the
motorcade?
Clint clearly had violent fantasies, if his PlayStation was
anything to go by, but did he turn them into action? No one
wakes up and decides to murder the president that same day.
There’s a radicalization path, a journey. A series of steps that
leads to overt acts. What was Clint’s journey?
What happened on that road in Rock Creek Park? What
happened in that gully, as the flames started to engulf the
SUV? Did Clint get Henry’s weapon off him? Did he look
Henry in the eye before he shot him and left his body to be
consumed by the fire?
 Did he execute the president?
Did he murder my Brennan?
“Sheridan—” It takes a moment for my voice to work.
“Where’s the paper we recovered?”
He pulls the burrito wrapper from his suit and hands it
over. The balled-up mess lies in a pool of dingy water at the
bottom of the plastic wrap.
Ahn looks like we’re giving her a diseased rodent. “What
is this?”
“Something we recovered from the garbage disposal of
our chief suspect. It wasn’t shredded quite like he’d hoped.”
“I’ll dry it out and see what we can recover.”
“Tell me about the fire. What do you know?”
“It was started by thermite grenades. That’s the
accelerant we were looking for. Thermite grenades are part
of the Secret Service standard vehicle loadout, correct?”
I nod.
“We recovered four separate slag drops.” Slag is the
molten remnants left behind after a thermite grenade
detonates. “There were two in the rear passenger
compartment, one in the center console between the two
front seats, and another in the front passenger footwell.
Based on the positioning of the grenades, it appears the fire
was intentionally set. They didn’t go off in their storage case.
They were placed.”
A scenario plays out in my mind, built upon the forensics
Ahn and her team are uncovering: Henry slamming on the
brakes. Throwing the SUV into reverse. Losing control. The
SUV tumbling over the side.
Did Clint drag Brennan free first? Did Henry fight his way
out and try to save him? Or was Clint lying in wait, and he
executed Henry as soon as he made it through the driver’s
window, then shot Stewart?
 With Henry and Stewart dead, Clint would have had all
the time in the world to drag Brennan out of the car and set
those grenades to cover his tracks.
But why? Why would Clint Cross, CIA officer, pride of
Director Liu, do this? What propelled him down this path?
What twisted choices did he make, again and again and
again, that led him to a darkened road in the middle of Rock
Creek Park?
 Chapter Sixteen

R eese
T hen

I should leave, but I don’t.

We end up sprawled on the sofa in the West Sitting Hall.
We draw our hands through each other’s hair, run fingers up
and down each other’s arms, and listen to the rain clap a
steady drumbeat on the walls.
We lie on our sides in a space made for one. My arms
cradle him, and we gaze into each other’s eyes until sleep
overcomes us, like we can’t bear to let this night end.
I kiss him awake Saturday before dawn and whisper, “I
have to go.” He holds my hands and kisses my fingers, then
insists on making me coffee before I slip down to the
basement and across the empty East Wing to my SUV.
Less than eight hours later, I’m back, climbing the stairs
to the Residence. Into his arms. Into the secrets we’re
building between us.
Saturday is a dream built of gray skies and huddling
together on the Truman Balcony.
 We can’t stop kissing. I don’t ever want to stop. I roll him
beneath me as we share a chaise lounge, and I capture his
lips with mine until it feels like time has stopped. His fingers
dart in and out of the waistband of my jeans. He cups my ass,
runs his hands beneath my shirt, and follows the line of my
lats up to my shoulders until he’s nibbling on the tender skin
along my ribs and the swell of my pec beneath my nipple.
We’re both hard, and we’ve been making out for an hour
in the foggy afternoon. It’s like there’s nothing beyond us,
no world peering in, no consequences for these stolen kisses
and caresses. We can’t even see the Washington Monument
or hear the burble of the fountain on the South Lawn. This
afternoon and these caresses belong to us and us alone.
His whimper belongs to me, too, as does the way my
name breaks apart on a gasp when I take his cock in my hand
through his jeans.
His eyes are wide open and locked on mine. Last night, he
gave me one of the all-time best blow jobs I’ve had in my
life, but after that, things seemed too delicate. Ultimately, I
came and he didn’t, and that’s an imbalance I need to rectify.
I pop the button on his fly and drag his zipper down.
Brennan moans. I swallow the sound with a kiss and then
wrap my palm around the heat of his cock. It’s the first time
I’ve held another man like this. He’s so hard his thighs are
shaking, balls already tight and hot against his body.
“I’m close,” he breathes against my lips.
“Yeah?”
He nods, quick little jerks of his head as he spreads his
legs, tries to arch up into my agonizingly slow strokes. “You,
like this. It’s perfect. God, Reese—” His eyes clench, and a
shudder tears through him.
He’s so fucking gorgeous I can’t stand it. I want to burn
this image into the backs of my eyes so I can see him like
this every moment. I’m aching, so hard and hot it feels like
I’m going to break something. I’ve never been this gone,
never been this wild, for anyone. Again, he undoes me, all
the way to my quick.
He bites his lip as he comes, as wet heat spills over my
hand.
I kiss him everywhere. His eyes, his cheeks, his chin, his
jaw, the tip of his nose. He’s slow like honey, his kisses soft
and open-mouthed as he pants against my hair. He’s got one
hand fisted in the fabric of my shirt over the small of my
back, one leg wrapped around my thigh, holding me to him.
“Reese…”
“Mon cher.” I nuzzle the side of his face, kiss the corner
of his mouth. “Mon Brennan.”
Time rolls on, but we remain outside of it. I am his, and
he is mine, while we are locked in this fog that crawls over
the balcony and separates us from the world.

R eturning to the detail Monday morning is strange.

To the outside, nothing has changed, but inside,
everything has. My synapses are firing in all new directions,
and every one points to Brennan.
I told Henry that Brennan and I would be running
together when we returned to the White House, and that’s
exactly what we do. Henry meets me on the Oval Office patio
at six a.m., sipping his coffee and eyeballing me.
Does it show? Can he tell I spent the weekend cuddled up
with Brennan? Is there something that screams I kissed a
man for the first time?
Or does he know I’ve been at the White House since four
thirty a.m.?
There’s a twenty-four-hour café out by Andrews that
makes decent beignets, and I made the predawn run there
and back so I could slip into the Residence and wake Brennan
with a powdered-sugar kiss.
I crawled into bed and fed him pieces of the beignet by
hand.
“This is not the way to get me to run,” he’d said, right
before he licked each of my fingers clean. “Why don’t we
stay in bed instead?”
I was tempted.
But, no, we have to keep up appearances. I’m dancing on
a trip wire already, and Henry’s far too observant for me to
get away with even more bullshit. If I waved off our first
morning run, after doing a fast jazz number to get this all set
up, Henry would pin me to the wall until I confessed
everything.
Brennan is in the Oval already, waiting for an email he’s
expecting and the confirmation of a call he’s trying to set up
with the French president. Even if we had blown off this run,
the rest of the world would still be out there. I’m going to
have to learn to share Brennan.
Henry looks me up and down as I adjust my running
shorts and my Dri-Fit top. It’s new. I picked it up yesterday
when I finally left the Residence. It’s tight, something I’d
never have bought a year ago, or even a month ago. Or a
week ago.
“Guess they didn’t have your size in stock, huh?”
“It wicks away the sweat.” I slide my pistol into the
holster at the small of my back. After ten years on the job,
running with a weapon is second nature.
“So does a cotton T-shirt, and they don’t show off your
nipples and every hair follicle on your chest.”
I glare.
He smirks, seeming far too smug for this early in the
morning. “The rest of the crew should be showing up any
minute now.”
 A gaggle of agents emerge from the basement exit and
wind their way around to the West Wing lawn. I recognize
three of them, all single-year veterans of the detail. The
fourth is Sheridan, fresh-faced and sandy-haired and
dressed up in a suit. He’s worlds apart from the mud
monster or the disheveled sparring partner I left behind at
Rowley.
“Sheridan.” I shake his hand with a smile and then greet
the other agents with good-mornings and thanks for coming
out.
“Sir.” Sheridan is beaming. It’s not even seven a.m., but
he looks overenergized and ready to seize the day.
Henry briefs the gang on their posts and duties—stand on
your spot for an hour and watch the president make laps
around the South Lawn—and then tells the guys I’ll be the
close protection for Brennan.
“Everyone thank Theriot, ’cause I know I don’t wanna be
running right now, and I’m pretty sure none of you want to
go pounding out a few miles after standing post all night.”
Like children, they all say, “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m happy to run,” Sheridan pipes up. “If you ever want
to take the morning off. I don’t mind.”
Henry shoots me a look: what did I tell you?
Brennan slips out of the West Wing through the French
doors by Shannon’s office. His gaze finds me immediately,
and he smiles.
A moment later, he stumbles, almost skips a step. It’s
uncharacteristically clumsy for him. He flushes, and when he
joins us, he seems breathless already. His eyes skip away,
looking at the roses, the pergola, the fountain. Anything but
me.
“Guess he likes your shirt, too,” Henry says in my ear.
“Tu me fais chier,” I snap back.
Henry grins.
 Fake it till you make it. We’ve got to sell that we’re
nothing to each other but president and detail lead. “Good
morning, Mr. President.”
“Good morning, Agent Theriot.”
We dressed separately. I escaped to the locker room in the
command post as he finished his coffee and read the first of
his mountain of briefs. And while I know Brennan wears
running leggings, and I’ve seen them, even, I wasn’t
prepared to come face-to-face with his perfectly toned legs
on display so soon after sliding out of his bed. I want to drag
him right back into it, or at least make a pit stop in the Oval
and get to work peeling that spandex off. Explore all that
skin and those muscles he’s spent years honing into fine art
—
I tear my gaze away before I embarrass myself.
Henry orders the agents to their positions. The guys
scatter. Sheridan volunteers for the apex slot, the farthest
out, and he takes off at a jog down the track in his suit and
loafers.
Brennan and I are quiet on our first lap, listening to the
birds and the hum of Washington traffic. Every hundred
yards, we pass one of my agents, and as we leave them
behind, I hear “Ranger passing point Alpha” and “Ranger
passing point Charlie.” It’s like running inside a hamster
ball.
By the third lap, we’ve loosened up, and we’re back to our
usual give-and-take. He does an impression of McClintock’s
low, warbling growl that nearly has me down on the lawn,
I’m laughing so hard.
Half an hour passes, and we’re three miles into our run,
when I open my big mouth and tell him about an idea I had
no business thinking up. “If you want to get away from this
place for an hour, I think I’ve got something.”
 He spins in front of me and runs backward. “Seriously?
How? Where would we go?”
He’s imagining something else, just the two of us and
something romantic. That’d be fantastic, but the closest he
and I are going to get to romance is four a.m. wake-ups and
late-night make-out sessions when no one is looking.
There’s no world where he and I can sneak out for a date.
“Not that,” I say carefully as we pass Agent Dominguez
on the nadir of the track. “I was thinking we could run the
National Mall at night. It’s deserted after dark. We could do
it as an unscheduled event, which means no overt advance,
no heavy security presence, and, ideally, no one recognizing
you. We’d look like three late night joggers. You, me, and
another close agent running a dot formation.”
The riskiest movements the president makes are the ones
that are both public and scheduled in advance. Those give
our adversaries time to plan and prepare, and that puts us on
the defensive. Movement that is unscheduled, a surprise, is
impossible to plan for and—counterintuitively—safer.
He mulls it over for a quarter lap.
“I know it’s not Baker Beach. But it’s what I can give
you.”
His expression softens. “I’d love to. When can we?”
“I’ve got to run it by Henry first and set up the basics, but
I was thinking Friday night, unless you have plans?”
We’re quiet as we pass Sheridan, the only sounds the slap
of our sneakers against the track and our rhythmic
breathing.
“Hmm.” He frowns. “There’s someone I need to check
with first.”
My eyebrows rise.
“There’s this guy.” He leans into me. “This amazing,
gorgeous guy—”
 I flush and stumble, almost fall into his side, and that’s
exactly what I can’t be doing in front of Henry and his hand-
picked team.
“All right, if you can talk shit, we’re not working hard
enough.” I pump my legs and fly past him. “First back to the
Oval wins!”
He laughs, and the sound floats over me, settles inside
me. His sneakers pound the track, but I stay out of reach. We
cross the rough boundary that runs from the corner of the
Oval Office patio to a sad little crab apple tree in a tie,
hurtling past Henry at our absolute top speeds, all arms and
legs and laughter.
Brennan collapses onto the Oval Office lawn, lying on his
back as he catches his breath. I double over, hands on my
knees, and all I can do is gaze at him and smile.
Of course, the president hitting the ground is a code red,
and Sheridan, on his way in from his post, puts out the alert
over the radio as he and the rest of the guys tear across the
South Lawn. They reach us right as a dozen agents, six
military officers, the White House physician, and two nurses
burst out of the West Wing.
Henry and I spend five minutes calming down the cavalry.
Sheridan is embarrassed, but he did the right thing, and
Brennan is good-natured about it.
“I should have thought more before throwing myself
down.” He shakes Sheridan’s hand. “Thank you for your
diligence. Agent Sheridan, right?”

I my idea to Henry later that day.

bring
He and Sheridan are together, tossing a football in the
back of the command center as Henry tests Sheridan on our
emergency motorcade procedures. I join them, listening in
as Sheridan aces Henry’s pop quiz.
“Hey, boss,” Henry says, tossing the football to me after
a fake to Sheridan.
I catch it and spin the ball back. “Got a second?”
“For you? Always.” He nods to Sheridan, dismissing him.
I call him back. “Sheridan, stick around? I might want
your assistance on this.”
Sheridan is all too eager to please, and he returns, trying
to look like he’s at ease while being just shy of at attention.
Henry and I share a private look, one of the hundred we have
that speaks whole conversations without a single word.
“I’ve got an idea—”
“Oh no,” Henry groans. “How much Pepto will I need?”
“Grab the bottle.”
Henry stares at the ceiling, listening as he tosses the
football to himself. I can see the gears in his mind churning.
He’s filling in this crossword puzzle, assembling the clues
I’m leaving behind me.
“What security are you thinking?” he finally asks.
“Two-on-one close protection. Right and left flank. I was
thinking of myself and—” I gesture to Sheridan. “A chase
car as well, leapfrogging around the Mall perimeter.”
Sheridan looks like he’s won the lottery. His eyes are
huge, and he’s smothering a smile.
“It’s doable,” Henry says slowly. “Especially if you keep
the circle small and it stays unannounced.”
“That’s the idea.”
“When were you thinking?”
“Friday night.”
Henry spins the football at Sheridan. It smacks him in the
chest. “Whadda ya think? You up for running around the
Mall Friday night instead of barhopping and picking up
chicks?”
 “I don’t barhop. I’m free, and I’d love to be chosen for
this opportunity.”
Sheridan means well, but, fuck, I hope I wasn’t ever that
fluorescent green. “Thanks, Sheridan. I’ll let you know what
the final call is. Keep this conversation to yourself?”
“Yes, sir.” He smiles, takes my dismissal, and moves off.
Three seconds later, he jogs back and shoves the football
into Henry’s hands, then beats another retreat.
“Give me six months,” Henry says. “That knucklehead
will be one of our team leads. I promise.”
“I trust you.”
“Do you trust yourself?”
It’s the first time he’s called me out on this. On the
closeness growing between Brennan and me, on the morning
coffees we’ve shared, our smiles in the hallways, and my web
of bullshit I keep spinning.
No one knows me better than Henry. I can’t keep
anything from him. Did he know I was crushing on Brennan
before I did? Did he see what I couldn’t?
I think he sees right through me. I think he knows
Brennan and I were in near constant contact last week while
we were at Rowley.
I shake my head and give Henry my best confused stare,
like a dog hearing a whistle just out of range. “Not sure what
you mean.”
He claps me on the shoulder and squeezes. “Let me know
about Friday.”

I t ’ s a hard week .
Brennan and I can’t find time to meet outside of the West
Wing. We run again Tuesday morning, then keep our
scheduled Wednesday morning briefing—and spend the
whole time hiding our held hands between us on the sofa,
even though we’re alone. We dare each other with silent
looks to be the first to risk a kiss right there, in the Oval
Office, where anyone could walk in.
But we don’t.
Thursday night, I try to make a date happen, and I sneak
into the Residence with a pizza, hoping to surprise Brennan
with a candlelight dinner in the kitchen. Rumblings from
Russia in the Arctic Circle keep him locked in the Situation
Room until almost four a.m. and I fall asleep with my head
pillowed on my arms and wake up to his kiss on the back of
my neck.
We eat cold pizza while holding hands, too tired to talk,
and I kiss him good morning and then crash in a bunk bed in
the command center until the shift change. Brennan is back
in the Oval four hours later.
Henry never says a word about our morning runs. He trots
out his crew of agents three times to stand guard and keeps
an eagle eye trained on every footfall Brennan and I share.
He has to know.
But if I ask him if he does, that will make it real, so I
don’t.
We keep each other in check with our bullshit back and
forth. He buys me a larger Dri-Fit T-shirt. I buy him a coffee
mug that says, “World’s Best FBI Agent.” He calls me an
asshole.
I move Sheridan to Henry’s shift, pairing them, and then
catch them in almost every corner of the White House as
Henry tries to pour a hundred years of history and training
into Sheridan’s young mind.
Friday night finally arrives, and with it, our illicit run.
I’m calling it a date in my head, even though it’s as far
from a date as we can get. Henry and Sheridan are here, and
even though the eyes of the world won’t be on us for the next
sixty minutes, their eyeballs will be more than enough
scrutiny.
I meet Brennan on the curve of the Grand Staircase, and
we spend thirty seconds up against the wall, kissing each
other until my bones melt and my skin burns from the
inside. I want to say fuck the run, and maybe he does too, but
we can’t.
We slip through the East Wing and escape to East
Executive Avenue. Henry’s SUV is idling in the dark spot on
the camera feed that runs back to the command center.
I pull open the rear door for Brennan and climb into the
back after him. Sheridan is in the passenger seat,
traditionally where the lead agent sits.
There’s nothing traditional about what we’re doing.
“Mr. President,” Henry says, meeting Brennan’s gaze in
the rearview mirror. “Where to tonight? Chinese takeout? E
Street theater? Flight to the Bahamas?”
“That last one sounds pretty good.”
Henry puts the SUV in drive. He eases us down East Exec,
the closed avenue between the White House and the Treasury
Building. It’s a delivery access now, with gatehouses at each
end. The uniformed officer waits for Henry to roll down the
window and checks his ID before he lowers the barricades.
“Have a good night, Agent Ellis.”
“Ah, the work never ends, Mike. Just grabbing a coffee.
I’ll be back in a bit.”
“You work too hard, sir.” Mike waves as Henry pulls out
onto E Street.
Brennan and I are pressed together, our hips, our knees,
our sides, our shoulders, all touching. Brennan’s fingers
thread through mine, hidden in the darkness.
“Drop us off on Fifteenth by the restrooms,” I tell Henry.
He nods. The air inside the SUV thrums. We turn right on
Fifteenth and glide across Constitution. At eleven p.m., the
Mall is nearly deserted.
Henry pulls into the bus turnout next to the Washington
Monument, and Sheridan and I scramble out of the SUV at
the same time. I hold Brennan in the vehicle, scanning left
and right as Sheridan takes the block position.
“Clear,” Sheridan says softly.
Brennan’s waiting, gaze glued to me. Henry’s watching
him in the rearview.
My heart lurches at the shine in Brennan’s eyes. Damn it,
I want to take his hand, pull him to me and lay one on him,
right here beneath the glow of the Washington Monument
and all these snapping red, white, and blue flags.
Brennan tugs his beanie down and slides out of the SUV.
Henry pulls away as soon as the door closes. He’s going to
loop around the Mall while we pound the pavement. I draw
his route in my mind, calculate the distance and speed he’s
driving. He’s never going to be more than thirty feet away.
We take off at an easy pace, Sheridan and me bracketing
Brennan. We keep to the lit path and pass two National Park
police on patrol, but they don’t give us a second glance.
Brennan never came to DC before moving into the White
House. This is all new to him, and I play tour guide as we
come up on the World War II Memorial, then move past Ash
Woods and the Korean War Memorial. At night, the
illuminated soldiers look like ghosts moving beneath
moonlight and mist. It’s a haunting, beautiful sculpture, and
we slow to take it in.
I clock Henry’s SUV passing on Independence as we turn
toward the Lincoln Memorial.
Brennan challenges Sheridan and me to run up the steps.
We’re all huffing and puffing at the top, and I call for a quick
break as Brennan stands in front of Lincoln. He’s having a
moment, and I watch the anxiety, the uncertainty, the fears
and the pressures of the office, tangle in his eyes.
 How did I ever believe this man was unreadable? I can
sense his emotions as if they’re my own.
When we start jogging again, we head to the Vietnam
Veterans Wall.
Brennan slows, then stops.
I told Henry to expect this. He’s idling on Constitution,
waiting for my signal.
“Right here.”
Thursday, when Brennan was meeting with a
congressional group in the Roosevelt Room, I slipped out of
the White House and came to the Mall on my own to find this
name. Now, my fingers trace the carved black granite letters.
Alexander Walker.
Near the end of the war, Brennan’s father, a medic, left
on his third deployment a month after Brennan was born. He
was shot down on a medevac mission six months later.
Brennan’s mother remarried when he was five, and when he
was sixteen, she gave him the letters his father had written
to him—one every day—from the day Brennan was born
until the day Alexander died.
Brennan lays his hand over mine, over his father’s name,
and then leans into the memorial, his forehead pressed to
the summer-warm stone. His breath fogs the glossy surface
as he speaks, whispering words that belong to them alone.
He’s brought me into this moment between him and his
father.
I move without thinking and run my fingers down his
sweaty back. Brennan’s muscles are taut as a strung bow,
and his shoulder trembles beneath my touch.
When he’s done, Brennan lifts my hand to his lips,
kissing my palm where his father’s name touched my skin.
Beside us, Sheridan is as still as the Three Soldiers. The
lights curve around him, accentuating the hollows of his
face.
 He turns away, giving us privacy we don’t deserve. He’s
textbook careful, though, keeping his sight angles perfect.
Damn it, he really is a good agent.
What’s Henry thinking, watching what just happened
from the SUV?
Pure adrenaline fuels me for the rest of the run. We go up
Constitution under Henry’s overwatch, turn on Fifteenth and
then again on Madison, past the Smithsonians and toward
the Capitol.
I can’t tear my gaze away from Brennan.
His eyes slide to mine. Lock. The world fades, the lights
like unfocused glitter, the sounds of traffic and our feet on
the pavement like far-off rain. There is nothing but him and
me.
Sheridan coughs. The world returns in a rush.
We turn on Third at Union Square and then on Jefferson
and head back to the Washington Monument.
Brennan starts asking Sheridan questions: where is he
from, how long has he been in the Service, what did he do
before? Sheridan is polite and professional, not the
starstruck young man he is with me and Henry. He gets
Brennan laughing quickly.
Score one for the rookie. Well done, Sheridan. Get on the
boss’s good side by making his lover laugh.
Henry waits for us back at the turnout, and we jog right to
the SUV and pile in. He’s got the air conditioning on max and
cold bottles of water ready. There are towels in Sheridan’s
seat, and he passes one to Brennan and one to me as Henry
swings up Seventeenth and glides us right back through the
E Street barricade while he waves at Mike.
He parks in the same dark spot in the East Wing parking
lot. He gives Sheridan a hard look, and then they both climb
out of the vehicle. The overhead lights stay off when the
doors open, and Brennan and I are left alone in the darkness.
 Brennan drops his forehead to my shoulder. His exhale
brushes over my bicep, and his fingers trace a path up the
center of my quad. “How did you know?”
“Secret Service. We know everything.” I kiss the top of his
head. “I know you. Or, at least, I’m trying to.”
He cradles my face in his hands and looks me in the eyes.
His thumbs paint circles on my temples. His skin is cold
from the air conditioning, but he’s still hot from the run.
“I…” Whatever he’s about to say escapes on a sigh.
I close my eyes—
His touch vanishes as the SUV door opens. Henry stands
in the open door, his back to us. “I’m sorry, Mr. President.
There’s an alert over the radio. You’re needed in the
Situation Room.”
“Shit.” Brennan slides out of the back of the SUV. Our
eyes meet, and hold, hold, and it seems like he’s about to say
something—
Henry shuts the rear door, whisper quiet, and then guides
Brennan to where Sheridan waits at the entrance to the East
Wing. All three disappear into the White House.
My hands reach for the empty air left behind in Brennan’s
wake, trying to hold on to the memory of his touch.
Brennan’s warmth is a fading echo, and the leather seats
shift and settle in his absence. I can still smell him, the
clean, sharp scent of his soap and deodorant layered with the
sweat from our run.
Merde, I want to bury my face in his chest, kiss my way
up his neck, slide my fingers into his hair. Push reality away
and revel in this man and the discoveries we’re unearthing.
But he’s gone, and I’m alone.
More than alone. I’m left with a sinking realization. It fills
me, slides inside me.
Our lives do not belong to us.
 And I am stealing this man, greedily snatching moments
for myself. He’s needed in so many ways, meaningful ways,
and I’m—
I’m risking the world for the taste of his kiss.

B rennan stays locked in the Situation Room for the next

thirteen hours.
Russian President Kirilov gives a speech claiming the
insurgents in Ukraine are Western military forces in
disguise. He rages about Western arms going to Ukrainian
fighters, tells the whole world America and the West have
already started World War III. Russia will no longer permit
any aid shipments to enter the country, he says, claiming
weapons are being smuggled amid the food and medical
relief.
Russian artillery destroys a convoy of medical supplies
headed for a maternal and pediatric field hospital. He
deploys military units to villages and towns, starts rounding
up civilians and moving them to resettlement zones.
Controlled areas, he says.
Reports of disappearances, of people falling off the edge
of the planet, of hastily dug graves and smoke rising in the
distance, skyrocket.
I feel Brennan’s heart breaking as if it’s my own.
 Chapter Seventeen

B rennan
T hen

P resident Kennedy once said, “There is no experience you

can get that can possibly prepare you for the presidency.”
Truer words were never spoken.
The weight of the presidency has not simply settled on
my shoulders. It’s trying to break me. I don’t feel so much
like Atlas as like Sisyphus. These problems, deliberations,
calamities, atrocities, and decisions facing me will echo
forever in history yet to be written.
The presidency is like holding your breath as you leap
from an airplane with your hands cuffed behind your back.
All you can do is fall.
This is the loneliest office in the world. It doesn’t matter
that I have amazing advisors, an excellent cabinet, that I’ve
surrounded myself with the best and brightest people—
At the end of the day, it’s all on me.
I don’t want to be alone. I want someone I can turn to.
Someone I can trust with these moments when I wrestle with
now and forever and what the best choice is. Someone I can
trust with my doubts and my fears, my dismays and my
desires.
I want Reese.
He’s the man who fills the emptiness in my life. I crave
his smiles and the sound of his voice. His understanding, and
how he seems to have assembled my secrets like I was a
puzzle made for him alone.
He knows me.
Not many people know about my father. I’ve kept that one
at the bone.
I haven’t seen Reese since the world decided to spin off its
axis. Ukraine is falling into chaos and despair, and when I’m
not in the Situation Room, I’m deep in negotiations with the
heads of government of NATO and from around the UN. We
must act. We must. Countless people may die if the world
does nothing. We cannot let vicious men dictate where our
lines of human decency lie.
Reese asked me what I can live with. I cannot—will not—
live with doing nothing.
Ukraine is dying, a whole nation strangled by the Russian
occupation. Especially now, as Russian forces have ratcheted
up their counterinsurgency operations and reports of ethnic
cleansing are on the rise. The Russian president’s interests
lie in keeping totalitarian chaos and suffocating entropy as
his status quo.
My thoughts have taken on the sound of Reese’s voice.
That low rumble, that slow roil. He’s inside me, like he’s
supposed to be there. At night, I fall asleep with his name on
my lips.
I’m on the phone with the prime minister of the United
Kingdom when I hear Reese for real, for the first time in
days, and I spin in my chair as if he’s appeared in the Oval.
His voice is coming from Matt’s desk, though, and I drag
the phone with me, stretching the cord from the Resolute as
far as it can until I manage to push the door open and peer
out.
He’s here.
“We cannot move forward without the Germans,” the prime
minister says in my ear. I’m jerked back to the office. The
presidency. “And they are being stubborn. They cannot turn off
the gas coming from Russia. You know what happened last time.”
Last time, the world traded part of Ukraine for Russian
energy to flow into Europe again. Sanctions eased as cease-
fire lines divided a country.
“Norway and the Netherlands have made huge strides in
renewable energy production. Those new wind turbines are
churning out far more energy than was anticipated.”
“And those turbines are extremely vulnerable to Russian
attack. Are you aware of how many go down each day, Mr.
President? We all know it’s Russian tampering. Cyber attacks, and
physical attacks. Russian subs hunt out of the Baltic Sea, and my
country has been shouldering a majority of the risk in confronting
those bastards.”
“I agree, we need a more forceful presence in the Baltics.
It’s past time to talk about stationing forces there. Latvia has
already made the request. Poland, too.”
“Permanent forces? Are you talking about NATO forces, Mr.
President, or American? You’ll send American troops back to
Europe? Boots on the ground, long term?”
“I am. We must stand up to Moscow, Prime Minister. You
know what’s happening in occupied Ukraine. I won’t allow it,
not in this world.”
“But Moscow holds the cards. As long as they have the ability
to launch nuclear—”
“See, I don’t think they do hold the cards. I think we’re
giving in to a bully and we’re letting him control the
conversation, which is letting him control the outcome.
Meanwhile, people are being slaughtered.”
 “You want to play nuclear chicken, Mr. President?”
“We have more options we need to consider. But we need
to speak with one voice on this. Deterrence only works when
Kirilov believes we’re going to act with a united front.”
“What are you asking for, Mr. President?”
“We take a stronger stand. Together. We stop this.”
“Good luck with that, Mr. President. You’ll have more luck
getting the Germans to change their minds.”
I hang up on him before he can hang up on me, then rest
the phone on the back of the sofa. The whole Outer Oval just
heard that. They’re all staring at me.
Reese crosses to my door and slouches against the casing.
His eyes shine like private stars for me alone. No one can see
his face, but everyone can see mine.
“Mr. President.”
“Agent Theriot.” My fingers dance nervously over the
Oval Office phone. The last time we were together, I was
cradling his face. “How are you? It’s been a while.”
I miss you, he mouths. “I’m good, sir.”
Me too, I try to say with my eyes. “I’ve missed our runs.
With everything going on… It’s hard to get away.”
He nods. A frown furrows his forehead. “I’m here
whenever you need me, Mr. President. Day or night.”
I want to take his hand and pull him into my office, tell
him now, right now, this is when I need you. Let’s close the door
and—
The Oval Office phone rings.
Reese flinches.
“I’ve got to take this.” I’ve got calls lined up all afternoon
with our allies. I don’t want to answer this phone, though. I
want to carve out more time for Reese.
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Matt tugs Reese aside before he strides away, and I get
one last look before I grab the phone and softly kick shut the
Oval Office door.
 Chapter Eighteen

R eese
T hen

“I can get you on his schedule if you want,” Matt says.

“Five minutes at the end of the day today? Or ten right
before lunch tomorrow. He likes to hold a few minutes open
here and there to decompress, but I know he’d rather see
you.”
“Matt—”
“Agent Theriot.”
“I don’t know what you believe—”
“I know Brennan Walker. I like to think I’m getting to
know you.”
There’s nothing I can say that won’t get me fired or get
Matt embroiled in my shit decision-making, and possibly
hauled before a congressional committee, so I say nothing at
all.
“That’s a no to five minutes?”
“You’re a wonderful friend to him. I see why he cherishes
you.”
 “Think about it?” Matt asks, his voice low. There are
other people passing nearby. “He’s happier when you’re
around. He’s never said anything, but… I can read him pretty
well.”
That makes me smile, but it’s a panicked, I’m-so-fucked
smile. If Matt has figured us out—
The scandal unfolds across newspaper headlines in my
mind. Impropriety and Brennan’s fall from grace, proof
positive that he’s not the good man he always claimed to be.
I shouldn’t have come up here, but the impulsive side of
me hoped for exactly what just happened. I’ve been out of
my mind, needing to see Brennan again.
Dangerous.
I retreat to the command center and collapse at my desk,
sagging in my chair until I’m looking up at the ceiling.
Water-stained acoustic paneling stares down at me. Radio
chatter and static hum. Keyboards clatter. I breathe in and
out. C’est le bordel.
“Hey, boss.” Henry appears over my head, upside down
from my vantage point. “Problem?”
“Only of my own making.”
He nods like he knows what I’m talking about. “I’m
taking Sheridan to the range. Come with us? Slinging lead
and punching holes in paper is the best stress reliever.”
“Hell yes.”
“Grab your gear and meet us in the basement.”
I change into my tactical gear, grab my gun bag, and jog
downstairs. Henry and Sheridan are already in the front seat
of one of our SUVs, jabbering away, when I climb into the
back.
“Sir!” Sheridan tries to climb out. “Take the right seat.
You’re the senior agent.”
I wave him off. “Today, I’ll be the principal. You take the
lead detail slot—”
 “Pretend to take the lead,” Henry cuts in.
“Now—” I sprawl in the back seat and kick my feet up
onto the center console between their shoulders. “Where’s
my champagne?”
Henry squirts his water bottle over the driver’s seat at me.
Brennan haunts me all the way to Rowley. Memories snap
in and out of focus: moments in time, seconds of our
conversations, snippets of his laughter.
Five hundred rounds later, I’ve got aching forearms and
thirty targets with their center bull’s-eyes obliterated, but
I’m no closer to putting Brennan out of my mind than I was
before.
I had fun, though. Sheridan is an excellent shot. He nearly
beat my score, and he absolutely shredded Henry.
While I watched, a whole new side of Sheridan slipped
out. For a few hours, he transformed into someone else.
Once, when we’d emptied our magazines and stopped to
reload, I thought I saw something. It was only a split second,
but in that second, I didn’t recognize Sheridan. I didn’t
recognize the hard look in his eyes or how it seemed like
everything in him had swirled away down the drain. Like
he’d emptied himself.
I blinked, and he was back, all smiles and bright eyes and
telling stories about his time at the academy as we reset.
But what I saw lasered into my brain, and I watched him
more closely as the afternoon wore on. If he’d let something
of himself slip, he didn’t make that mistake again.
I snap photos of my targets and send them to Brennan.
Guilt ravages me every time I do. He’s got far more
important things to do than text me.
Which is objectively true, because he doesn’t reply. In
fact, he hasn’t texted me at all over the past three days,
which was more than half of the reason I’d flung myself into
Matt’s office earlier, hoping for a glimpse or a run in with
Brennan.
We get back to the White House for the second shift,
pulling in just in time for Brennan’s chief of staff to drop the
Secret Service’s equivalent of a nuclear bomb on the
presidential detail: Brennan has decided to host his first
state dinner.
For not just one, but a group of eleven world leaders. In
one month, right before the UN General Assembly.
This is less a state dinner and more of a mini summit.
“Ready for triple overtime?” Henry throws himself into
the chair across from my desk.
Au revoir to any hint of seeing Brennan in the next
month. I’ll need three of me to pull this off, and I won’t have
a breath or a thought to spare until the evening is over.
Of course, neither will he.
Are we over before we’ve even begun?
The answer to that needs to be Yes.
 Chapter Nineteen

B rennan
T hen

T he prime minister said it would be impossible to get

everyone together and hash this out in person, but no one
turns down an invite to a state dinner.
We can work through our intractable issues. Strategize
together and come to the UN with one united voice. This is
our chance to do things differently than before.
I’m bleeding optimism like I’ve slit my veins open.
My father wanders my thoughts.
Alexander Walker was a brilliant man, and he devoured
everything life could throw his way. He wanted to save the
world, and he wanted to do so one person at a time. The
month after I was born, the letters he wrote me were about
his hopes for the impact our family could have on the world.
We’d live in Africa, Asia, South America. He’d teach me
everything, until I was a medic like him—better than him,
even.
His mind burned hot, and every one of his dreams was
rooted in a desire to help others.
 If you’re reading these words, he wrote a few days before he
was shot down, then I’m gone. But the best part of me will
always live within you, Brennan.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s true, or if I would have
disappointed him had he lived. Let him down in all the ways
a son can let down his father.
Brennan, always remember that good men make their own
way when all the options are bad. Choose good. Always choose
good.
Which way am I pointing? Is this a chance to avert
another Rwanda, Somalia, Darfur, or Yugoslavia? Or am I
treading the path of good intentions while not feeling the
fire that’s about to engulf me?
Choose good, son.
I’m trying, Dad.
I’ve scheduled a full working day for the twelve of us—
presidents, prime ministers, and one chancellor—after the
state dinner. Twelve heads of government locked in a room?
Either nothing will happen, or everything will.
My life is accelerating, and the purpose I’ve dedicated my
existence to is here. We are standing in prehistory, and
ahead of me, I glimpse a new course for the world. Lives are
saved. Entrenched evil is rooted out and rousted. We are
victorious together.
Every moment is spent in furious planning. There are
logistics, operations, strategies. Policies and proposals. We
all run ragged, and I sleep in thirty-minute increments on
the Oval Office sofa while Matt keeps the doors locked.
Reese is a ghost.
He’s like a phantom limb, there in my life and then gone
so suddenly that I still feel his presence as if he’s by my side.
Hints of him linger. His scent in the Residence, on my pillow,
in the West Sitting Hall. The shape of him on my lounge on
the Truman Balcony. We crisscross the West Wing, but never
at the same time. I hear his name in passing, see his
afterimage.
The Secret Service is a kicked-over beehive, frenetic with
its own preparations. If I’m busy trying to change the world,
Reese is equally consumed with trying to make sure we all
survive the night in order to live in it.
We text like we’re leaving Post-its for each other: “Miss
you.” “Miss you too, mon cher.”
Reese delivers the official briefing on the Secret Service’s
comprehensive security package for the event. Henry is
there, but there’s no banter, no jokes about flying off to the
Bahamas. Nuñez and a handful of other agents represent the
different team leads within the detail: snipers, bomb squad,
CAT, communications.
This will be the most scripted event of my presidency
thus far. Reese has put together a tight plan, respectful of
the uniqueness of the moment but unflinching in his
protection.
“This is amazing work, Agent Theriot.”
“It was a group effort, sir.” He nods to Henry, who gives
me what could only generously be called a wan smile. The
entire team looks exhausted. “We’re going to be starting dry
runs and rehearsals for timing, Mr. President. We’ll do our
best to stay out of your way.”
“You have anything and everything you need from me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And that’s it. This is the most contact I’ve had in days
with my… lover? Boyfriend? Impossible heartthrob?
The briefing is over, and Reese collects his laptop, shakes
my hand, and heads for the door. My nails drag over my
palms. I’m like water just before the boil. Ready to burst,
ready to burn. Shimmering down to my atoms.
Why now? My life has been dedicated to this moment, to
propelling the world to take a stand before it’s too late,
before the phrase “never again” is uttered one more time. I
gave my heart up for this, swore my desires were
inconsequential set against putting an end to mass graves
and unearthing skeletons with blindfolded eyes.
And then there was Reese.
I watch him go, hoping he’ll look back. Just one glance.
He has my heart in his hands, and I wait…
It’s the last moment, but his eyes flick back over his
shoulder as he pulls the Oval Office door closed behind him.
He stills, and our gazes lock.
The world is accelerating, but you are my center, Reese
Theriot.
“Boss,” Henry calls.
Our eyes hold until they can’t as he shuts the door. He
never looks away.

N othing can prepare you for the grandeur of a state dinner.

The White House has been transformed from its usual
reserved air to opulent excess. Vases as tall as I am line the
Cross Hall, weeping with peace roses. Silver candelabras
throw off shimmering candlelight. Flags of Canada, the UK,
France, Germany, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Norway,
Turkey, and the Netherlands line one wall. US flags line the
opposite side, a parade of spangled stars in the dappled glow.
Furious activity descends in round-robin sequence as
each head of government arrives. Protocol dictates how we
greet each other, what music is played, and the order of the
receiving line as each enters the White House.
After that, the Secret Service is waiting, and while the
presidents, prime ministers, the chancellor, and their
spouses are welcomed with honors, their staff go through
the security checkpoint, magnetometer, and bag scanner.
 Reese’s agents, all in tuxedos, are both omnipresent and
unobtrusive. I watch for Reese, but he’s not at the arrival
ceremonies. Henry is, welcoming each head of government
with brisk efficiency before turning them over to an
impeccably dressed military officer who escorts them and
their spouses up to the Residence.
We begin in the Yellow Oval, the Residence’s private party
room. A string quartet plays from the corner as champagne
and hors d’oeuvres circulate on silver platters that date back
to the Jefferson administration. We spill onto the Truman
Balcony while the sun sets, eleven world leaders, their
spouses, and me making small talk. Our staffers are huddled
inside, probably talking shop already, but right now, we are
avoiding anything heavy. For once we are social, with no
agenda, no ulterior motives other than to enjoy this evening.
Five minutes to eight. Reese appears at my elbow.
He’s in a tuxedo, almost the same style as mine, but he
looks far better than I do. The lines of his tux accentuate his
broad shoulders, long torso, tight hips. His jacket looks like
it was painted on, even where there’s a little extra fabric to
conceal his firearm, and the satin stripes that run down his
pant legs make it seem like they go forever.
I want to feel those legs around me.
My hand lands on the small of his back, almost without
thought, and my voice is soft and warm as I say, “Reese.”
One glass of champagne is apparently too much. I’m
holding court by the balcony railing with most of my fellow
world leaders, and after I speak, they all turn and stare at
Reese, waiting for an introduction to the man who clearly
matters to me.
Muscles coil around his spine. I drop my hand. My fingers
dust over his concealed holster.
“Everyone, it’s my pleasure to introduce Special Agent
Reese Theriot, the head of my Secret Service detail.”
 They are gracious and welcoming, shaking his hand and
asking questions about his position, his duties, and, of
course, what secrets he can spill about the White House. Or,
more importantly, me.
Reese is perfect, with that grin and the sparkle in his eyes
as he says, “Fortunately for President Walker, every agent
takes their presidents’ secrets to the grave.”
Their president. Such a tiny phrase, but it’s enough to
make my heart gallop. I want to be yours, Reese.
Reese leans into my side. “Mr. President, the formal
procession begins in two minutes.”
We down our champagne and follow Reese to the Grand
Staircase. My fellow heads of government line up in the
order each country recognized the United States upon our
formation as a nation. Whoever figured that bit of protocol
out, well, hats off to them. There’s some good-natured
ribbing in the ranks, but since this is based on nearly two
hundred and fifty years of historical tradition, no one takes it
too seriously.
The other leaders have their spouses on their arms, but I
stand at the head of the procession alone.
Except I’m not alone, because Reese is here, suddenly,
standing so close to me the backs of our hands are brushing.
He’s waiting for the signal to send us down, and for a
moment, I picture drawing him close, walking down the
stairs with him beside me for everyone to see.
Our eyes meet. I imagine lacing his fingers through mine
and never letting go.
“Mr. President, it’s time.” He steps back. That’s my cue
to leave him and begin the official procession.
The first hour is stilted formality. We pose for a million
photographs that leave starbursts burned into my retinas.
We walk shoulder to shoulder to the East Room and then
shuffle into order for an official receiving line.
 Each country is hosting its own table, bedecked in its
colors and heraldry. More champagne flows as the courses
are served, and the laughter grows louder as the meal ends. I
work the room, shaking hands and making toasts, until the
Marine Band sets up for the after-dinner dance.
I asked for jazz tonight. New Orleans jazz and Southern
blues. Even a few zydeco numbers, if they could make it
happen.
In no time, the dance floor is filled. The French president
and German chancellor take the prime ministers of Lithuania
and Estonia to the floor for a waltz, to the delight of the
entire room. That will be the picture on the front page of the
world’s papers.
Reese is everywhere and nowhere. Moving through the
crowd, then vanishing. Appearing beside his agents to check
in, then slipping away. Always on the edges, never in the
throngs, but he draws my attention no matter where he is. I
want to take him into my arms, ask him if he knows these
songs the band is playing. I want to dance with him, feel his
hips and mine move together.
I want to know what it feels like to kiss him in the middle
of a crowded room.
Midway through my fourth glass of champagne, I can’t
tear my eyes away as he checks on his agents.
I know enough to set my glass down.
After the second musical set, waiters appear with after-
dinner drinks. I grab a coffee and the Canadian prime
minister, and we talk for twenty minutes before the rest of
our compatriots descend on our table.
Yawns are smothered as the Marine Band announces the
final number.
“Mr. President?” The prime minister of Estonia holds out
her hand. “You haven’t danced tonight. Care to change
that?”
 The only person I want to dance with is standing six feet
away, holding post behind the table where we’re sitting. I
take her hand and kiss her fingers. “I’m sorry, but I have two
left feet, and the last thing I want is to stomp all over your
beautiful shoes.”
“I’ll take the lady around again.” The French president,
of course, rises to the occasion. He bows and holds out his
hand. “Madame.”
Off they go, and I watch as the night winds down.
Most of the guests file out, exiting through the far doors
so we’re not inundated by three hundred well-wishers all
saying goodbye. The Secret Service herds everyone along,
and the click of high heels and the babel of voices grow
quieter until it’s just the heads of government and our senior
staff left. The spouses are clustered on the far side of the
room, well used to the last-minute diplomatic chatter that
unfolds at the end of these evenings.
We share one last drink and plan to resume our
conversations in the morning. I’m told to make the coffee
extra strong. We’ll be meeting in the same room we’ve dined
and danced in, but overnight, it will be transformed from
ballroom to summit space.
Excitement clings to us all. This is happening, and we can
feel it. We’re going to break the mold. We’re going to write
history in new and better ways. We are going to change the
world together, and it starts here, tonight. Or it started when
I invited them all to this state dinner, or before that, when I
dared to imagine we could choose better and be better people
for one another. Maybe it started when I made that walk
across the Golden Gate and swore I would do everything I
could in this life. For Sérgio, and for my father, and for the
thirteen people in the first mass grave I excavated, who have
never, even after all this time, been reunited with their
names or families.
 It’s surreal, escorting these world leaders to my front
door and waving goodbye to each as they climb into their
motorcades and drive off.
And then… I’m alone.
Soft clicks of dishes and the clink of flatware being
gathered up spill out of the East Room as the staff begins to
clean. Vacuums switch on, their dull roar running up the
hallway. The candles have all been blown out, and I’m like
Cinderella at the end of the ball. I’ve been out too long, and
everything is turning into pumpkins.
Loneliness seizes me.
I’m trapped in two worlds, each one hurtling me toward
inevitability. Historic changes on the global stage. Human
rights and dignity elevated to their rightful highest place.
Reese, and how I’ve already started to fall in love with
him.
I’m alone in this empty mansion with only the hum of the
vacuum cleaners for company.
“Mr. President.”
And there he is.
Reese is as perfect now, at midnight, as he was six hours
ago. His tux still looks pressed and starched, as if he hadn’t
been on the move all night long. He’s sporting his dimpled
grin, and a single lock of hair has fallen forward, curling over
his forehead and brushing across his eyebrows.
Champagne bubbles are floating in my veins. There’s an
unreality to this moment, this stressful yet successful night
that’s ending with vacuum cleaners and empty hallways. I
feel untethered from the world.
We’re alone again. We haven’t been alone since we were
in the back of Henry’s SUV after our run.
“Where are your agents?”
“Everyone on duty from dinner has been relieved. Half are
probably already asleep in the bunks downstairs. Everyone
else is at their usual posts. The White House is secure, Mr.
President. The doors are shut, and the drawbridge is up.”
Someone drops a piece of silverware in the East Room.
The clatter rolls down the hall and breaks against us.
Pumpkins indeed.
Reese offers me his elbow. “I’ll walk you home?”
A risk, but it’s late, and as he said, the drawbridge is up. I
wrap my hand around his elbow. We sway together and apart
and then together again.
“Did you enjoy your first state dinner?”
We climb the staircase to the Residence.
“It was a success beyond all my expectations. I am
amazed at how seamless it was.”
He tips his head back and laughs as we round the bend in
the stairs. I almost miss the next step. He’s too captivating.
The arch of his neck and the way the chandelier light glides
down the broad expanse of his back. I want to freeze time,
capture him in my mind exactly like this. Laughing with me
like he doesn’t care who hears or sees.
“It was far from seamless,” he says as we make our way
up to the landing. We’re back where we started the evening,
where he gave me the cue to begin the procession. Maybe
this is where we’ll end it, bring everything full circle.
But I don’t want the night to end. Not yet.
“State dinners are moving cogs inside moving cogs inside
moving cogs. The Service’s piece alone is gargantuan, but if
we do it right, no one notices us. No one is staring at us all
night, like they are at the band or the decor or the food. If it
was seamless to you, though, that means it was a success.”
We’re in the Residence, but I don’t take my hand from his
elbow. We move to the Yellow Oval together.
It’s like walking into a hotel suite after the after-party.
Discarded champagne flutes litter the end tables and the
mantel, the crystal stained with half-moons of pink and red
lipstick. Napkins are scattered on the carpet. There’s a half-
eaten shrimp cocktail abandoned on the windowsill.
“Like I said, it’s hardly seamless.” Reese shakes his head.
“Someone is going to have an aneurysm when they realize
they forgot this.”
“You also said it was a gargantuan night.”
There’s a tray of clean champagne flutes from the
Kennedy administration in the corner, next to an unopened
bottle listing sideways in a mostly melted ice bucket. “Let
me pour you a drink?”
“I can’t stay.” Regret stains his voice.
“We’ve barely seen each other.”
His gaze slides to the windows as he bites down on the
inside of his lip. “Mon cher, I wish I could stay forever.”
Forever is a dream too wild to dare. I want to spend
forever knowing this man, exploring the intricacies of his
heart and soul, but I’ll start with tonight. “Can we have an
hour?”
He hesitates, then nods.
I twist the foil off the champagne bottle, and he sheds his
tuxedo jacket and hands it to me.
“Cover the cork with this. That should muffle the sound.
Sometimes these things make the agents double check what
that pop was.”
I can’t get my hands to work, and the simple mechanical
movements of taking his jacket and laying it over the bottle
are far too complex. Cotton shifts over his biceps and chest. I
want to take him to my bed and peel off each piece of
clothing. Run my lips from his head to his toes, kiss an
exploration that maps every sigh and shiver he can create.
He turns to the windows overlooking the balcony, and I
can finally think again. He’s right, the jacket does muffle the
pop of the cork, but I spill bubbles on his sleeve and the
carpet before I can get a glass beneath the fizz. “Oops.”
 His reflection smiles at me. “Not the first time there’s
been champagne on this rug.”
He takes the glass I hand him as we step out onto the
Truman Balcony again. There is the spot I recorded my yoga
video, almost exactly where I joked with my fellow heads of
government. Reese and I made out on my chaise lounge over
there, him above me as he kissed away my moans and the
sound of his name when I came apart beneath his touch.
We lean against the railing side by side as we drink. He
undoes his bow tie and lets the ends dangle, then tugs open
the top two buttons of his shirt. My eyes go right to the
hollow of his throat, the triangle of skin he’s exposed.
The champagne bottle rests between us, and he refills our
glasses and then steps behind me. His arms wrap around my
waist, and he molds his body to mine with a sigh. His face in
my hair, his lips on my neck. We’re cocooned in darkness, lit
only by starlight and the glow of the White House.
My heart is racing. It’s so quiet I can hear the fountain
burbling on the South Lawn.
“Why did you tell the prime minister you couldn’t
dance?” His voice is a whisper above my ear. “I know that’s
not true.”
I nuzzle his cheek. Smile. “Because I only wanted to dance
with you.”
He kisses my temple, and I feel him pulling a phone out of
his pants pocket. He fiddles with the screen, sets it on the
railing, and then music rises from the speaker. Aching blues,
trembling bass guitars, heartbreaking drums. Whiskey down
deep in your veins and all-night lovemaking in the summer
heat. He spins me without pulling away, our bodies sliding
into each other, me inside the circle of his arms. Only fabric
separates us. He rests his cheek against my hair, cradles me
to him. We fit perfectly.
“Brennan.” He lays my palm over his heart. Exhales.
 I have never been more certain of any truth than I am of
this: I want this man, in every way, for the rest of my days. I
want to be the man he smiles for. I want to be the man he
sighs for. I want to suspend time and the rotation of the
earth to hide away with him. Learn his body and how to
make him gasp and moan, cry out my name.
Two more songs play, wailing blues lamenting lost loves,
before Reese speaks. “We should put some distance between
us—”
“What?”
“What if someone finds out about this? What we’re doing
could destroy everything you’re trying to accomplish—”
“That’s not true.”
Except it is. He’s right. If this came out… I’d be a ruined
man. All my credibility, gone. It’s not that I’m gay that’s the
problem, but that I hid it. Liar, they’ll call me. It doesn’t
matter that the truth is mine, that my life belongs to no one
else, and that the choice I made eviscerated me for years. All
the world will see is the scandal.
“President Walker Is Sleeping with a Man.” No,
“President Walker Is Sleeping with His Detail Lead.”
Congress would dig into every facet of our relationship.
Every conversation we’ve ever had, every text we’ve ever
sent. Who knew, who concealed? Who helped me lie to the
world?
Everything I’ve fought for would be cast down.
“Tonight was…” Reese sighs. “Watching you, watching
what you can do for the world.” His lips move against my
forehead, as if his words are heartbreaking kisses. “You’re
taking a terrible risk with me. I’m the biggest threat you
face. And I can’t hurt you, mon cher. I can’t.”
He can’t drag himself away, though, and we stay wrapped
in each other’s arms.
 I don’t know what to say, what to do. We’re trapped
between shoulds and can’ts, desire and need, in the
millimeters between our beating hearts.
“I have to go.” His voice is trembling.
Not like this. It can’t end like this. “Please…” Not now.
Not when the stars are aligning.
“Mon cher, don’t make this hurt more than it already
does.”
His kisses are bittersweet as he drops them on the corners
of my eyes, as he lifts my chin and presses his lips to mine.
I don’t know how to stop my heart from breaking.
He backs away, dragging out the moment until only our
fingertips are still connected. I want to yank him back, drag
him into my arms, tell him no, I don’t care about the
consequences—you’re the man I’ve waited my whole life for.
But we separate, and his hand drops, and I close my eyes
so I don’t see him leave.
I stay on the dark balcony until the stars fade and dawn
breaks on the horizon. I don’t sleep. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see
him in my dreams, and when I wake, the truth will come
roaring back. He’ll be gone, and I’ll be alone.
I’m not strong enough to endure that loss a second time.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to endure it now.
 Chapter Twenty

R eese
N ow

S heridan is deathly quiet on the drive to Henry’s home.

He’s locked on a thousand-yard stare, the muscles in his
jaw clenched so tight they might snap.
Henry lives in Bethesda, in a home with a yard and a
garage and triple the space I have for less than half the cost.
The last time I was here—
Sheridan doesn’t break the silence until I pull into
Henry’s driveway. “It’s not him. That’s not Henry, I know
it’s not.”
He wants me to agree with him. He wants to hear me say
it isn’t Henry so he’s not alone as he clings to his desperate
hope.
“Please don’t make me say which man I don’t want to be
dead.”
Sheridan wilts, exhaling like a popped balloon. He doesn’t
say anything, just flings himself out of the SUV, and the
vehicle rocks left and right after he slams the door. No easy
feat, since these up-armored SUVs weigh over six tons. I
move in behind him as he storms up the drive to Henry’s
front door.
There’s always been something out of reach with
Sheridan. I don’t understand these dark whirlpools that
knock me off-balance. There’s something inside him that he
keeps hidden, that I only ever get glimpses of.
I freeze when he pulls his keys from his pocket, then
shoves one into Henry’s front door. The dead bolt slides
back.
“You have a key?”
Sheridan speaks to the door, as if facing me is too painful.
“I moved in months ago. At first, he said I could crash here
anytime I needed, but after Thanksgiving, I moved into his
spare bedroom. My apartment was in Gaithersburg, and my
lease was up, and I was putting in extra time at the White
House…”
Commuting from Gaithersburg to the White House is like
trying to transit the distance between heaven and hell. But
that’s where junior government employees usually end up,
thanks to their modest paychecks.
Of course Henry would help Sheridan. How dare I not
notice, or step in to help like Henry did. I would have helped
Sheridan find a new place, or helped him with his move and
a deposit if he needed one.
Sheridan has moved the earth for me. The least I could do
was help him find a new apartment.
“Since this is technically also your house…” I give him a
nod. He lets me enter first.
We’re plunged into shadows.
The front door opens to a dark foyer and a half flight of
stairs going up to the main floor of the split-level home. Up
those steps, there’s an open living area and kitchen with a
glass wall overlooking Henry’s backyard. He keeps his
blackout curtains closed during the day, especially when he
has to sleep off night shifts at the White House.
Three bedrooms are up another set of stairs, on the
second story. Down is Henry’s garage.
We’re here because Henry was the agent in charge of
Brennan’s SUV when it crashed. I don’t want to do this, but
it’s procedure. We need to turn Henry’s life upside down,
because when this all gets out, everyone’s fingers will be
pointing at the Secret Service and at Henry. We’ve got to
protect him, and to do that, we’ve got to show the world who
he really was.
Sheridan falls in step behind me. He’s far too close.
“Turn on the light,” I snap.
“It’s not working.”
I take three quick steps away from him, toward the stairs
—
There’s a lamp lying on its side, dangling over the top
step. The shade is torn and half collapsed, as if it was thrown
down. I pull my weapon and hiss, “Sheridan.”
I feel him move in the darkness, hear him pull out his
weapon.
My back hits the wall silently. We creep up the stairs in
tandem, our steps synchronous. We pause before the top,
and there’s barely enough light bleeding through a narrow
slit in the curtains to see Sheridan crouched across from me.
The minimal light misses his eyes.
“Cover me.”
He nods. I give a silent count and then burst into Henry’s
living room, bellowing, “Secret Service!” as I move to the
right and hug the wall. My flashlight darts from corner to
corner, floor to ceiling.
Henry’s bookshelves are toppled, and his coffee table and
two couches have been thrown into a corner. His dining
table, a six-foot-long plate of glass, is shattered. The art he
had—a mishmash of sultry women and dogs playing poker
—lies in a pile, canvases torn, the frames snapped. His flat-
screen has been ripped from the wall, and giant cracks
spider-web the front.
“Clear on this level.” I pull open the curtains to let in the
light.
Henry’s place is absolutely destroyed.
Sheridan’s eyes are as big as dinner plates. He still has his
weapon drawn as he turns and tears up the stairs to the
second floor.
“Sheridan!”
I run after him, but he’s got too much of a head start.
He’s shoving open bedroom doors, running from room to
room. It’s not clearing procedure. He’s panicked.
“Sheridan, merde, stop!”
When I catch up to him, he’s punching the doorframe of
one of Henry’s guest bedrooms.
The room has been completely tossed. The single
mattress has been torn from the bed frame, suits and ties
ripped from the closet, and a laptop snapped in half and
thrown on the carpet. Boxers, undershirts, and loose
ammunition litter the floor.
“This your room?”
“Yes.” Sheridan kicks a pillow. It slams into the wall with
a puff.
“Get out of here. You know better than this. Go
downstairs. Clear the garage, and then take an inventory of
what’s missing. Don’t touch anything. This is a crime
scene.”
He curses and storms out, thunders down the stairs, and
then stomps through the lower level. The garage door slams.
I peer at the remnants of Sheridan’s life. Who did this to
Henry’s home and Sheridan’s bedroom? These are the
actions of someone who was searching for something. What
were they looking for?
Is there anything to find?
Bullets slide beneath my shoes. There’s practically
nowhere I can step that isn’t covered. I turn in a circle,
searching the corners and beneath the dresser and
Sheridan’s broken bed frame. His room is almost sterile, like
a dorm or a hotel room. There’s nothing that reveals
Sheridan’s inner world. No books, no movies. No condoms,
no porn mag he left open. Nothing. It’s too clean. Too bare.
Almost artificial.
I strip his sheet, run my hands around his mattress—
The slit is on the far corner, near the bottom seam. It’s
barely wide enough to poke my fingers in, but when I dig
around, I run into a small square of plastic. And when I pull
it out, I recognize it immediately.
It’s a memory card, the kind of portable storage device
everyone uses in their phones, cameras, and laptops.
It’s also the kind of storage that has been explicitly
banned by the White House. Memory cards have been the
number one culprit behind America’s most devastating
national security breaches.
Sheridan is not one of the five people authorized to carry
one at the White House.
Maybe this is just personal. Maybe he keeps his porn on it
and slides it into his tablet or laptop for his late-night
entertainment. Maybe this is nothing.
Maybe it is something.
Sheridan has always been a Rubik’s Cube to me, and even
when I think I’m lining up the colors on one side, I’m
nowhere near solving the puzzle.
I close my fist around the memory card and slide it into
my pocket.
 There are more bullets beneath Sheridan’s bed. I have a
lot of spare ammunition in my apartment, but this is like an
armory’s warehouse has been upended onto his bedroom
floor. I grab six like I’m playing jacks. Different weights,
different types. Different sizes: 9 mm, .357 Magnum, .40…
And three .45 copper hollow-points.
All six bullets go into my pocket with the memory card.
Henry’s other guest bedroom is a home gym, and I search
the spilled free weights and broken workout bench before
moving on to Henry’s bedroom.
Like Sheridan’s, the room has been tossed. His dresser is
knocked on its front, and his nightstand is busted into
pieces. Unlike Sheridan, Henry has a stash of porn
magazines. They’re shredded and scattered on the carpet.
The only thing untouched is a Marine Corps flag pinned high
on the wall over his bed.
Also unlike Sheridan, Henry hasn’t hidden anything in his
mattress. I check twice.
Downstairs, Sheridan is trying to search the piles of
destruction without touching anything. I veer into the
kitchen before joining him. Every dish is broken. The pots
and pans are all on the floor. Everything from the fridge has
been dumped. Milk and yogurt and eggs have congealed into
a rancid jelly on the tile.
I flip the kitchen light switch with the back of my hand,
and the overhead lights pop to life. Interesting.
Sheridan has calmed down by the time I join him. He rubs
his forehead with his wrist. “I’m sorry.” He’s embarrassed.
Mortified, actually. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
He doesn’t look at me when he asks, “Did you find
anything?”
I wait, and watch him stare at the wall. “No.”
 He doesn’t say a word, just keeps poking at the ruined
bookshelf and broken picture frames in the corner where
he’s squatting.
“When were you last here, Sheridan?”
“Yesterday morning, before my shift.”
He had the second shift yesterday. I met him before he
went on duty, and we had lunch together. I remember how
happy he looked when we walked down I Street. How
carefree.
That man is a million miles away from the one in front of
me now.
“When exactly?”
“Ten… no, ten thirty. I took the ten-forty Metro
downtown.”
That leaves a twenty-four-hour window between him
leaving and us arriving.
“Can you tell if anything is missing?”
He takes another look around the room. “I don’t think so.
The only thing that was really valuable was his TV.” He jerks
his head at the shattered flat-screen. “We’d watch Netflix or
play PlayStation together—” His voice breaks, and he
doesn’t finish.
“Where’s the PlayStation?”
“Over there. Someone took a hammer to it. It’s fucked.”
“Grab it. We’re taking it with us.”
He gives me a watery smile.
I don’t care about Henry and Sheridan’s saved games, and
I’m not bringing it out of sentimentality because they used
to build memories together late at night. Even though Henry
didn’t keep a computer in his home, he apparently couldn’t
say no to a video game console.
It’s something we learn in the Service, and something
Sheridan is about to learn, too. Every internet-connected
device is another access point.
 The White House fights off attempted hacks every second
of every day. Its defenses are the best in the world, but if a
hacker were to turn that kind of a brute force attack onto one
of the thousands of White House workers, how long would
we last under an onslaught?
Maybe something crawled up the pipe and slid into
Henry’s PlayStation. What would a hacker learn if they had
an open mic inside the house where two Secret Service
agents on the presidential protective detail lived?
Nothing in my apartment is connected to the internet. I
don’t have a smart fridge, smart coffee maker, smart photo
frame, or voice-activated anything. My laptop is a steel brick
encased in a Faraday cage. It hard connects to the Secret
Service network in the White House or at headquarters.
Never, ever the internet.
The only time I broke that rule was with a burner phone I
bought in Anacostia, but I smashed that and threw the pieces
into the Potomac the morning after I shattered Brennan’s
heart.
Sheridan winds the cord around the broken case and tucks
the PlayStation under his arm. “Can I grab some clothes?”
The memory card is molten in my pocket. Is he trying to
go back for it? “Be quick.”
While he’s upstairs, I move to the foyer. I flip the switch
for the light over the stairs, but it stays dark. There’s
sunlight brightening the space this time, enough for me to
see that the bulb is intact.
Sheridan comes down like a herd of elephants. He’s got a
spare suit, boxers, and a T-shirt crumpled in one hand. He’s
red, though, flushed from his neck to his ears. Does he know
his memory card is missing?
“Boost me up so I can reach the light bulb. And give me
your boxers.”
 He goes an even darker shade of maroon as he passes me
a pair of plaid boxers and then bends his knee to make a
step. When I climb on him, he grabs my leg behind my knee,
anchoring me against his shoulder.
His boxers cover my hand as I unscrew the light bulb. My
guess was right—it was already half out of the socket.
“Bring me down. Can you find a pencil? A wood one, not
mechanical.”
He sets off with a nod and returns a minute later
brandishing a pencil with the eraser chewed off.
Henry smokes cigars on his patio, and even though the
patio is destroyed, his lighter is right where he left it, on the
brick casing surrounding the window.
“Hold this.”
Sheridan takes back his boxers and the light bulb like he’s
holding a baby bird.
He’s silent as I set the pencil on fire, burning away the
wood until all that’s left is the graphite core. I blow away the
last of the flames and shake off the charcoal, then grind the
graphite until I have a pile in my palm. Voilà, homemade
fingerprint dust.
I tell him how to hold the bulb by the threads and spin it
as I shake the dust over the glass. He listens and follows my
directions exactly.
We both see it at the same time: a fingerprint, perfectly
captured on the side of the bulb, right where someone would
squeeze if they were unscrewing it from the socket. It’s too
sharp to be old. This is fresh. Brand new.
“Holy shit,” Sheridan breathes.
There’s only one reason for this bulb alone in the whole
house to be half-unscrewed: someone wanted to keep the
entryway dark.
If anyone arrived while whoever was tossing Henry’s
place was still around, a dark foyer at the bottom of the
stairs would be a perfect kill zone.
“Call Detective Hudson from Uniformed. I need him out
here immediately. Tell him to bring his M-RID and come
alone.”

H udson shows up in less than twenty minutes. He had to have

come code three from headquarters, but when he pulls into
the neighborhood, his unmarked cruiser is quiet and the
red-and-blues are off. He pulls in behind my SUV in a
blocking maneuver, penning us into Henry’s drive.
Sheridan and I are sitting on the tailgate. I’ve ditched my
suit jacket and dress shirt, and I’m down to the old T-shirt I
kept in the bottom of my locker, the one that’s too snug after
too many runs through the wash. Sheridan’s jacket is off, his
sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the top two buttons
of his dress shirt are open. His balled-up tie is shoved in his
pants pocket.
“What’s this all about?” Hudson asks, standing inside the
V of his open driver’s door with his arms propped on the
frame. Wariness pulses from him.
I don’t blame him for that. In his shoes, I wouldn’t trust
me right now, either. The rumors must be running hot and
heavy through the ranks, especially after my closed-door
chewing out with Vice President Marshall.
“In a few minutes, we’re going to report a break-in at a
Secret Service PPD agent’s residence. We’ll need a full
uniformed response.”
“Uh-huh. This break-in, it wouldn’t have been done by
the two of you, would it?”
“No. We have a lead on who it was, though.” I hold up the
graphite-covered bulb. In the sunlight, the fingerprint is like
a crater on the moon: obvious, huge, and almost textbook-
perfect. “Someone loosened it on their way in. Did you bring
your M-RID?”
Hudson nods. He still doesn’t move. His fingers move
over each other as he purses his lips.
If I need to, I’ll take the M-RID from him by force.
Hudson isn’t a bad guy. He’s in a shit position right now,
and that’s my fault. I’m putting him in the jam and turning
the screws. Either he disobeys a superior officer, or he rolls
the dice when it comes to the congressional inquiry. How
much loyalty do I have from my people?
Hudson pops his trunk and slams his door. He grabs what
looks like a laptop bag and brings it to the SUV, setting it
between Sheridan and me.
While the M-RID boots up, Hudson processes the print.
He takes photos from every angle, enough to digitally
reconstruct it, if necessary, then transfers the print onto
clear stickyback. He’s a pro, and he gets a clean, clear
transfer on his first try.
It all comes down to the M-RID.
The Mobile Rapid ID scanner is typically used on a
person, not a piece of tape. It can scan a fingerprint and
phone home to headquarters, where we’re networked into
every global database, and let us know in seconds exactly
who we’ve got in our hands. Information like that is a
necessity when we’re controlling access to the president.
Hudson pulls on a glove and lines the print up as best he
can against his own index finger. The same angle, same
position. He lays the print down, and the machine beeps as it
boots up.
We watch the Wait icon, a spinning Secret Service shield,
go around and around.
It’s taking longer than usual. Much longer.
I’m expecting Clint Cross to appear on the display. The
lone gunman assassin is the Secret Service’s worst
nightmare for exactly this reason. They’re nearly impossible
to predict or prevent.
What if the lone gunman has access to the same
intelligence you do? What if, in fact, they’ve manipulated the
intelligence and crafted their own perfect environment for
an assassination?
Clint had everything he needed for this attack. He knew
where Brennan was going and when, and, thanks to his CIA
access, he could easily have found out that Henry was my
second-in-command. Broken into his PlayStation and
eavesdropped. Broken into his home, too. After Director Liu
left him yesterday, did Clint come straight here?
Finally, the M-RID beeps. The screen flashes red. Match
Found.
Hudson’s eyes shift to mine.
Konstantin Petrov, Russian Embassy, Assistant Deputy for
Cultural Affairs.
I frown. “Run it again.”
Hudson does, but the print comes back with the same
result.
There must be some mistake. Konstantin is a senior FSB
officer. His name creeps up countless times in our
intelligence, especially when Russians in Washington or
London have taken suicidal plunges from their high-rise
balconies or shot themselves twice in the head.
“Fuck.” Sheridan vocalizes what I’m thinking.
There’s no way Sheridan would ever forget Konstantin
Petrov. Not after New York.
But what’s the intersection between Konstantin Petrov
and Clint Cross?
 Chapter Twenty-One

R eese
T hen

T here are few places more ulcer-inducing for the Secret

Service than New York City. Downtown Kabul, maybe. The
middle of a war zone.
Managing the advance for the United Nations General
Assembly every September is one of the biggest jobs in the
Service. We need to replicate the protective bubble of the
White House, one of the most controlled and hardened
locations on earth, in a miasma of unpredictability as secure
as Jell-O. One hundred and ninety-three heads of
government come to Manhattan, and each one receives a
combination of State Department Diplomatic Security
Service and Secret Service protection. The New York field
office preps and plans for this event 365 days a year.
I’m in New York to smooth together the detail and the
rest of the Service’s operations. Normally, this is a job I do
from the White House. I don’t need to be throwing my
weight around in person. This isn’t my turf, but I have
seniority since I’m the guy next to Brennan Walker.
 I drove up scant hours after I fled the Residence, checking
out an SUV and hitting the road before dawn. The taste of
Brennan lingers on my lips, and the cologne he wore for the
State Dinner clings to me like he’s only an inch away.
Distance. That’s what I—we—need. This thing between
us is too wild, too unpredictable.
I shouldn’t be hurling rules and regulations out the
window, but he makes me do exactly that. He makes me
want to shed this job like a snake’s skin, become a man who
could climb the stairs of the Residence and take his hand at
any time of the day or night. Or be someone who doesn’t
have to manufacture excuses to spend time together, like
running in the early morning or going to see his secretary to
get a glimpse of him through his office door.
I am bad for Brennan Walker. Everything we’ve done—
everything I’ve done—could tear him down. Destroy him.
Pas bon. You have to stay away from him.
Protect him from everything.
Especially yourself.

H enry must have gotten calls from the New York field office
bitching about how I’m running roughshod over the team up
here. Look, I don’t care that the radios were checked last
week. Check them again. Check the evacuation routes. Check
the hotel staff’s background clearances. Check the motor
pool and the garages. Check—
He puts Sheridan on an afternoon flight to JFK with
orders to glue himself to me.
I’m secretly thankful. When I’m alone, I’m spinning.
Quiet reminds me of the layers Brennan cloaks himself in.
We meet up outside the hotel, and I take Sheridan on a
walking tour of the security arrangements before he can set
down his bags. The Secret Service is taking over ten of the
fifty-five stories in one of the most exclusive hotels in the
city, one mile from United Nations headquarters, for two
weeks.
Brennan will be staying here for two nights.
The New York office has already run through the hotel
with sniffer dogs and metal detectors, electronic sweepers,
and portable X-ray machines. After Brennan’s suite was
declared clean, the entire floor was sealed, and an agent
stands guard twenty-four hours a day.
When Brennan arrives, the floor will be his alone. The
detail is divided between the floors directly above and below
Brennan. The next seven floors below all belong to the
president’s staff.
Sheridan is as wide-eyed as ever. Before this, the closest
he ever came to any presidential action was washing the
SUVs for the motorcade.
And our illicit midnight run.
We’re the first out-of-town agents to arrive, and our
rooms are right next door to each other. “Ditch your stuff
and change. I’m taking you to dinner.”
I’m going a mile a minute, trying to stay busy, trying to
keep my mind racing. Anything to not think of Brennan.
What is Brennan doing right now? Is he, like me, reliving
our stolen time? Playing each kiss we shared backward and
forward, or remembering the fog-shrouded afternoon when
we memorized the shape of each other’s lips?
Or has he realized the two of us are nothing but a bad
moon climbing in the darkness?
I talk Sheridan’s ear off at a pub on Madison, trying to fill
him with good advice. He hangs on my every word. As he
downs his third beer, the hero worship in his gaze sharpens
and shifts.
I would not have recognized the look in his eyes before.
 Before—before I saw that shine in my own reflection,
before I struggled with the rising flood of my own attraction
to Brennan—I would have blown right over the way
Sheridan’s eyes drop to my lips, how his cheeks and the
hollow of his throat turn as pink as a Gulf sunset. The way he
tries to cover and conceal his feelings, shy and bold in equal
measures.
The flames of his attraction brush over me across our
table.
Realization happens in a moment and passes just as
quickly.
Sheridan heads to the bar for another round. I watch him
go, seemingly alone in a sea of people, and after he orders,
he drops his head. His shoulders slump. His eyes slide closed
for three heartbeats before the bartender returns with our
beers.
He’s back to smiles and irrepressible good humor by the
time he’s returned to the table.
If I hadn’t spent the past few months waging my own war
against my subconscious, battling my own attraction to
Brennan, I wouldn’t understand.
But I do, now.
We down another round, talking about sports and traffic
and the best places to grab a burger or a cheesesteak around
the White House. Safe topics, neutral topics.
An hour later, I pay our tab, and we head back to the
hotel. He’s tipsy and quiet, and I catch his eyes sliding
sideways toward me in the reflections of taxicab windows
and Duane Reade storefronts.
We’re back at our rooms before he speaks again. “Sir?”
Merde. “Yes, Sheridan?”
Nervousness rolls off him. “For a while now, I’ve wanted
to tell you…” He swallows. Hesitates. “Thank you,” he blurts.
“I never thought I’d be here, like this. I’d heard so much
about you before we met at RTC, and getting to work with
you now, and learn from you, is…” He laughs like he can’t
believe he’s standing here with me, saying these words. “I
have you to thank for everything. You gave me a chance. So…
thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You got yourself noticed by being damn
good. You put in that work.”
“But—”
“Wait until we’re back in Washington before you tell me
this is your dream come true. We’ve got a year’s worth of
work and six days to do it. Sleep well tonight, because it’s the
last time you’re going to get more than three hours
horizontal until this is all over.”
There’s still heat in his eyes, and his gaze burns me as we
stand in the hallway staring at each other. His pupils are
obsidian pools.
Finally, he nods, says, “Goodnight, sir,” and slides his
keycard into his door.
“Goodnight, Sheridan.”

S ix days fly by .
Sheridan and I work our asses off. There are no more
nights out, no more shared beers, and no more ignited stares
and accidentally revealed attractions.
When Air Force One lands, I send Sheridan to join Henry
as they bring Brennan to the hotel.
Getting the president in and out of Manhattan is a
Faustian bargain with physics. It doesn’t matter how well
you control the streets and intersections, there’s always
going to be a diversion, or a crash, or a detour. Helipads have
fallen out of favor in the past three decades, and where it
used to be easy to fly the president from LaGuardia to any
place in Midtown, now we’re stuck with our mile-long
motorcade and an aneurysm whenever we move the
president around the city.
The presidential party descends in a frenzy, groups of
twenty spitting out of the hotel’s elevators on each floor,
clutching their cell phones and garment bags and arguing
about what restaurant to go to. They have the pick of the
city, but Brennan will be heading to the UN’s rooftop bar for
the welcome reception.
I’m rooted in the command center, one of the hotel rooms
we’ve taken over. All the room’s furniture is gone, and rows
of folding tables covered with laptops fill the space. Agents
monitor a hundred intercept feeds across the spectrums. The
lighting is dim, a blue glow that gives all of us a pasty hue.
Front and center on our surveillance monitors is
Brennan.
His arrival is organized chaos, a thousand moving pieces
with no room for error, but my people move Brennan from
the motorcade to the elevator and into his suite in under a
minute.
He’s usually a perfect blend of Left Coast casual and
presidential authority. Running leggings and a T-shirt. Jeans
and a Henley. Effortlessly sensual suits neatly molded
around his body. He carries the office of the presidency and
the power he holds with a serene strength that comes from a
stoic confidence built into his being. He’s as sure of his
principles as he is of breathing, and it’s so damn attractive.
That is not the man I see on the monitors.
He slumps in the elevator, leaning against the back wall
and crossing his arms as he stares at the floor. The line of his
shoulders is broken, and the steel in his spine seems to have
vanished. He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. Dark
circles smudge the skin beneath his eyes, and there are
hollows under his cheekbones.
 I escape to the motorcade. We’ve pulled up the secondary
fleet while the primary refuels and resets after making the
airport run. Fifteen SUVs idle in front of the hotel, with
thirty NYPD motorcycle cops loitering on either end of our
vehicles to push back traffic and the flood of humanity. The
whole street is blocked off. There are supporters and
protesters beyond the barricades with signs both for and
against Brennan.
Tomorrow is the General Assembly. He’ll address the
whole body of the UN, and the day after, he’s chairing a
head-of-government-level session of the Security Council.
In the history of the UN, such a high-level meeting has only
happened a handful of times.
This is the defining moment of his presidency. This is
what will determine how his administration is remembered.
He is on the cusp of the two most important days of his life.
Stay away. You are bad for Brennan Walker, and for the world.
If he and I make a misstep and history sinks its teeth into
him, his legacy will be tainted forever.
I’m not worth that. I’m not.
Henry takes the lead slot for the motorcade to the UN, and
I ride with Nuñez in the chaser SUV.
There’s a rhythm to these gatherings. Every nation’s
security service negotiates with each other to establish their
leaders’ arrival time. Well, everyone except us. We dictate
what we’re doing. You either play ball with the Secret Service
or we’ll shove the baseball bat up your ass. We told the world
when Brennan was going to arrive for the evening reception,
and we are on time to the second.
So why the fuck is Russian president Nikita Kirilov
climbing out of his presidential limo at the UN exactly when
we were supposed to arrive?
The damn Russian security contingent has filled the
entire UN plaza with its motorcade, leaving us dangling out
on First Avenue, completely exposed.
And they seem to be in no hurry to move.
Within two seconds, six of our SUVs form a phalanx
around Brennan’s vehicle, creating an immediate protective
blockade, and I jump out of the chaser car and run toward
the UN plaza. Sheridan and Nuñez appear on either side of
me as the CAT team surrounds Brennan’s vehicle and those
six flanking SUVs with their weapons drawn.
President Kirilov loiters at the entrance, and until he’s
safely delivered inside the UN proper, everyone in his
motorcade appears to be under orders to remain where they
are. Never mind my agents losing their shit or the NYPD
screaming at the Russian drivers to move their asses. They
are as immovable as ice.
Russia’s version of the Secret Service is just better-armed
FSB agents. As we near their motorcade, the rear guard, a
team of five dressed in head-to-toe black and carrying
MP5s, shift their fingers to their triggers.
“Get me Anatoly,” I bark at the nearest Russian. “Now!”
Anatoly Anisimov, the FSB chief in Washington and my
Russian counterpart, saunters toward me down the flank of
the motorcade. He’s a large, stocky man, and it’s easy to
underestimate him as just another middle-aged Russian.
Three years ago, in London, I watched him deck one of his
own team, lay the bear of a man out cold with one punch. He
stepped over the unconscious body, and, at a flick of his
wrist, three of his agents dragged their former coworker
away.
He’s dressed in a black-on-black suit and has grown a
beard since I last saw him—close-cropped and shot with
silver—but instead of looking older, he looks more sinister.
“Anatoly, what the fuck? Move your motorcade.”
“President Kirilov has not entered the UN yet.”
 “Your president isn’t supposed to be here. You know
President Walker is arriving.”
“President Kirilov insisted.” He shrugs as if to say
everything is out of his control. It’s the Russian way: nothing
is ever their own fault. “My president is interested in
speaking with your president.”
Warnings go off like a five-alarm fire inside my skull.
That sounds like a fucking disaster. “No. Absolutely not.”
“President Kirilov insists.”
“I don’t give a shit. Move your fucking motorcade now.”
“It’s a good day, no? President Kirilov might enjoy the
sunshine for a while.” Anatoly turns away.
Putain de merde. I radio Henry on a private channel and
relay Kirilov’s demand. “It’s up to Ranger. I can throw down
out here, or he can come out and say hello. I’m up for option
number one, but Ranger has to make the call.”
“Roger. Hold one.” I wait. Henry’s talking to Brennan in
their SUV. Is Brennan as furious as I am? Is he furious with
me for letting this happen?
“He’ll come out.”
“Merde. Roger that.” I call Anatoly back and give him the
word.
“See how easy this is to resolve?”
“Tu me fais chier, Anatoly. We’re not fucking done here.”
He gives me a two-finger salute and a smirk as he walks
back up his motorcade to speak with President Kirilov. I
watch them talk. Watch Kirilov smile, as warm as a viper.
There’s another man listening at Kirilov’s side.
Recognition hits me like a sledgehammer. Just what we need,
another FSB heavyweight within spitting distance of
Brennan.
The Russian drivers start to crawl forward. “Prepare to
move.” I’m speaking into my wrist mic, radioing the detail.
“Give me a double wedge around Ranger as soon as he’s out
of the limo. There are a lot of ’em out here, and I’ve got eyes
on at least three BOLOs. Do not let yourselves get
surrounded.”
The Russian motorcade inches clear, but all the other
Russians stay, surrounding their president and cluttering up
the drive. Nuñez, Sheridan, and the CAT team start bellowing
for the Russians to “Back the fuck up.”
They shuffle in place and don’t move.
To make it even worse, the media is here. There’s at least
twenty cameras and three live video feeds. They’ve got a
directional mic to capture what happens between Brennan
and President Kirilov, too. Fucking vultures.
I order Sheridan and Nuñez to set up by the doors to the
UN. If we need to, we’ll drag Brennan out of there and get
him in the building, then bar the Russians out. Two of my
advance teams are already inside. The lobby team is keyed up
and ready to go, and I can see their silhouettes through the
glass. Hands on their weapons, ready to draw.
We park the motorcade back twenty feet and fill the gap
between us and the Russians with the CAT team. CAT is
armed to the teeth, each man carrying six weapons and
enough bullets to shoot out every window of the UN. I don’t
want today to be the day the Secret Service gets into a
firefight with the FSB, but if it happens, our guys will come
out on top.
But this isn’t academic. It isn’t a thought exercise. It isn’t
training. I’m not at fucking Rowley, and there isn’t an
instructor in that SUV. This is Brennan’s life the Russians are
fucking with. Fury blazes inside me. My vision narrows to a
pinpoint.
Henry is on Brennan’s right as soon as he’s out of the
limo. I’m on his left, taking the lead slot, my body placed
squarely in front of Brennan’s heart.
 The rest of the detail fall into a double wedge formation,
building a wall between Brennan and the armed FSB agents,
who seem equally protective of their president.
Kirilov moves first, striding through his agents like he’s
parting the Red Sea. “President Walker,” Kirilov says.
Anatoly is on his right, and I’m eyeball-fucking the man on
Anatoly’s right.
Konstantin Petrov is at the very top of multiple Secret
Service watch lists, and now he’s less than ten feet away
from Brennan. Not good, not fucking good.
“President Kirilov.” Brennan sounds pissed. He doesn’t
smile. “This is rather dramatic, don’t you think?”
Kirilov reaches the outer edge of his agents. There are
only two layers of my people between him and Brennan.
Brennan beckons silently for more room. Henry is stone-
faced as he shifts his body between Konstantin and Brennan
and lays his hand on the grip of his weapon.
The Russians are starting to spread to the wings, like
they’re trying to pin us down.
“I wanted to make sure the whole world could hear what
we have to say to each other.” Kirilov holds out his hand.
Brennan doesn’t reciprocate.
“Everything has already been said. My position is firm.
Your country’s actions cannot be allowed to continue.
Innocent men, women, and children are being slaughtered,
and we will step in.”
“I find it amusing that the United States is suddenly so
committed to preventing atrocities and saving lives when for
years you were in the business of committing atrocities and
taking lives. How many are dead today who would be alive
were it not for the United States?”
The vein in Brennan’s temple throbs.
“Russia has brought stability to the places you abandoned
and left for the dogs. Now you want to come back to the
world with that famous American doctrine of ‘Kill others to
save lives.’ But this time, you’re coming to kill Russians.
This will not be allowed. If you murder one Russian life, Mr.
President, we will respond. Are you ready to be America’s
last president?”
This is worse than I ever imagined. The media is gobbling
it up. Cameras flash nonstop. I’m seeing stars as I keep my
eyes locked on Brennan. He’s furious. I can see it in every
tense line of his face, every clenched muscle.
And my people are starting to lose their cool. The tension
isn’t ratcheting, it’s jackhammering, and they’re eyeballing
the Russians as they try to outflank us. CAT has held back the
right, but the left is pushing closer. The FSB is trying to
encircle Brennan and cut off his route into the building.
Is this purely political posturing, or is there a darker
design to their bullshit?
I’m not going to wait around to find out.
“Neither I nor the United States will be lectured by you,
and I will not entertain your political charades. You,
President Kirilov,” Brennan says, “are responsible for the
destruction and slaughter of countless lives. You are
drowning in blood, and I will not rest until I personally drag
you into the International Criminal Court and hold you
accountable for each of your crimes.”
This ends now.
“Crash, crash!” I holler into the radio. It’s the signal to
evac, to scramble, to get the president out of there. I’m not
letting the Russians move another micron on us. I spin to
Brennan and grab his elbow, roll him into my arms, bend
him double and shelter him beneath me—
I don’t know who throws the first punch.
In less than a second, it’s an all-out brawl. My agents
unload on the Russians, fists and elbows flying. The Russians
fight dirty, and two of my people go down as their knees are
kicked in.
I whip out my collapsible baton and swing, beating a path
for Brennan and me toward the UN doors. Fists slam into my
ribs, my back. Sheridan and Nuñez are rushing toward me.
“Cover us!” I shout.
Sheridan hurls himself through the brawl, and in a
moment, he’s at my side, throwing himself in front of me
and Brennan.
Konstantin appears out of thin air. How did he get
through the bare-knuckle fight? I scan him for a weapon and
spot him reaching for a pistol in a holster beneath his jacket.
“Gun!”
Sheridan launches at Konstantin. It’s a textbook last-
ditch covering move, a choice made when there are no other
options. If Konstantin fires, he’ll be shooting point-blank
into Sheridan’s heart.
But there’s a corollary: inside ten feet, a shooter likely
can’t get the shot off before you’re on them, and it’s best to
rush with violence and bring them down fast and hard.
Sheridan’s fist slams into the side of Konstantin’s skull
before Konstantin wraps him in a bear hug and takes him to
the ground. Konstantin’s gun clatters across the concrete,
where it’s scooped up by one of my agents.
Konstantin lands three hard punches as Sheridan lies
dazed. His head cracks against the concrete before his arm
darts up and he closes his hand around Konstantin’s throat.
Sheridan has bought me the seconds I need to get
Brennan clear, and I seize them. He headbutts Konstantin,
and they go rolling in a flurry of punches and grapples as I
barrel into the UN lobby. Once we’re inside, a perimeter
forms behind us as we race to the elevators.
Tires squeal. I shield Brennan with my body, bracing for
the inevitable car crashing through the glass.
 Nothing happens. More tires squeal as sirens rise. The
Russian motorcade is roaring away, probably with Anatoly,
Konstantin, and Kirilov. They’ve left the riot and half their
FSB agents behind, and the fists are still flying.
My people aren’t fighting to protect Brennan anymore.
They’re fighting to fight.
The NYPD arrives and jumps into the free-for-all. Now
cops are throwing Russians and Secret Service agents left
and right as they try to break things up.
I haul Brennan inside the waiting elevator at the end of
the lobby. The Secret Service has the fire control key
engaged, and I shut the doors and hit the button for the roof
before I stop to breathe.
“Are you all right?” I collapse my baton and shove it back
into its holster. Two steps bring me to Brennan as I check
him for injuries. God help Anatoly and his Russians if
Brennan has even one mark on him.
All the fury has drained from Brennan. He takes my hands
in his. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m good.” I have no idea how I am.
“You’re shaking.” He studies me with that intense,
world-stopping gaze. “Hold the elevator.”
It’s not a request, it’s an order, and it’s coming from the
president. I twist the key to Stop, and the elevator brakes
squeal and bring us to a jerking halt just above the twentieth
floor.
Adrenaline is still pumping through me, and I’m still
obsessively checking Brennan for injuries. “I’m sorry. Putain
de bordel de merde—”
“It’s not your fault, Reese.”
“Your security is my responsibility. All that out there is
absolutely my fault.”
I don’t realize how close we’re standing until he brings
his hand up and brushes back a strand of my hair that’s
fallen over my forehead. “It’s not your fault President Kirilov
wanted to play political theater.”
My eyes flutter closed. My breath rattles.
“Are your agents okay?”
My radio is sputtering with reports from the motorcade
and the lobby. Two of my guys are being seen by the medical
team and the presidential physician. The rest of the injuries
seem to be bruised knuckles, split lips, and black eyes. “It
sounds like the Russians got the worst of it. They’ve cleared
out, and all new arrivals are being routed to the garage.”
My people aren’t moving from the front of this building.
“Keep me updated. I want to know how everyone is.”
I nod. He takes my other hand in his. “I’m okay,” he says
softly. “You got me out of there. And, despite what the Secret
Service believes, you really can’t control everything in the
world.”
“I can try.” He smiles. I’m not joking. “You did a good job
down there.”
“There will be sound bites, I’m sure.”
“You turned Kirilov’s theater around on him. Whatever he
wanted, he didn’t get, Brennan.”
His eyes flare as I say his name. Stay away, Reese. I can’t
move.
Our gazes lock. “I’ve missed you.” Brennan’s hand
squeezes mine.
You are bad for him.
Protect him from everything.
Especially yourself.
All week, I’ve been trying to starve this conflagration
between us of oxygen before it blows up in our faces, but
here I am.
I rest my forehead against his and breathe him in. “I’ve
missed you, too, mon cher.”
 My radio squawks. “Rooftop to Quarterback. What’s the
holdup?”
I key my mic. Brennan is so close the agents on the other
end can probably hear his breathing. “Ranger needed a
minute. We’re on the way.”
Brennan steps back, straightens his shirt and tie, and
adjusts his jacket.
“You look perfect, mon cher. You always do.”
He clears his throat as a flush climbs his neck and spreads
over his cheeks. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t look at
him. Suddenly there’s too much tension between us, like
we’re two magnets that don’t know how to interact if we’re
not fusing together.
He spends the next four hours at the reception. The brawl
is the talk of the UN, and Brennan downplays its intensity
while playing up the heroics of the Secret Service. By the end
of the night, Sheridan practically fought every Russian
single-handed, while I’m his bayou knight in shining armor.
The NYPD doesn’t even try to arrest the Russian agents.
Not on UN territory, and not while the fight raged in the
space between the US and Russian motorcades. There’s
enough of a question of what laws apply to whom and whose
jurisdiction everyone’s feet were in that no one wants to
touch that legal ulcer.
Instead, the UN and the United States file official protests
against Russia before the sun sets. President Kirilov is in the
air on his way back to Moscow two hours later, a scathing
press release in his wake.
I don’t stay for the reception. I can’t be at Brennan’s side
that long, fighting to keep what’s twisting and tangling
inside of me from showing. Everything is too close, too hot,
too ready to burst.
I take an SUV to the hospital where two of my agents are
getting their knees scanned. Both have torn ligaments, and I
send them back to Washington.
Sheridan is there, too, being evaluated for a concussion,
and I wait with him until the scans come back. He’s ragged,
his suit torn, his shirt blood-spattered, and one of his eyes is
swollen shut. But his cheeks are peach-pink when I sit at his
bedside, and he and I talk softly about nothing until he’s
cleared. No concussion, and other than being battered and
bruised, he’s going to be fine.
He’s quiet on the drive back to the hotel.
“What you did was very brave, Sheridan,” I tell him as the
lights of Midtown shine on us. Fluorescent melts him until
he’s neon and darkness. “You probably saved the president’s
life. And mine.” My blinker clicks. Pedestrians crossing the
sidewalk in front of us laugh, sounding faraway from inside
the up-armored SUV. “Do you want to take some time? Go
back to Washington—”
“No,” he says quickly. Maybe too quickly. “No, I want to
stay. What I did…” He shrugs. “It wasn’t anything special. It
was just the right thing to do.”
“You’re a good man, Sheridan.”
He gazes out the passenger window and watches Midtown
drift away.
I help him to his room, help him out of his ruined suit,
and give him the muscle relaxer the ER prescribed him. Our
hands brush as I pass him a bottle of water. His eyes flare.
“I want you to drive POTUS tomorrow morning.” I’ve just
put him in one of the highest-level positions on the detail.
Henry’s slot. My right hand position.
His lips part as he stares up at me. “Really?”
“You’ve earned it. For tomorrow, at least.” I tousle his
hair. “Get some sleep.”
His eyelids are falling fast, and he’s asleep before I’ve
shut his hotel room door on my way out. He’s smiling,
though.
 Henry and I are up until after midnight on a conference
call with Director Britton, going over the brawl. The UN
turned over the security footage to the Secret Service, and
there’s a clear image of one of the FSB agents throwing the
first punch. It’s a fucking miracle no one was shot or killed.
Half of my people are sore in the morning, and I let the
brawlers sit it out in the command center and rotate fresh
agents in. The last thing we need today is for the global
media to be focusing on stiff, limping Secret Service agents.
Sheridan shows up in the command center with a black
eye, a split lip, and a grin.
Brennan eats breakfast in his room, running through a
flurry of quick meetings with his staff. Then he sends
everyone out, and Matt calls me in. He wants to phone my
guys who were sent home. One doesn’t answer his cell, so
Brennan gives him a little shit on his voicemail for missing
the president’s call before thanking him for his actions and
wishing him well. The other is woozy from pain meds, and
there are a lot of slurred Yes, sirs before Brennan also wishes
him well and hangs up.
“That will mean a lot to everyone.” Both of my guys were
shit-scared when I found them at the hospital. I promised I
would stand up for them against any disciplinary action, but
they were more concerned about letting Brennan down than
their own personnel files. We’re a world away from when my
people were planning their funerals after that pull-up
competition on Air Force One.
“It’s the least I could do.” We can’t say anything else,
because Matt is in the room, but we share a smile until Matt
announces it’s time to head out.
“Ranger coming down the elevator in two,” I say to my
wrist mic.
When we hit the street, I have Sheridan waiting outside
the SUV to load Brennan. As I expected, Brennan beams,
pumps his hand, and thanks him for taking down Konstantin
and giving us a path to escape.
Sheridan is electric with elation as he climbs back behind
the wheel. Only he would get his ass kicked by an FSB agent
and still think the General Assembly is his dream come true.
The day is long and dull, with pockets of frenetic activity
as we negotiate moving Brennan through a building stuffed
with world leaders. There’s an extra edge to our attitude
today, and no one tries to play fuck-fuck games with the
Secret Service.
The president of the UN opens the session, and by
tradition, Brazil’s leader speaks first. After that, it’s the
United States’ turn, and Brennan takes the podium to a more
energetic round of applause than usual. The UN normally has
all the excitement of a golf game.
Brennan searches the crowd and finds me. I’m against the
wall with fifty other detail leads from other nations.
Sheridan is next to me, sporting his black eye with pride.
Our eyes meet, and in front of 193 nations and the world’s
media, Brennan smiles at me.
I can’t help it. I smile back. Black lightning between us
strikes again. The world—literally, the world that surrounds
us that moment—fades, until it’s just him and me.
Dangerous.
Brennan stays at the UN for the rest of the day, and in the
evening, the second shift picks him up and delivers him to a
restaurant uptown for a dinner with his advisors while I head
back to the hotel with Henry and Sheridan. We order pizza
and kick up our feet in the command center. Sheridan falls
asleep while we wait, and he doesn’t stir when Henry starts
throwing Skittles at him. When he finally opens his eyes, he
hurls the Skittles he’s secretly collected at Henry in one
massive fling.
 I let them both go for the rest of the night. Day one has
been a success, and there’s usually a pretty good gathering
of security personnel filling up the Midtown bars. As they
head out, I hear Henry say, “You can get any chick you want
tonight with that black eye and your story of kicking Russian
ass. Hell, you can probably get a handful of ’em.”
Sheridan’s eyes shift to me before the elevator doors glide
shut.
By eleven p.m., Brennan is back from dinner and alone in
his suite. His staff have wandered down to the hotel bar or
are tucked in their beds. All is calm and quiet, at least on the
surface.
I’m watching traffic from the window in my room.
Is Brennan getting ready for tomorrow? Trying to
unwind? Does he do yoga on the road, or only when he’s sure
to be alone? I’ve never heard a whisper of him doing yoga
before he told me, and most presidents and politicians live
with their staff inside their private lives. Staff gossip is
where half of the Secret Service’s files are built from.
Is he thinking of me as much as I am of him?
Dangerous.
Stay away.
Vibrating buzzes from beneath my pillow. My eyes close,
and my forehead hits the glass. If I were serious about
walking away from Brennan, I would have destroyed that
burner. But I kept it, and more than that, I kept it close. I
kept my connection to Brennan in my hands.

Brennan: Are you there?

Stay away.
But I’m fighting myself, my mind at war with heart, both
shredding between my duty and my longing.
 It’s not about me. It’s not about what I want or what I
crave. It’s not about how I’ve lost control or how this man
has turned my life upside down. It’s about him. It’s about
protecting him—not just physically, but protecting
everything he’s trying to accomplish. All the good he can do.
Am I selfish enough to rip him from the world? Tear apart
the dreams and good deeds he has inside himself?
Stay away.
Don’t text back, Reese.

Me: I’m here.

Brennan: Can I see you?

You are bad for him.

Dangerous, to him and for him.

Me: I’m on my way.

 Chapter Twenty-Two

B rennan
T hen

I tried to fall into my routine, but I can’t get past the first
asana. My breath work is shot. My focus is ruined. My
mind flies from thought to thought. President Kirilov and his
threats. The UN. My Security Council speech tomorrow.
Reese.
Always Reese.
Was our goodbye on the Truman Balcony goodbye
forever? Was that it?
We came together like the wind, sliding into each other’s
lives. He was already my addiction before we crossed the line
—crossed a dozen lines—but now I know what his lips taste
like and what his body feels like.
The control I’ve built up for two decades has slipped
away. Discipline, gone. Inhibitions, gone. I can’t clear my
mind for even one minute. Reese is always there, and my
heart goes wild, my lungs stutter, my palms itch, and the
hunger within me explodes.
 I want Reese’s kisses and his touch. I want him over me,
beneath me, surrounding me. Arms encircling me so there is
nothing but him.
And I want him beside me. On the sofa while our fingers
tangle and we talk for hours, or in the kitchen as I cook for
us both. Watching the rain, or running together, or sitting in
the fog. I feel whole when he’s near, as if he’s carrying a
piece of me. Before we met, there was an emptiness in my
life, but now—
Knocking at my door breaks my reverie. I texted Reese
four minutes ago. It could be him. It could also be any one of
my staff. Valerie Shannon, with another message from the
Brits or the Germans, the French or the Finns. My
speechwriter, here to fine-tune another half dozen words in
tomorrow’s address. Dean McClintock, with news of an
unfolding nightmare in Ukraine or deep within Russia.
They’ve launched. We have twenty minutes, Mr. President.
Deep breath. I told my staff to take the night. We’ve been
running hard for months, and never more so than the past
few weeks, trying to build this alliance through the state
dinner, and now here at the UN. Take the night and rest.
I tried to follow my own advice, but—
Reese hovers in the doorway, eyes bright, grin small and
subdued, one hand squeezing the doorjamb and the other
buried in his suit pants pocket. “Hey.”
I bring him into my suite. My bedroom is to the left, and
to the right, Shannon and Matt have set up a temporary work
table. Empty spaces reveal where their laptops drop into the
messy piles of folders, speech drafts, handwritten notes, and
rescribbled schedules.
Reese stands behind the love seat in the center of the
suite’s sitting room. His eyes dart from wall to wall as his
fingers play over the seam where the fabric meets polished
wood. “I thought you might be relaxing. Doing yoga.”
 “I tried. I couldn’t focus.”
“I don’t remember a yoga mat ever being on your packing
sheet.”
Everything I bring, everywhere I go, is checked and
rechecked by the Secret Service. A yoga mat would have been
noticed. Commented on.
My yoga is mine alone, something I’ve never had to share
with the media. I shake my head. “No mat. I’ve trained
myself to practice in any space I’m in.” Or I’ve tried to. “My
concentration is gone tonight.”
“Nervous about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, and other things.”
Silence descends like a knife.
His eyes flick to mine. I’m beside him at the back of the
sofa, and if I reach out the slightest bit, my fingertips could
brush the flat planes of his stomach. He’s here, and he’s so
close. This is the worst kind of bliss, having him here and
not being able to reach out. It’s torturous to have wanted and
craved and then had a taste of everything, only to be stuck in
this uncertain morass.
“Is there anything I can do?” His voice is like deep water,
like veins of gold in blackened earth.
Kiss me. Take me in your arms. Tell me you didn’t mean it
when you said you had to go.
He clears his throat. “Would it help if you had someone to
do it with? Your yoga, I mean.”
I blink back to reality, to this moment and to Reese. Yoga.
Right. He’s chewing on the inside of his lip, hesitant in a way
I’ve never seen before. Keeping distance between us, even
though we’re inches apart, close enough to feel the heat of
each other.
“I’ve never shared it with anyone. Well, except for the
video I sent you.”
He smiles.
 “I’ll show you some asanas. You’ll probably need to take
your jacket off. You’ll need to move a little easier.”
He nods and sheds his jacket, then starts removing the
arsenal on his belt. A pair of handcuffs, his collapsible baton,
three spare magazines of ammunition, his radio and
earpiece. He leaves his weapon holstered on his hip, but
undoes the top few buttons on his dress shirt and pulls it
over his head. “Should I take off my shoes, too?”
I’m barefoot, and my toes are curling into the carpet. “It
will be easier for you if you are.”
Shoes and socks come off, and then he’s standing in front
of me in just his suit pants, undershirt, and holstered
weapon.
We start with the adho mukha svanasana. I show him how
to place his hands and how to press against the floor with
both his fingertips and his heels to ease the weight from his
wrists and ankles.
“Press your hips to the ceiling. Try to lengthen your
spine.”
We raise our hips together, side by side behind the sofa.
His legs are long and straight, and the knurls of his spine
rise through his T-shirt.
I want to run my hand down his back. Run my lips down
his back. Press my cheek to his shoulder as I wrap my arms
around his waist.
His eyes meet mine.
“Breathe deeply for five seconds.”
The pose requires ten seconds of steady breath work, but
if I can manage five seconds with him beside me, I’ll claim
victory.
From there, I guide him into the ardha kapotasana. “Lift
your left knee to your chest, then bring it down to the floor
like you’re about to sit cross-legged.”
 I demonstrate. His lips part as I move, his eyes glued to
my flexing thigh.
His movement is shaky, and he wobbles, almost falls, but
gets his leg down, folded and lying flat in front of him.
“Now slowly lower yourself as much as you can.” I end up
in the splits, one leg straight behind me, the other folded
forward, my back straight with my hands resting on my
ankle.
“Wow.” He’s frozen, half-down, half-up, like a crumpled
piece of paper about to blow over in the wind. “Merde,
you’re flexible.”
I smile. “How low can you go?”
“Not anywhere close to that.”
“Try to lie forward. Bend your back leg if you need to, like
a windmill.”
He nods and, carefully, gets himself down. Both knees are
bent, but his hips are flat, and he’s belly down and lying over
his knee. “God, I can feel things stretching I never knew
could stretch.” His voice is almost a groan.
“It really opens up the glutes and the lower back.”
His eyes flash and, again, drift over me, lingering on my
hips, my legs, my ass. He closes his eyes and rolls his face to
the mat. “How many breaths?”
“Ten.”
We breathe together, inhaling and exhaling in the same
cadence. His hair falls forward, obscuring his eyes. I should
focus on my breath work and the grounding of my body, but
I don’t. Instead, my gaze wanders over Reese. Over the tight
cotton across his shoulder blades and the way his undershirt
rides up in the back, revealing the soft, hidden skin there.
His suit pants are straining, clenched around his thighs and
his round, firm ass, and—
I clench my teeth and shut my eyes. “Okay, let’s stretch
that out.”
 Into the utthita ashwa sanchalanasana, a forward lunge
with your arms extended over your head. Lengthening after
curling tight can be a rush, and I always feel like my legs are
longer, my back straighter. I reach, chin up, eyes closed—
Reese stumbles. His legs are shaking, and his center of
gravity is off. His arms wave, almost pinwheel, and then he
falls into me.
My arms wrap around him and bring him in as we go
down, softly hitting the carpet in a tangle of limbs. He’s half
beneath me, one arm around me in an instinctive protective
hold, one thigh slipped through mine like we’re about to
grapple. When we land, he rolls, pushing me down to the
carpet and looming over me. Chests together, his arm under
me, my thigh pressed against his hip.
Time stills.
My fingers glide through his hair. Strands sweep across
my palm and then fall away, drifting back down in front of
his forehead. I hesitate, then cradle his cheek in my hand.
I don’t want to fight this. I want to surrender. I want to
live outside time, where Reese and I can fall in love, and the
kiss I so desperately want from him isn’t fraught with
consequence. I want to be someone I’m not, someone who
can love the man I need.
He’s staring into me, pupils blown wide, lips parted,
breath coming hard and fast. His hand rises, stills, then
grabs my wrist. Is he going to push me away?
He turns with a sigh and grazes his lips over my inner
arm, sliding his hand up until his fingers tangle with mine.
“Brennan.”
There is nothing else but this moment. The pound of my
heart and his pulse. The depth of his gaze, so deep and dark I
feel like I’m falling into him. I am. I’m already falling for
Reese.
I am falling in love with you.
 We move at the same time, like we’re thinking the same
thoughts at the same moment. He leans down, and I raise my
head. We keep our eyes open, staring, staring, until our lips
meet and merge.
Reese groans. His eyes close, and he cages me to the floor.
His knees land on the outside of my hips. My arms snake
around his neck, and my hands lose themselves in his hair.
Our noses brush. He lays his body on mine, presses his hips
against my own. Drags his hard cock, encased in his suit
pants, across mine, trapped in my leggings.
I gasp, and he takes it inside him in another kiss. He
surrounds me, inside and out, consuming me. He pushes his
forehead against mine, one hand cradling my jaw.
The muscle in his cheek is firing. His walls have dropped,
and I see everything. The desire I tasted on him. The
electricity binding us together that sparked the first moment
we laid eyes on each other. An almost debilitating caution.
And hope, that dangerous inferno, rising from him even as
he tries to smother it.
“What are you thinking?” My voice is thick and heavy.
“Things I shouldn’t be, mon cher.”
Surrender with me. Surrender to our connection and the love
we can build between us. We’re at a crossroads, and one choice
leads to a life together while the other is only suffocating
loneliness.
“Brennan, I need to be stronger than this. It’s my job to
protect you—”
“You are not a danger to me. There is nothing to protect
me from. We can make this work, Reese. I know we can.”
His eyes slam shut. I drag my hands down to his neck, his
face. Hold him to me. “This is exactly where I belong. Here,
with you.”
His eyes open, and he kisses me.
 He kisses me like the sun kisses the earth when it rises.
Slow, an unfolding of warmth, of playful light and hints of
heat. And then, all at once, bright and hot and burning away
all doubt. We come together like this is fate, like I was always
meant to kiss him and he was always meant to kiss me.
We’re beyond reason now. He grasps my shirt, tugging it
upward, hands exploring my stomach and chest. My lips
travel down his jaw, his neck. I bury my face in the hollow of
his throat.
This is going to happen. There’s no stopping us, not this
time.
We’re rolling, kissing, stripping each other. He’s on top,
and I’m tugging his undershirt over his head, then burying
my face in his chest, kissing my way from nipple to nipple.
Biting down on the curve of his pec and drinking in his
groan. He holds me to him, gasping my name. My leg wraps
around his waist, and I grind up into him, my cock so hard
it’s—
We roll again, and I’m on top, and he’s frantic. Yanking
my shirt off, his hands following the fabric, touching me
everywhere. My head falls back, and I stop breathing when
his lips close around my own nipple. When he bites down.
When he kisses the pain away and then buries his face in the
fur of my chest.
Somehow, we rise from the floor and kiss our way to my
bedroom. Our hands never leave each other, and neither do
our lips.
The backs of my legs hit the edge of my mattress, and I
fall to the bed while dragging myself down Reese’s body. His
cock is hard against his suit fly, straining at his buckle.
I push my face against his bulge, breathing over the head
of his fabric-covered cock. He gasps my name as his
fingernails dig into my shoulders.
 In moments, I have his belt undone, his fly unzipped. I
lock my gaze to his as I hook my thumbs into the waistband
of his underwear.
His lips part, and he nods.
I tug.
His cock bounces free.
Right in front of my face.
My mouth is on him, sucking, swallowing. I’m moaning,
my eyes closing, hands grasping his thighs and his ass as I
devour him. I love his taste, the heat of him, the heaviness in
my mouth. I want him like this every day. I can’t get enough,
I’ll never get enough.
He’s cursing, fingernails digging into my shoulders and
biceps hard enough I know I’ll have marks tomorrow. Half-
moon divots, bruises to remind me of Reese.
“Stop,” he gasps. “Stop, Brennan. Merde, too much.”
I pull back. Lick my lips. He curses again.
I crawl back on the mattress, my fingers hooking into the
waistband of my running leggings. They’re already low on
my hips, cut scandalously close to revealing the end of my
happy trail. His eyes fix on my hands, on what I’m about to
do. His cock is glistening. Wet from me, my lips, my mouth.
Maybe a little tease. I drag my hand from my waistband to
my chest, playing over my skin. Drawing little circles over
my abs and my ribs, then thumbing my nipple as he watches.
He stops breathing.
I moan his name. “Reese—”
He flies onto the mattress and takes my leggings in both
hands, as if he’s about to tear them from me. He’s over me,
surrounding me again, his presence flattening me and
stealing my breath. I grab his shoulders, cling to his arms.
He waits.
It’s my turn to nod.
 Reese peels my leggings down slowly. Lifting my foot and
stripping each leg away, then spreading me, laying me open.
We’re naked. We’re both naked, in my bed. Reese takes in
every part of me, from my toes to my calves to my quivering
thighs. My aching cock, already leaking a trail of precome.
My chest and my arms. His eyes drag to mine.
I wrap my leg around his waist and press my heel against
the small of Reese’s back. Pull him to me.
Reese glides over me. Chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh
to thigh. His hair tickles me. His muscles caress me. He
kisses me sweetly, once, twice.
And then drops his hips and grinds his cock against mine.
He groans, buries his face in the side of my neck. I arch,
senseless sounds exploding from me. I can come like this.
Just like this.
His hands are everywhere, touching me like he can’t get
enough of my body. He threads our fingers together, then
kisses my jaw and throat and collarbone before starting a
path down my chest. Wet, slow kisses land on each of my
pecs, then wind down to my belly button. Move lower.
He looks up, into my eyes, right as he wraps his lips
around my cock and takes me into his mouth.
I can tell it’s his first time. He’s nervous, but also
enthusiastic. He sucks me as deep as he can, cheeks
hollowing as his tongue glides up the underside. I can’t
breathe.
I want more, though, and I drag him back into my arms.
He nuzzles my temple, breathes my name into my ear. I want
everything. I want all of this man, and I want to give all of
myself to him.
Our lips meet like we’re making promises to each other
we can’t say aloud. Our hands tangle again, holding on. Hold
on to me forever.
 I shift, maneuvering Reese’s hips against mine, getting a
thigh around his waist. Our cocks slide together, and I
stutter, stumble, my mind blanking as our kiss deepens. No,
more. I want more. I shift again, until—
Reese’s cock slides behind my balls and between my ass
cheeks, pumping into the tight heat over my hole.
I moan, and he stiffens. Goes still, his eyes flying to mine
as he breaks our kiss. “Are you sure?”
“God, yes. I want you.” I hesitate. “Only if you—"
Lips on mine, stealing the air from my lungs. “I want
you,” he breathes into me. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“How long has it been?”
Years. Decades. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t answer, just
kiss him again. He groans. “Brennan…”
“Please.” I’m yours. I’m yours forever. Take me, please.
Our eyes hold as he presses two of his fingers to my lips. I
suck them in, swirling my tongue all over both, soaking
them and covering them in my spit.
He slides his fingers down to my ass. They circle my hole
before one pushes in.
My mouth drops open on a silent cry.
He kisses me hard, and then vanishes, drawing away so
fast I’m left clutching empty air. I gasp and lurch toward the
place where he used to be, watching him as he darts into my
bathroom—
Clattering on the counter. Bottles knocking over.
Realization hits me. He’s done this before. Not with a
man, but he knows, at least, the mechanics of what we’re
about to do.
He’s back a moment later, clutching the closest thing I
have here to lube: a hotel bottle of lotion. He tosses it to the
mattress and takes me into his arms as if he’s been gone for
years and not a handful of seconds. We roll, arms around
each other, my legs tight around his waist, until I’m on top.
Straddling his belly, with his cock leaking precome against
my ass cheek.
He takes my hand in his and kisses my fingers. The top of
the lotion pops open behind me, loud as a gunshot. I fall
forward, my arms caging Reese this time. We kiss, oh-so-
slowly, as he presses a slick finger to my hole again.
“Is this okay?”
I nod. My lips drag over his.
One finger, circling inside me.
I moan. Arch my back. Rock into his touch.
Two fingers, opening me.
I fuck myself onto him. Feel his thumb play on the edge of
my hole.
He spreads my cheeks as I kiss him like a wild animal.
Liquid fire rolls through me. Lightning crackles across my
nerves.
Three fingers.
I throw my head back and cry out. I’ll come, I’ll come
exactly like this. I grab my cock and squeeze, desperate to
hold off.
He slathers us in lotion, so much that the wet, slick
sounds are obscene as he works his fingers in and out of me
and over himself.
“Are you ready?” His voice is darkness and flame. A spark
at midnight, igniting a wildfire. Hungry.
I can’t speak. I nod.
He spreads me. My arms are shaking as I hold myself up,
both hands on Reese’s chest, pushing my hips back until—
Reese’s cock, hot, hard, and thick, presses against my
hole.
He’s panting. He’s staring up at me. He’s staring into me
again, like he can read my soul.
I stare back.
 White-hot pleasure. Pressure. Pain, of course, because
he’s big. I cry out, and Reese stills, his hands grasping my
hips so tightly I can feel his fingerprints embedding in my
bones.
“Don’t stop.”
“Are you—”
“Don’t stop, Reese.”
He doesn’t. My body takes him in, inch by inch. My
fingers clench in the muscles of his chest. Reese is gasping,
his legs are shaking, and one hand flies to the sheet, fisting
the fabric as he groans my name.
Then he’s inside me. All the way inside me.
I can’t breathe, and neither can he. My thighs clench
around his hips. He tears the sheet from the corner of the
bed. His cock twitches. I feel him everywhere.
I grind down. Rock my hips. Reese growls, and then he
starts to move. Agonizingly slowly, so slowly I think I’ll die.
He’s gentle, more than I want him to be. I want to feel him—
now, tomorrow, and the day after. I want to feel his
lovemaking for days. I want him to carve a permanent place
for himself inside my body. I want him to make love to me
forever.
I kiss him, and feel something inside him snap.
Gentleness gives way, turns to harder, deeper thrusts. Each
punches a gasp from me.
More. I need more. I need everything. I ride him thrust for
thrust, speeding up, chasing this moment, chasing the fire
he’s stoking inside me. His hands slide up my thighs and
over my ribs and my pecs and down to my hands, where he
threads our fingers together and squeezes. He folds my arms
around my own back, wrapping me up as he rises, until he’s
sitting and holding me in his lap. He buries his face in my
chest, gasping a mixture of my name and curses and
desperate noises—
 He takes my face in his hands and kisses me before he
rolls and brings me down to my back, his cock still buried.
He takes my legs in his hands and hefts them to his
shoulders, then grasps the edge of the mattress above my
head. I’m folded in half, my back off the bed. Suspended on
him.
And like this, he’s going even deeper.
I’m shameless, pleading for more. More of him. Every
press of our bodies is blurring the boundaries between us,
until part of him seems to slide into me and stay.
He’s kissing me like he’s collecting each gasp and moan. I
cling to him, to his biceps and his shoulders, my grip so
fierce I’m leaving bruises. Our sweat-soaked skin is slapping
together. He’s hammering into me, harder, faster, driving
into me, an almost terrified look in his eyes—
Reese roars, bellowing my name, thrusting as his cock
swells and liquid heat pulses inside me and around my hole.
My back arches, and I grind down on him, on his come, on
his cock, and stroke myself as I kiss him and taste the way
his lips form my name and then “Mon cher” and “Je
t’aime”—
I shatter.
We keep going, like we can make love forever without
stopping. Aftershocks quake for several minutes. I shiver on
his cock. Reese keeps thrusting, slowly, softly, trying to
extend my pleasure.
Eventually, we crash, Reese tipping sideways and pulling
me with him. We’re on our sides, facing each other, touching
from collarbones to toes.
Our kisses slow and turn to smiles as exhaustion creeps
over us. His fingers travel the length of my arms, twirl
circles on my ribs and my hip bones.
“I love your legs,” he whispers. “Do you have any idea
how sexy you are?”
 I sigh into his neck. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He laughs. “I’m going to worship your legs with my
mouth. Kiss every inch.”
“Only my legs?”
“That’s where I’ll start.” He grins, and I melt into him
again.
Our eyelids droop, and the blinks become longer. We’re
still kissing, caressing, entangled in each other. I hear him
whisper “Mon amour” and feel his lips against my hair, and
then—
Sleep claims me.
 Chapter Twenty-Three

R eese
T hen

I ’m groggy. Normally I pop awake, fully alert. Perk of this

job. Now I feel like I’m emerging from hibernation. Sleep
clings to me. Sleep, and the obliteration that follows a night
of absolutely amazing sex—
My eyes snap open.
Brennan lies beside me in bed. I can see one bleu clair eye
and the curve of his smile above a puff of white cotton. He’s
playing with my hair. The sheet is pooled at his waist,
showing off the broad expanse of his naked chest, and
there’s a bruise, a bite mark, on his pec below his collarbone.
Merde.
After the first round, we dozed until two in the morning,
when we woke with our hands and lips moving over each
other. A moment later, I was inside him. It was slower,
gentler, and I came deep within him as we kissed each other
breathless.
We made love again an hour later, this time with Brennan
on top, our hands clasped, the room pitch black save for the
reflection of Manhattan in Brennan’s neon eyes. It could
have lasted a minute or an hour or a century. All I could feel
was him.
“Morning,” he says softly. It’s still dark outside.
Manhattan’s skyline is just starting to shift from indigo to
cerulean. “I was watching you sleep.” He scoots closer, until
we’re sharing the pillow. Our bodies merge, his heat—his
hardness—against my naked thigh. A low moan escapes me.
He captures my lips as he takes my face in his palm. I
shouldn’t do this. No, I shouldn’t do this again, but Brennan
has a way of making the rest of the world seem insignificant,
as if the only things that matter are him and me and the
angles of our bodies.
So I’m right there with him, kissing him as I roll him to
his back and cover him with my body. He’s staring into my
eyes and I’m staring back, and there’s no hiding from what
I’m doing now. I’m fucking the president.
My orgasm sneaks up on me. I bite his shoulder to muffle
my groan, and a moment later, he does the same. Our come
mingles on our skin, and we collapse in a pile of sweaty
limbs and slow, open-mouthed kisses.
For a lazy, post-orgasmic moment, I want to lie here and
ignore the world, stay in bed and make love to him all day
long. Forget the UN, forget—
Arrête-toi.
It crashes back into me, the lines I’ve crossed—
obliterated—and how absolutely fucked I am. How fucked we
are.
Merde, what am I doing? No, what have I done?
The sky outside is shifting, now lilac and pink with
threads of orange fire. Dawn is almost here. Two floors
down, the command center is coming to life, the night shift
trading places with the morning. I’m supposed to be down
there right now, briefing the entire team on the schedule for
the day.
POTUS movement to the UN at ten hundred, Security Council
session until fifteen hundred. POTUS to the Midtown heliport at
fifteen thirty, wheels up on Air Force One at sixteen forty-five.
ETA at the White House eighteen forty.
I’m supposed to be at Brennan’s side through all of that,
as if I haven’t just spent the night making love in his bed.
Static crackles through my radio, abandoned in the
middle of his suite near my jacket and the rest of my gear.
“Ellis to Theriot, what’s your location, over?”
Fuck. It’s Henry on a private channel. He can’t find me. Of
course.
I scramble out of bed and race across the suite. Naked, I
scoop the radio up and pop the earpiece in. “Go for Theriot.”
“Uhh, running behind this morning, boss?”
“Yeah. Give me five.”
“Roger that.”
My clothes are everywhere. Suit pants by the bed. Shirt in
the corner. I grab each and dress as fast as I can. Everything
is wrinkled, looking exactly like it spent the night balled up
on the floor.
I don’t have time for a shower. God, I need one, because I
smell like sex and Brennan. And when I look in the mirror,
it’s obvious what I’ve been up to. I’m disheveled, stubble too
long, my hair with that freshly fucked tousle.
Worse, what I’ve done is practically tattooed across my
forehead: I fucked the president.
Brennan appears behind me in the mirror. He squeezes
my shoulders and kisses my cheek. Smiles. He’s happy. It’s
rolling off him in waves.
Cold sweat prickles my skin.
“Can I see you later?” he asks as I pull on my belt and my
cuffs, radio, baton, spare magazines, and flashlight.
 I can’t look him in the eye, not even in the mirror. “We
both have a full day.”
“Don’t remind me.” His smile turns to a grimace. “I’m
asking the world for a war.” Sighing, he leans his forehead
against my hair and closes his eyes as his arms wind around
my waist. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
My heart breaks. I don’t want to leave him, especially not
like this. I rest my hands over his, and he laces our fingers
together.
But I’ve got to go, now. My five minutes are counting
down. I’ve got to do something about my suit, wash my face,
brush my teeth. Try to get the smell of sex off me.
He walks me to his door. Damn it, I didn’t think about the
agents standing post at the ends of his hall. I check my
watch again. It’s the shift change, and for once, I hope my
people are distracted. That I can play this off, slide under the
radar.
I can’t leave without backing Brennan to the wall and
kissing him until my knees nearly buckle. God, I want him
again. He rocks his hips against mine, and I groan—
I break the kiss and gently pull away. I have to, or I’ll
never get out of here. “You’re going to do great.”
He looks at me like I’m the reason his world spins.
Time to go, before I make this worse than it already is. If
that’s even possible.
I slip out and shut the door. I hear him rest his hand
against the panel like he’s trying to reach me.
The ground crumbles with every step I take.
You should have stayed away from him.
You were supposed to protect him from everything.
Especially yourself.
You are bad for Brennan Walker.
I jog down the hall as quietly as I can move. One of the
New York agents is standing post at the elevator, someone
I’ve only seen around corners and across briefing rooms in
the Brooklyn office. I school my expression and cut in front
of him to the stairwell.
“Sir,” he says.
“Morning.” The stairwell door slams shut on the last
syllable.
I take the stairs two at a time, my hand shaking as it
skims the railing.
It crashes down on me then, alone in the concrete
stairwell. I slam into the wall, slide down to my knees, and
my hand fists in front of my mouth to cover my groan. I’m
hyperventilating.
I’ve just done what I swore I never, ever would.
I’ve put Brennan in danger.
Brennan under fire in the media, the press shouting
questions about me as they call his judgment into question.
Scathing criticism on TV and in the newspapers. Plunging
poll numbers. Congress beginning investigations,
subpoenaing my agents, subpoenaing the president’s staff,
subpoenaing Brennan.
The excoriation of my agents and of the Service. Who
knew, and how? Who suspected? Who kept quiet, and who
facilitated?
I haven’t just fucked myself, I’ve fucked everyone. They’ll
all be destroyed. Henry and Sheridan. Nuñez and Roberts and
everyone who was on Air Force One that day, or who has
watched us run together. What did you see? And you didn’t
report this suspicious behavior?
It will be everywhere. The downfall, the ruination of the
Secret Service.
“Worthy of trust and confidence.” That’s what my badge
says. With one night, I’ve destroyed a hundred years of the
Service’s reputation and honor.
 Well done there, Reese. You’ve fucked up as big as you possibly
can.
The reverberations of last night are going to echo around
the world if this gets out. Everything Brennan hopes to
accomplish, everything he’s working so hard to achieve, will
be gone.
I put my own desires ahead of everything, absolutely
everything. Ahead of the nation and the world.
Who the fuck do I think I am?
I’m going to be sick.
I puke on the stairs, bile and dry heaves ripping out my
insides. I’m surprised I don’t see blood. There’s enough
agony inside me that something must be irreparably broken.
“Ellis to Theriot.”
Fuck. I’m six minutes past when I told Henry I’d be there.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and force myself to my feet.
“On my way.”
I burst out of the stairs on my floor and race to my room.
In thirty seconds, I get the key in the door, tear a fresh suit
from my closet, and turn on the taps. I take a prostitute’s
bath, dragging a washcloth over my armpits and down my
thighs and around my cock. I smell Brennan everywhere.
He’s down deep in my skin, in my hands and my hair and
lips.
I gargle with mouthwash as I run a razor over my face,
spit, and then comb my hair while sliding into my new suit
pants. Ten seconds later, I’m out the door again, buttoning
up my shirt and shoving it into my pants as I run. Anyone
who sees me will know. It’s obvious, plainly obvious, that
I’m rushing out of a night spent in someone else’s bed.
Which is why, of course, Sheridan is who I run into at the
stairwell.
He’s coming out as I’m going in, and we nearly collide.
My tie is still undone, and my hair is damp from where I ran
wet fingers through it. I still smell like another man. Like
Brennan.
Sheridan steadies me. His eyes are too-wide, his face
carefully blank. “Henry sent me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m trying not to strangle myself with my tie. My
hands are violently shaking. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He stares.
“Let’s go.” I clap him on the shoulder and brush past
him. After a moment, I hear him follow. I wait one floor
down, holding the door for him.
Sheridan doesn’t look at me.

I bail from the morning movements. I can’t face Brennan

right now. Not after making love to him all night. Not in
front of my detail. I give Henry the lead, put Sheridan at his
right hand.
I’m at the UN instead, coordinating Brennan’s arrival
amid the furious activity that buzzes behind the scenes.
Everyone is already tense, on edge after the stunt the
Russians pulled and the weight of today’s session. The air
thrums like a plucked guitar string.
I avoid Brennan and the rest of the detail when they
arrive, moving from the Security Council chambers to our
mobile command center to overwatch and then back to the
chambers. Even though I’m not at Brennan’s side, I’m
watching his every move. Watching everyone else, too.
I thought I was protective before, when I was only the
head of the president’s detail. Now I’ve made love to
Brennan. Now I’m the president’s lover.
Now there’s a ferocity inside me that is overwhelming.
Blinding. Agonizing.
 I don’t slip into the Security Council chambers until
everyone has taken their seats. Henry and Sheridan are
holding post along the wall, and I join them as the session is
called to order.
Henry eyes me. Sheridan still won’t look my way.
Brennan clears his throat. The entire world is watching
him. He’s up there, in front of everybody, with my come in
his body. I didn’t even use a condom. I fucked him—the
president—raw.
My teeth scrape over my bottom lip. I can feel his body
move against mine like a ghost stepping over my grave.
You are bad for Brennan Walker.
I fidget, tapping my hands against the wall. Henry shoots
me glares, each one darker, until he jams his elbow into my
side and leans over. “Fuck is your problem?” he hisses into
my ear. “He’s about to speak.”
He begins—
“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the Security Council.
My fellow heads of government and state. In our seventy-
five-year history in this august body, a call for the leaders of
this council to gather has only gone out seven times. In each,
we addressed the most serious and significant threats that
faced our world. Now, I am asking for this body and the
global community to unite again.
“Over the past decade, Russia has inflicted incalculable
anguish and misery on Ukraine. Individual freedoms have
been replaced by authoritarianism. Civilians have been
subjected to terror and oppression. Millions live in starvation
and despair as Russia blocks humanitarian aid. And now, we
have eyewitness testimony of ethnic cleansing taking evil
root.
“President Kirilov has made clear his intentions: left
unopposed, he will continue to disregard the fundamental
tenets of international law, and he will continue with his
campaign of violence, oppression, horror, and murder. If
Russia, and President Kirilov, are not stopped, untold
thousands will die, and millions more will suffer. Humanity
has a crystal-clear example of what happens when
dangerous men intent on evil are not confronted. In the
1930s, hesitancy to intervene led to the worst atrocities of
our modern history.
“Alliances have formed in the past to protect vulnerable
peoples struggling under the yoke of oppression and terror.
The United Nations acted to safeguard Libyans from planned
slaughter, and in the Balkans, the United Nations and NATO-
allied forces worked together to protect civilians from the
worst inhumanities that war can unleash.
“Today, we must stand together again. This international
community must unite against Russia’s wanton disregard
for human rights and human life, and we must do everything
in our power to put an end to this conflict and to safeguard
the people of Ukraine. We, as individual States, and
collectively, as an international body, have a responsibility to
protect populations from war crimes, ethnic cleansing, and
crimes against humanity. It is clear now that we must take
action.
“Effective immediately, the United States and our allies
will begin patrolling ‘we-fly’ humanitarian corridors over
Ukraine. These corridors will ensure the delivery of food,
fuel, and medical supplies, and will act as guarantees against
any further acts of ethnic cleansing. We will not stand by
while these atrocities occur.
“I am also announcing a new round of sanctions, agreed
to with one voice by the US and our allies. As of today, all—
all—officers in Russia’s military will be cut off from
international banking and the global financial system. Your
choice to perpetuate this war and to remain on the battlefield
has left each and every one of you as isolated as your
political leaders.
“We must commit, in full, to the promise of ‘Never
again.’ If Russia continues to flout international law, and
persists in committing these heinous crimes, then we must
send a untied and decisive message: your actions will not be
tolerated. The world will stop you. There is no negotiation
when it comes to human rights.”
Applause rises. In such a staid body, that’s unusual. The
solemnity of the chamber is almost sacrosanct.
Brennan is still speaking, but I can’t fucking be here for
one more second. I can’t listen to this applause.
I tear out of the council chambers and into the back
hallway. My vision is blurring. My heart is racing. I can’t
breathe, I can’t fucking breathe—
“Reese!” Henry follows me, bellowing over the crowd.
“The fuck is wrong with you? What the—”
“I can’t be here.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“I can’t be here, Henry. I can’t be around him. I can’t.”
My hands grip the back of my head. Merde, mon Dieu, fuck,
fuck—
Henry stares me down like he’s never seen me before.
“I’ve done something terrible,” I choke out. “I’ve fucked
up. I’ve fucked up so bad.”
He stills, and I see the realization sink into him.
He’s seen everything I tried to bury, picked apart my
bullshit and called me on it. Do you trust yourself? No, Henry, I
don’t. I can’t. He watched me fall, but even he thought I was
smart enough to stop myself. I’m not, I’m fucking not. Every
chance I had, I blew.
I am bad for Brennan Walker. No, I am terrible for him.
I am threatening every good thing he’s doing. Every
dream he’s ever had, every promise he’s ever made. Every
life he’s trying to save right now, today.
If I tear him down—
Agony rips through me. I bend, brace my hands on my
knees, try to drag in oxygen that I can’t find. It’s like I’ve
been hurled into space, like my lungs have collapsed, like
I’m dying, right here, right now.
“Jesus Christ,” Henry mutters. “Jesus fucking Christ,
Reese.”
They’re still applauding in the council chambers.
Brennan’s speech will be replayed, today, tomorrow, fifty
years from now.
How selfish am I? I knew I had to stop. I knew it, but I
ignored it. And now—
I smell him again, like he’s behind me. Like he’s about to
wrap his arms around my waist and whisper my name. Kiss
the skin behind my ear and nuzzle the back of my neck.
“Okay, this is what we’ll do.” Henry drags me down the
hall, away from the double doors that are going to open any
second, disgorging the world’s media. We’re moving fast,
almost jogging. “I’ll take over the detail. You’re sick. Food
poisoning.”
We get to the stairs, and he shoves me through the door,
then follows me inside. We stumble down, our heavy
footfalls echoing in the concrete stairwell. He yanks me out
at the second floor, spins me away from the mezzanine.
Pushes me against the wall. Fury fills his gaze. “Reese.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I’m fucking sorry, Henry. I—”
He sighs, all the air inside him escaping as he leans
forward and rests his head against the wall above my
shoulder. My thoughts are spinning, as is the world, both
hurtling so fast I’m about to fall. I grasp Henry’s jacket, sink
my own forehead to his shoulder.
His hand covers mine where I’m mangling the fabric.
 “Go back to the hotel,” he finally says. The rage is gone
from his voice. Only resignation and a quiet sadness remain.
He pulls his wallet and thumbs out his room key. “Go to my
room and stay there. No one will bother you. Take a shower,
get some sleep, eat something.” He presses his keycard into
my hand.
Both of our radios spit static. “Sheridan to Theriot, Ellis.
What’s your location, over?”
Henry pulls my earpiece out and turns the radio off on my
belt. “We’ll talk later.”
I nod. He fixes me with one last look before he turns. He
says something back to Sheridan, but my radio is off and
Henry is walking away from me. His footfalls fade, and
then…
I’m alone.
My back slides down the wall until my ass hits the floor,
and I hang my head between my splayed knees. Brennan—
No. Don’t even think it.
You are bad for Brennan Walker.
I take one of our SUVs back to the hotel and head to
Henry’s room. The world has no sound, no texture, no color.
I shower in scalding water until my skin is raw, and I use two
bars of soap to scrub until I can’t catch a whiff of Brennan
anymore. My suit smells like him, so I ball it up and dig
around in Henry’s suitcase for a pair of his boxers and an
undershirt.
My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since scarfing half a
slice of pizza yesterday, and I can’t remember what I ate
before that. Room service isn’t covered by the government,
but I’ll settle this at the front when we check out. I order a
sandwich, chips, and a Coke, and, since this is New York, it
comes to over fifty dollars.
I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep all week, and as soon
as I climb into Henry’s bed, the exhaustion hits. I’ve been
going a thousand miles an hour for months now, juggling
my duties and this slide into depravity as I compromised
both myself and Brennan. Spent time I never should have
chasing him and the witchcraft between us. Black lightning.
Dark love spells. Destiny and fate.
The best man I’ve ever met.
The man I love.
The man I can never love.

H ours later , the sounds of Manhattan wake me: horns

blaring, truck brakes screaming, police sirens going off up
and down the streets and avenues. Sunlight is splattered on
the pillow, leaking through the blinds pulled across the
room’s window.
My first reaction is panic. Where is the detail? Where is
Brennan? I check my watch and mentally pull up his
schedule. He’s left the UN and is on the way to the airport,
and then back to Washington. Marine One will ferry him
from Andrews back to the White House. He’ll have a hero’s
welcome when he returns.
I stay in Henry’s room until New York starts breaking
down the command center and my Washington teams have
all packed up and are either already on Air Force One or en
route to LaGuardia with Brennan. In my room, I change into
jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that covers my gear, and
shove my suit into a hotel laundry bag before pushing it to
the bottom of my suitcase.
Downstairs, I settle the bill for the room service I ordered,
and I’m about to walk the four blocks to where our vehicles
are stored when the lobby doors spit out a harried and
rumpled Henry. Outside, a cab is pulling away.
 “Fucking traffic in this city. You’d think the president was
here or something.”
“What are you doing here?”
"I’m driving back with you.”
I do not deserve his kindness. He should be fleeing from
me, running as far and as fast as he can—if not actually
turning me in to the director. My jaw clenches, and I have to
look away as my eyes burn and the world starts to waver.
“No, don’t do that. C’mon.” He slings his arm around my
neck and steers me to the exit. “I’m starving. Let’s grab
some pizza before we hit the road. There’s an Original Ray’s
a few blocks from here.”
Henry distracts me for hours, from grabbing pizza to
getting to the car and then all down the Jersey Turnpike
while he bitches about his favorite baseball team and the
Washington Commanders’ season. The radio is loud, but his
voice is louder, and both are enough to drown out my self-
castigating thoughts.
He falls asleep around the Maryland state line. For an
hour, I’m alone in my mind.
Brennan is waiting for me in Washington.
I can feel the pull of him, the magnetic attraction from
his soul to mine. I could close my eyes and navigate by heart,
and this SUV would go right to the White House. Every part
of me is tied to every part of him, so much more intimately
after last night.
Henry must sense my anguish, because as we enter
Washington, he reaches across the center console and rests
his fist on my knee. When we park in the basement, he gets
out of the SUV and waits as I wipe my eyes and scrub my
face.
It’s late when we badge into the command center. We’re
between shifts, right at that time when there’s a lull and the
White House is quiet. Henry and I get a few Heys as we walk
in, but that’s it. We make it to my desk with no catastrophes.
For today, that’s a victory.
“Henry—”
“It’s been a fucked-up couple of months, Reese,” he says.
“Things have gotten way, way out of hand.” He flicks a pen
against his thigh. “You do what you gotta do. I’ll wait for
you.”
“It won’t take long.”
How long does it take to break a man’s heart?
Longer, if I keep stalling.
When the elevator doors open on the second floor of the
Residence, I hear Brennan. He’s on the phone, and I linger in
the doorway of his office and watch him.
He’s beautiful, standing in the amber light thrown from
the lamp on his desk. He’s in jeans and an evergreen
sweater, and the color is a perfect offset to his dark hair and
bleu clair eyes. He’s tossing a baseball in one hand. “We’re
going to do this,” he says into the phone, and the conviction,
the absolute steel in his voice makes my throat close. Merde.
He turns and sees me.
Mon Dieu, I love him.
Walking away is going to destroy me.
“Listen, Dean, I need to go.” He hangs up and strides
across the room, smiling at me. I can’t smile back.
“What’s wrong?” He kisses my forehead, my temple, and
gazes at me with such open adoration, I want to fall to his
feet and beg. Beg for mercy, beg for his love, beg him to
forgive me for what I’m about to do.
My fingers curl in his sweater. I want to give in. I want to
feel the warmth of his skin. I want.
Wanting is what got me into this mess. I wanted, and I
took, and now I need to right this before we can’t escape
from what I’ve done.
 I push him away, as gently as I can.
He takes a step back, confusion etched all over his face.
His hands go to my wrists, and he tries to thread our fingers
together. I don’t let him.
Confusion shifts to shock, slides into despondency. He
shoves his hands into his pockets. “Don’t do this. Please,
Reese. Please.”
“I have to.”
“Reese—”
“Mr. President.” He flinches. “What happened was a
mistake.”
“A mistake?” He recoils, taking another step away from
me.
I want to chase him. I want to bring him back. I want to
swallow down the words I need to say.
“I was wrong to let us get as close as we did. I should have
walked away from you, because what we’ve done will be the
biggest mistake of your career if we get caught.”
His jaw works left and right. “I have a lot of practice
keeping things secret.”
“Not like this. You don’t know what this place is like.
Secrets in Washington are either currency or weapons. And if
this gets out, you won’t be able to change the world if
everyone believes you’re—”
Silence. Then, “I’m what?”
“That you’re sleeping around on the job. That you’re not
strong enough to withstand the temptations of the office.
That you’re a liar, and you don’t respect rules and
regulations.”
“None of that is even close to true.”
“Whether it is or not, you know the truth doesn’t
matter.”
“It should matter between us. The truth should be all that
matters between you and me.”
 But it’s not just him and me. It’s him and me and the
entire world.
I would give anything to not do this.
“The truth is, Mr. President, I made a lot of mistakes with
you. It was a mistake to let you believe we could be anything
more than agent and principal. It was a mistake to lead you
on. Last night was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.”
He knows it’s over. He knows it’s the end. He’s staring at
me with those big, beautiful eyes, and I’m shattering the
heart of the best man I’ve ever known.
There’s nothing more to say.
I don’t know how I make it back to the elevator. I slap at
the buttons and cling to the handrails. I can’t hear a thing,
just a dull, trembling roar.
Henry is waiting when the doors open in the basement.
He takes one look at me and sighs. “Jesus, Reese.”
He drags me through the basement to the garage, and my
fingers dig into his arms as if he’s pulling me out of the
ocean. I close my eyes so I don’t see the White House when
we pull out, and when I open them again, we’re at Henry’s
place.
I’m a wreck. We sit in his dark driveway as I swallow my
snot. My eyes feel like I’ve taken sandpaper to them. It hurts
to see. It hurts to live.
We don’t talk when we get inside. He guides me to the
living room and brings me a pillow and a ratty blanket from
his Marine Corps days. He disappears and returns with two
highballs of straight tequila.
“I need to give you the detail,” I finally say to him. “I
need to resign. Or transfer to the Arctic.”
“I’ll never forgive you if you run away and fuck me over
like that.”
“You shouldn’t forgive me anyway.”
“Stop talking bullshit.”
 “I’m not. I did something unforgivable.”
I’m not talking about falling for Brennan. I’m talking
about breaking his heart.
If I could rewrite the world any way I wanted, I’d rewrite
it with him at the center. I’d write us a happy ending that
would make fairy tales green with envy. Nothing would ever
come between us. He’d know that I love him, that I will
always love him.
Henry stretches, shedding his jacket and kicking off his
shoes before dropping his gear on the ground. He’s
exhausted. He’s been doing extra duty all day thanks to me.
“I don’t want your job.”
His house is quiet. Water drips in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
Henry’s kindness flays the muscles from my bones. “It’s
my fault. All of it.”
“No. He’s a big boy. He made his decisions, too.”
“I thought you’d stop me.”
“I thought he’d stop himself.” He crosses his arms over
his chest. Stares at the ceiling. “You surprised me, though. I
didn’t think you went that way.”
I shake my head. “He’s the only man I’ve ever been with.”
Henry whistles. “How about that speech?”
“That’s why…” My voice fades. “He can do so much good,
Henry. I can’t ruin that. Or him.”
He says nothing.
Eventually, his breathing evens out as he falls into the
sleep of the dead. I watch his shoulders rise and fall as the
minutes bleed away.
Twenty-four hours ago, Brennan and I were giving in to
the intensity of our love. We became one last night, our
separate bodies only echoes of some larger, deeper truth
between us. Now we’re shattered in every way two hearts can
break.
 Fitful, restless sleep claws at me, and when I wake up, my
eyes are still swollen and scratchy. Henry is gone, but on the
coffee table there’s a sheet of paper on top of a folded stack
of clothes. Khakis and a Secret Service polo. Spares from
Henry.

Boss,
I’ll take your suit in with mine to the dry cleaners. Borrow
these for today. I’m riding the Metro in, so take the SUV
whenever you head out. There’s coffee, milk, cereal, and
tequila in the kitchen. Pick your poison.

He anchored the note with the SUV keys, my BlackBerry…

and my burner phone. He must have found it in the bottom
of my duffel when he dug out my suit.
The message indicator is flashing.
There’s only one person in the world who can text this
phone.
I hold it in my hands, staring at the darkened screen,
before finally swiping it on.

Brennan: I don’t understand what changed between New York and

what you said to me last night. I don’t think I ever will. Please know
that I will always, always cherish what we shared, even if it doesn’t
mean the same to you. I won’t contact you again. Goodbye, Reese.
 Chapter Twenty-Four

R eese
N ow

We arrest Konstantin Petrov at his townhome in

Georgetown. It’s a lucky break, and part of me wonders
why he’s there and not buttoned up tight at the Russian
embassy where we wouldn’t be able to touch him. Instead,
we haul him off his couch, where he was snoring after what
looks like a late night of vodka shots and Doritos.
Sometimes the life of an international spy isn’t all that
it’s cracked up to be.
He shouts at us in Russian, struggling as Sheridan and I
wrestle him to the floor and cuff him. Hudson is with us, and
he takes custody of Konstantin after we have him secured.
Curtains twitch in his neighbors’ windows when we haul
him out. We have about ten minutes until the Russian
embassy is in spasm and the phones blow up at the State
Department while the diplomats try to unravel who arrested
Konstantin without getting permission first.
Sheridan and I climb into the back of Hudson’s car and
sandwich Konstantin between us. He looks from me to
Sheridan before facing forward, glowering.
“Remember us?” I point to Sheridan. “Remember him?
He kicked your ass in New York.”
Sheridan, dramatically, cracks his knuckles.
“That is not how I remember it.” Konstantin’s accent is
thick, his voice deep.
“Where were you last night?”
Silence.
“What were you doing in Agent Ellis’s house?”
Silence again.
“How do you know Clint Cross?”
Not even a flinch.
We’re getting nowhere, and the clock is ticking. Hudson is
chain-smoking and staring at his watch. We’ve got to move
Konstantin to headquarters before the Russians send an
intercept team.
Sheridan grabs Konstantin’s chin as I’m sliding out of the
back seat. They stare at each other for a long, long moment.
Konstantin doesn’t blink. Neither does Sheridan.
I don’t like this. I don’t like whatever is passing between
them, a ferocious intensity that could be simple hatred and
the overflow of New York and two men who tried to beat
each other to death—
Or it could be something else, something I can’t put my
finger on but that keeps edging into the periphery of my
mind like a shadow gliding through a dark room.
I don’t want to face the questions I need to ask, but there
are bullets and a memory card in my pocket, and I’ve got to
find out what Sheridan was willing to breach protocol to
keep hidden from me. What he was willing to lie to me about.
I rap on the window and wave Sheridan from the car. He
shoves Konstantin away before he climbs out. He won’t look
me in the eyes.
 Hudson is listening to his radio. “Units have secured
Agent Ellis’s home, sir,” he says. “They’re processing the
scene.”
“Good. We need to get Konstantin to headquarters.”
“Yeah.” Hudson pulls out another cigarette. He’s nervous.
Arresting a foreign diplomat is the kiss of death in
Washington, and with the Russians, that’s not necessarily a
figure of speech. He sucks down the whole cigarette in three
long drags. “Lead the way.”
I flip on my lights and sirens and take us straight down
Pennsylvania Avenue at full speed. We blaze past two DC
Metropolitan patrol cars, and the radio crackles with
complaints on the joint bands.
Hudson processes Konstantin into one of our holding
cells in the basement. He’s doing everything by the book.
Reading Konstantin his rights, fingerprinting him,
photographing him. He’s expecting this to go under official
review.
Konstantin turns down his phone call, which means the
Russians already know he’s here.
“Text Marshall,” I tell Sheridan. “This is going to blow
up. The vice president needs to know.” Part of me wants to
keep Konstantin’s arrest quiet and let Marshall twist in the
wind when the Russians come demanding answers.
Ahn interrupts me as I’m staring at the center of
Sheridan’s back, trying to line up the pieces on this
chessboard. “Agent Theriot? I’ve got something for you.”
I follow her and leave Sheridan on the phone.
Has Ahn identified the corpse? Does the body belong to
Henry or Brennan? My best friend or the love of my life?
“Two things,” she says. “First, I was able to dry out the
paper you recovered from your suspect’s apartment. It’s a
receipt from a gun range outside Baltimore. Your suspect
spent three hours at target practice two days ago.”
 There’s the overt act I was looking for. Clint was taking
steps to turn his hatred into action. Did Konstantin give him
the nudge? Was he at the range with Clint? Were the
Russians supplying fuel to his fire, trying to false-flag him?
“What was he shooting?”
“The receipt doesn’t say. It only gives the date, time, and
what range lane he was on. I can tell you it was an indoor
range fifty meters in length.”
“A handgun, then. I’ll need to question the range
master.” She gives me the address, and I punch it into my
BlackBerry. It’s thirty minutes away. “What else?” I brace
myself, nails digging into my palm.
“I don’t have a positive ID on the second set of remains.
I’m running a digital reconstruction program.”
She spins her laptop toward me. A skull rotates on the
screen, at least a hundred markers rising from the
cheekbone and jaw and the curve of the browbone. “It will
take some time, but it will give us a rendering of what our
John Doe looked like.”
“How much time?”
“A couple more hours.”
I watch the skull spin, a micro-thin layer of muscle and
tissue appearing over the markers.
In hours, I’ll know.
I want to scream. I want to rewind time. I want to stop
everything before it began.
But the only way I’ll know for sure that Brennan isn’t
lying on that gurney is if I find him.
I have to find him.
Sheridan is still on the phone. He’s pacing, his expression
locked in a hard scowl. I can see the flex of his forearm as he
makes a fist and releases it.
It doesn’t look like he’s hanging up anytime soon. Good.
 “I need to read what’s on this memory card,” I tell Ahn,
palming it for her. “Do you have something I can use?”
“You can pop one into anything these days.”
“I need something nonnetworked. I don’t know what I’m
going to find.”
“We have a few tablets we keep purposely blanked out for
evidence review. I’ll get one.”
Sheridan turns and catches my eye through the lab’s
window. His scowl shifts. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t
quite hold up.
“Hurry.”
Ahn hands me a tablet and doesn’t ask any questions.
It takes a few seconds for the tablet to read the memory
card. What are you hiding from me, Sheridan? There’s one
folder on the card, and I tap it open.
Photos.
Twenty-six of them. They load as thumbnails, and even
without clicking on them, I can already pick out features of
the White House. Damn it, Sheridan.
I tap on the first photo, enlarging it—
It’s me.
It’s me on the patio off the Oval Office. I’m laughing.
Roses are on their last bloom behind me, and the trees on the
edges of the photo are awash in late autumn, their leaves a
riot of amber and aubergine and blood red.
I remember this day. I was with Brennan.
He’s there, too, at the edge of the frame with his back to
the camera. Now I realize what this photo really shows: the
two of us in one of our stolen moments.
The next three photos are still of us on the patio, but
Brennan occupies more of the photo. By the third, it’s
obvious: someone was spying on us.
They’ve captured our electricity. You can see it, our
connection, the kind only lovers share. Brennan is looking at
me with love in his eyes, and I’m unguarded, the way I am
when he makes me lose my senses. Damn it, this was our
moment. It was ours, and it was supposed to be private.
Why does Sheridan have photos of us?
There are more. In the West Wing, on the stairs leading
out of the basement. Us in wool coats walking down the West
Colonnade, the Rose Garden dusted with snow.
Scandal screams from every image. Every photo tells the
story of how we broke the rules.
Is this blackmail? Extortion? If so, why hasn’t Sheridan
already made his move? Some of these are six months old. In
DC, that’s an eternity.
Is he collecting evidence for someone else? The Secret
Service? Am I the subject of an internal investigation? Not
that I can blame them if I am, it’s just that I wouldn’t expect
Sheridan to be the Internal Affairs officer of my nightmares.
Of course, that’s how they get you. It’s never who you expect.
“Sir?”
I power off the screen. Sheridan is pocketing the burner
phone as he leans into the lab. He looks haggard and
defeated, and an hour ago, I would have felt for him, felt
with him. Now I’m searching him for the signs that I missed.
Sheridan lives his life inside out. Instead of secrets and
solitude, he cloaks himself in an endearing gentleness and
kindness. What has he buried beneath that smile?
“What, Sheridan?”
“NPS brought out the cadaver dogs at Rock Creek Park.
They haven’t found anything in a three-hundred-yard
radius from the crash.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Nothing yet from the Russians, Marshall says.” Sheridan
stares at me like he’s searching me, too. He jerks his chin to
the tablet. “Do you have something?”
“No.”
 Ahn’s gaze ping-pongs between us.
“Sheridan, will you grab me a coffee from upstairs? The
hours are starting to stack up.”
“’Course. Can I bring you one, too, ma’am?” Ahn
declines, and Sheridan smiles, transformed, it seems, from
the ball of frustration and anger he was in the hallway back
into his eager-to-please persona.
Have I been too quick to trust that eagerness?
I pull out the .45 rounds I collected from his bedroom
floor and hand them to Ahn. “Do any of these match the
ones you pulled from the crash?”
“Without the weapon that fired them, I can’t give you
anything definitive. Based on a quick look, they’re the same
type, copper hollow-points, but you know that already. I can
run a basic comparison and check the manufacturer. I can
also run a chemical composition test. That will give you
information on the batch they came from.”
“Do it. I need to know everything, and I need to know as
soon as you find out.”
I meet Sheridan at the stairs, surprising him as he
balances two cups in one hand and texts someone on his
burner. He bobbles the coffee and almost ends up wearing it.
“Shit, I didn’t see you there, sir.” He palms the burner back
into his pocket before I can get a glimpse of the screen.
I must find Brennan, and I’ll use anything I can to help
me do that.
Even Sheridan. Especially Sheridan, if it comes down to it.

I don ’ t tell him where we’re going. I watch him squirm

through the whole drive, reading the interstate signs as if
he’s trying to divine my route from the passing mile
markers. When I exit the highway, he sits up. And when I
turn into the parking lot for the gun range, he stiffens.
I say nothing.
It’s a joyful spot, all pockmarked concrete, water stains,
and Confederate flags. It’s the kind of place that caters to a
certain crowd. These aren’t the white-collar guys who view
punching holes in targets as half sport, half therapy. No,
these are the guys who jerk themselves to intricate fantasies
of civil war and government overthrow. They have a
worm’s-eye view of reality, and anything that challenges
their preconceptions is immediately branded both fake and
dangerous. In the Service, we’re always having to bust in
their doors. They like to talk big about hating the president,
and they don’t like to pay taxes. If you’re trying to get on the
center of the Secret Service’s bull’s-eye, those are your two
your best ways.
It’s not the kind of place I’d expect the right hand of the
CIA director to hang out at.
Inside, I ask to speak to the range master. The girl behind
the counter seems annoyed, but she grabs a set of ear
protectors and enters the range, then comes back with an
older, balding man in jeans and a plaid shirt. He moves with
a limp but looks like he could break a baseball bat over his
leg. The hat he’s wearing reads “Desert Storm Veteran.”
His eyes glide over Sheridan before landing on me.
“Help you?” He’s wary. There’s a difficult relationship
between law enforcement and gun ranges.
“I’m hoping you can. I’m trying to track down a friend I
met here. He was shooting two days ago on lane five. He
helped me out when my weapon jammed, and I’d like to
repay him. What’s he shoot? I’d like to buy him a box of his
favorite ammunition. And, if it’s all right with you, can I
leave it here for when he comes back?”
 The range master sucks on his teeth. “Uh-huh. Lemme
see some ID.”
Shit. We need to identify ourselves now. I pull out my
badge and credentials and lay them on the glass gun case in
front of him.
“And you.” The range master jerks his head at Sheridan.
Glum, Sheridan pulls out his own badge and creds and
lays them down. The range master looks them over, looks
back up at Sheridan, and shakes his head before turning his
attention to me. “What kind of a sucker do you take me for?”
“I’m trying to avoid a fight, that’s all.”
“By walking in here and lying to my face?”
“All I want is one piece of information.”
“Hell, you want to know anything about my range, why
don’t you ask him?” He points a gnarled finger at Sheridan.
“Apparently, we’ve been under surveillance. He’s been
shooting here for months. Didn’t take you for a fed, boy.”
Sheridan doesn’t answer.
“Whatever Agent Sheridan was doing here was on his own
time. No one has been surveilling your range.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.” I take out the
printed picture of Clint Cross and hand it over. “I only want
to know about him.”
The range master studies Clint’s photo. “Why?”
“He’s missing. I need to find him.”
He tosses Clint’s picture down, then leans against the
counter and glares at Sheridan. Sheridan, for his part, is
staring into the corner like he’s back on post in the White
House. His pulse is running wild, a frenzied, frantic beat that
betrays him.
“Put that away,” he growls, pushing my badge back to
me. “I don’t want anyone seeing me talking to you people.”
 Sheridan and I put our creds and badges back into our
pockets, and after a moment, the range master starts
talking.
“You get a feel for guys when you run a range. You end up
figuring out quickly who’s solid and who’s running around
half-cocked. And then there’s the ones like him.” He jabs a
thick finger down on Clint’s face.
Considering the place, that’s quite a statement.
“He was a guy on a mission.”
“A mission?”
“Yeah, one of the ones who got it in their head they have
a duty or some special purpose. Most of them spend their
whole lives training for it.” He rolls his eyes. “I pay attention
to them, ’cause when they start talking about details, or
timing, or start hinting that their mission isn’t just a fantasy
they jerk off to every night, well…” He shrugs. “I’ve kicked
more than a few weirdos out of my range.”
“Did you kick him out?”
“No. I’ve been trying to talk to him. Haven’t got him to
open up yet.”
“How often does he come in?”
“Three times a week. Takes a cab every time.”
“Anyone ever with him?”
“Never. He’s a loner’s loner. He doesn’t like people
much.”
Liu had said the same. “What does he shoot?”
“Three hundred rounds of solid copper hollow-point
forty-fives. Every time.”
“That’s a law enforcement round.”
“Your boy here shot the same.” He nods to Sheridan. I
watch Sheridan’s jaw clench and hold. “But there are
civilians who use that ammunition. Hollow-point is
popular.”
 “Seems like a specific choice, though, to shoot the same
type of round every time.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, the guy never talks to me.” His
eyes narrow. “He’s missing? He already done something, or
you trying to stop him ’fore he does?”
I want to tell him Clint has attacked the president of the
United States. I want to tell him Clint has killed my friends. I
want to tell him Clint trained for his mission right under his
nose, calmly expending three hundred rounds of
ammunition three times a week as he pictured each bullet
slamming into Brennan’s body. I want to grab him by his
collar and pull his face to the glass and tell him he let this
fucking happen, that he let Clint get good enough to pull this
off.
“We’re trying to find him,” is all I say. “Do you have any
idea where he might be?”
He shakes his head.
“Thank you for your time. I appreciate your help.”
“The hell are you talking about,” he snaps. “I never talk
to the feds.”
I wait until we’re back in the SUV to confront Sheridan.
He knows it’s coming, and he sits in the passenger seat like
he’s staring into the sun.
My fury blooms in a nuclear fireball, mushrooming
through me so hot and hard I’m quaking. Everything
narrows down to Sheridan and his lies.
“Tell me right now: have you ever met Clint Cross, or
spoken to him, or associated with him in any way?”
“No, Jesus.” Sheridan’s voice is hollow, almost a
whisper. “I’ve never seen him. Ever. I used to come here on
the weekends, that’s all.”
“Why? Why this shithole?”
“I was practicing.” He’s mumbling, and he shakes his
head as he glares out the window. “They don’t ask a lot of
questions. They don’t care why you’re here, or how often.”
“Clearly.”
“I was just trying to practice—”
“We shoot at Rowley. Not at private ranges.”
He sags, deflating. Shakes his head. “I—”
“Do you have any idea what happened last night?”
”No! Jesus Christ, no!” Sheridan whips around and stares,
shock etched in every exhausted line of his face. He’s so
painfully earnest, so fucking heartrending. I want to believe
him. I want to trust him.
“Is there anything you are keeping from me?”
His breath stutters, and I watch his pupils dilate. “No.
Nothing.”
Oh, Sheridan…
Before I can confront him, my phone rings. I yank it out
so hard I nearly throw it across the SUV, and I exhale as I
wait for the storm of my thoughts to settle. They don’t, and
I’m left with a scraped-raw feeling, like I’ve carved myself
out. My world is collapsing. Everywhere I look, everything
I’ve relied on has shifted and changed into something else,
and now I don’t know where to go or who I can trust.
And I don’t recognize the number blowing up my phone.
“Theriot.”
“Reese,” the voice on the phone says, “what the fuck have
you done with Konstantin?”
“Anatoly.” I grip the steering wheel in my free hand.
“Why did your agent break into a Secret Service agent’s
home yesterday?”
He sighs, long and slow. “It seems we have a great deal to
talk about, Reese. We must meet. Now. Away from both our
governments.”
 Chapter Twenty-Five

R eese
T hen

S ix weeks.
One thousand hours.
Sixty thousand minutes.
A long time to saw myself apart.
I’m drained dry. Worn flat. Exhausted, too, because even
at night, I’m not really sleeping. My hands slide through my
sheets to the empty space beside me. Fitful dreams claw at
me, and after a few hours, I wake curled on my side,
drowning in the memory of Brennan’s eyes and his touch.
Brennan Walker took hold of me, and now that I’ve torn
him out of my life, it’s like the rest of my existence has
collapsed. Like the fires that fueled me have gone out, and
the reasons I had for pushing through these days no longer
mean what they once did.
I did this to myself. I kicked open these doors to my
private hell.
Shame rubs me raw from the inside out.
 I watch the White House when I can’t sleep. It’s a
meditation at this point, or maybe a compulsion. More than
a habit.
I play out the days and nights I could have been at
Brennan’s side. Evenings we could have spent together,
moving from the kitchen to the West Sitting Hall. Would he
teach me more yoga? Would we have watched the rain from
the windows of his bedroom? Made love at midnight? Danced
on the balcony to aching blues again while we watched the
roses wilt?
I imagine the life we could have lived while I haunt my
memories of Brennan.
True to his word, Brennan hasn’t spoken to me again. He
is nothing if not a man of honor and integrity.
Of course, the burner phone is gone. It’s nothing but
smashed fragments at the bottom of the Potomac now. Not
even the Service could reconstruct those shards.
I’m a ghost at the White House. I’ve given Henry the
presidential-facing duties, and I’m running the command
center and training the junior agents. They’re a good bunch.
Sheridan, thanks to Henry’s shepherding, is leagues above
the rest. He’ll be a team lead soon.
Sheridan is one of my only bright spots in these days of
desolation. After New York, he took three days off and came
back a new man. He said, “Good morning, sir,” and grinned
at me, and every day since, he seems like he’s on a personal
mission to make me smile. His unstoppable good humor
buoys me, keeps me going.
There are days when he alone is the reason I am not
overcome.
Sometimes he reminds me of Brennan, or a younger
version of him. I watch him when he doesn’t realize it, and I
see a deeper side to him. More serious. Fewer goofy smiles. I
can’t tell if the darkness that wreathes him in those
moments is something fleeting or if there’s something to
excavate. If I had more bandwidth, I’d dig. Spend more time
understanding Sheridan. I want to understand him.
It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. Grief
alone is all-consuming, and when grief drowns in shame,
every thought, every memory, every moment, becomes a
shard that slices at your ravaged and flickering soul.
I have committed myself to this dark pit of my own
making, and it’s a world that seems to shrink each day. Or
maybe I’m the one that’s shrinking. One day I may open my
eyes and discover there’s nothing left.
I should transfer. During my first years in the Service, I
made a name for myself in the cyber squads. I should go back
there. I should do whatever I can to get away from Brennan.
I’m extra maudlin tonight. Brennan has left Washington
for the weekend and gone to Camp David. If-onlys scratch
like spiders moving across my brain.
I could be there with him. We could steal these days and
wrap ourselves around each other, ignore the world and just
be. Be in love, be together. We could—
My hands scrub over my weary face. Trying to escape my
own mind is like trying to run from the devil. He’s always
right in front of you.
Autumn is on its last gasp, and the world runs riot with
the change of seasons. The sunset was a like a dying fire on
the horizon, rouge red and lines of orange streaking the
dome of the sky. Now the stars are hot in a windless night.
The monuments at the Mall look like they’ve been painted
on velvet.
I’m walking the track around the South Lawn. Reliving
moments and replaying memories like they won’t exist if I
don’t bring them back to life each day.
Slap, slap. Footsteps shuffling. Another series of quick
slaps, rubber on pavement. The lonely sounds of a solitary
dribbler alone on a half-court.
Halfway down the track, when you’re heading toward E
Street beyond the south end of the Eisenhower Building,
there’s a winding little piece of pavement that leads into a
cluster of towering trees. At first, it seems to go nowhere,
but take that path and the pavement spits you out at the
White House basketball half-court.
It’s not much: the court was laid on the same ground
where the old horseshoe rings were once installed, and like
everything in the White House, it’s smaller than you expect.
The paint is faded, and the pavement blurs into dirt inches
from the lines.
Some presidents love to play. It’s a private space, and you
can pretend you’re somewhere other than the White House
while you’re dribbling a ball on a run toward the basket. At
least one president held his daily debriefs there. Most of the
time, those debriefs turned into pickup games, and the
president would haul anyone who was nearby onto the court
to round out the teams. Try and ask a Secret Service agent to
press the president. He can charge all day long.
Brennan isn’t a basketball player, which means the court
is up for grabs for the West Wing staff and the Secret Service.
Henry isn’t, either, but Nuñez and Sheridan are, and they
organize three-on-three half-court games almost every
night of the week.
After New York, I stayed away. I am a whirlpool who sucks
the life and joy out of anyone around.
But Sheridan kept inviting me, and eventually, I relented.
Nothing was magically cured, but for an hour, at least, there
was something beyond my private misery and clawing
despair.
I’ve kept going to the games. Even subbed in once or
twice. Sheridan is a relentless player, always driving, never
stopping for a break or a breath. He’s good, especially at the
line, where he can lob a fadeaway jumper through the center
of the basket. He seems to both lose and find himself when
he plays.
So I know who I’m going to find on the half-court.
Sure enough, there he is. Sheridan is backlit by the
sodium lamp overlooking the court, the long lines of his
body stretched full out as he jumps at the top of the key and
bounces the ball off the center of the backboard and through
the hoop. I hear the swish of the net like a whisper.
“Nice shot.”
He spins. His shock makes him miss the rebound, and he
has to jog for the ball. His cheeks are pink, and he alternates
dribbles with lingering looks my way as I loiter on the edge
of the court.
“One-on-one?” He bounce-passes to me. I catch the ball
and dribble slowly, hand to hand. He must have come out
here right after his shift ended. He’s still in his suit, though
he shed his jacket. His tie is tugged loose, and the top
buttons of his shirt are undone. He’s rolled up his sleeves,
too. He’s been out here for hours.
“Sure.” I bounce the ball back and then shed my own
jacket and tie and drop both on the edge of the court. He lets
me start, and I charge, fighting around his hard press and
his ferocious close game. He crowds me, forces me to roll.
Still, I manage a jump shot, finger-rolling the ball into the
basket.
Sheridan takes the rebound and darts to the line, then
starts his own charge. He dribbles fast, moves even faster. I
hard press him. His eyes are embers as they flick between
the hoop and me. He wiggles left. I lunge. He leaps, and I
jump with him—
We collide in midair, and the ball goes wide, twanging off
the backboard and looping out of bounds. We come down
tangled together, Sheridan’s arms around me, his face in my
neck as he steadies me and keeps me on my feet. I grasp his
forearms. Lean in.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for another person—
another man—to want me or cherish me. I’m not ready to
face the truth in Sheridan’s eyes.
I’m also not ready to think about why I can smile with
him when nothing makes me smile these days.
Sheridan’s breath is hot, puffs of both exertion and shock.
His arms tighten, and his hands slip around my back as if
he’s holding me, cradling—
He spins away, flinging himself free as he chases the ball
toward the line of trees and the shadows outside the puddle
of the court light.
I’m frozen at the three-point line.
Brennan held me like that. He laid his face against my
neck and breathed me in. He cherished me, and he held me
like he cherished me, and the memory of his arms around
me is fracturing me again.
Sheridan’s back. He’s two-handing the ball in front of his
chest, elbows wide, and staring at the court like he’s trying
to melt the pavement and disappear into the earth. He’s a
shade of burgundy I haven’t seen before. Is this
embarrassment or anger? Frustration or fury?
“I’m sorry,” he starts.
“Sheridan—”
He cuts me off, which is a first. “You know, right? How I
feel about you?” He still won’t look at me.
“I do.”
He nods and looks away. His fingers play over the surface
of the basketball like he’s trying to find its eyeballs and
gouge them out. His jaw is firing, the muscle in his cheek
snapping. “It sucks falling in love with someone you can’t be
with.”
His voice is quiet, but it cuts me to my marrow.
 I want to commiserate with him, lean into him, tell him
of my agonies and anguished nights, about how I can’t
breathe because of the pain and how every time I close my
eyes I see bleu clair eyes and the shape of Brennan’s smile.
That I wake up on my side every day, staring at an empty
pillow and imagining that Brennan is there, denting the
cotton and watching me sleep as his fingers play in my hair
—
But Sheridan is looking at me the way I look at Brennan.
I’m watching a heart shatter in real time.
“I know—” he whispers, and for a moment, my blood
turns to ice. He knows, he knows—
He’s fighting through something, though, and his lips
thin before he speaks again. “I know nothing will ever
happen. I’ve been trying to deal with it. Put it away. But I’ve
been gone for you since we met in the boxing ring at RTC. It
was almost impossible to spar. I couldn’t fucking breathe,
but I also couldn’t let you down. I just…”
He paces away, the ball squealing in his iron grip.
He’s still going. “I’ve been thinking about telling you. Not
to ask you out or anything, but because it’s hard to get
through the day with these feelings blowing up inside me. I
don’t want to mess up or make a mistake. Or worse, make
you feel—” Finally, his voice breaks.
“Sheridan… I’m honored.”
I can see it, a picture just out of focus: Sheridan and me
spending our lives together. He’d love me forever, always
there for me with his smile and his open heart. We could find
happiness, if I let myself feel it. But—
Different time, different place, different reality.
He bounces the ball. Catches it one-handed. Bounces it
again.
“I’m not ready,” I say. “I just broke someone’s heart, and
I broke myself doing it. I’m not ready.”
 Maybe there’ll be a day in the far-flung future when I can
consider opening the remnants of myself again, but that day
is nowhere near.
“I know,” he says again, and damn it, what the hell does
he mean? What does he know? “I’ve been watching you.” He
flinches. “That sounds fucking creepy. I’m sorry. I don’t
mean it like that. I mean… I’ve noticed. You were happy, and
then you weren’t. Something happened after New York. I’ve
been trying to cheer you up, or distract you, or make you
laugh.”
“You have. You make me smile every day.” Now my
throat is closing. Now I’m the one choking on my words.
“You make me smile when nothing else can, Sheridan.”
He’s back to mangling the ball, the muscles in his
forearm flexing.
“I didn’t know you months ago, but now—” I inhale,
blinking. My words are a rushing river, roaring out of me. “I
can’t imagine my days without you. I think there’s a part of
me that needs you.”
“There’s a part of me that needs you, too.” His voice is
quiet steel. “You’re everything to me.”
Like Brennan is everything to me.
The basketball pounds the pavement, furious dribbling as
he stares at the ground. “Do you want me off the detail?
Should I request a transfer?”
“No. You’re a fantastic agent.” His eyes dart to mine.
They’re full of questions, bunched like thunderheads.
“Sheridan, I want you to stay, but if you need space, I
understand.”
Finally, a tiny smile appears, made more of sadness than
delight. “I want to stay.”
“Then you stay.”
Silence descends over the court. He stares at me, and I
stare at him. Would Sheridan have been able to unlock my
heart like Brennan had? If I met these men in reverse, would
Sheridan be the man in my bed and Brennan just another
president, just another job, on the periphery of my life?
You fall in love with people for different reasons. Sheridan
is warm and wonderful and has earned a place in my life
through his kindness and his steadfastness, his quick mind
and his quicker smile. He’s the man who will cherish me for
a lifetime, who will wake me with a kiss every morning and
hold my hand in the sunlight.
Brennan is black lightning and blues, neon-soaked rain
squalls, bayou midnights and creeping Spanish moss. He’s
unknowable depths, flame-hot touches and bleu clair eyes.
He’s the mystery, the moon rising in the west, the secrets
written on bones and cast under dark stars.
Some part of me may need Sheridan, like the earth needs
the rays of the sun.
But I was made to love Brennan Walker.
And then I was set down in this life, where that love is an
impossibility.
Despair wraps around me again. The moment on the court
has passed, and the warm glow of the light, the welcoming
shelter of the trees, has shifted. Now the night is
obliterating, a weight that is pressing me into the ground.
Sheridan senses the changes in me, and he shoots me a
tight smile as he backs away, moving to the free throw line
and setting up for a shot. I watch him sling another basket
before I grab my jacket and tie set off down the track. He
watches me go, and the only thing he says is, “I’ll see you
Monday.”
I could set my watch to Sheridan’s quiet care and endless
affection. He’s as reliable as the sunrise. What the hell does
he see in me?
Less than five minutes later, my BlackBerry buzzes.
 Boss. Emergency meeting. Old Ebbitt.

Henry’s been calling “emergency” meetings with me a

few times a week, always off-site at a bar. I show up, and
there’s an ice-cold beer and my best friend waiting for me.
He runs his mouth for a few hours about nothing—football,
the start of hockey, the smell in the locker room, the junior
staffers cluttering up the halls of the White House, traffic in
DC—while I stare into the bottom of my glass and let his
words flood me.
The Old Ebbitt Grill is a Washington mainstay, the oldest
saloon in town. Its current incarnation is across the street
from the White House complex and next door to the
Treasury. One hundred and fifty years of White House staff
have drowned their sorrows at the Old Ebbitt’s bar. The
ambience is classic Victorian mixed with 1800s Western
Americana.
It’s one of the best places in the city to get oysters on the
half shell, and it’s close enough to the White House that I
thought about bringing them back for Brennan one night.
Oysters, slow jazz, and a Sazerac by candlelight. I thought we
could hold hands as we dissected the world, then kiss away
the day while we swayed in each other’s arms.
I’m a fool’s fool, and I always will be.
Henry’s at the bar, his tie balled up beside a glass of
bourbon. He’s got one heel hooked on the rung of an empty
barstool next to him, and three different groups of drinkers
are shooting Medusa glares his way. There are no open seats
other than the one he’s saving, and the place is wall-to-wall
packed. Elbow room only.
Ice melt is still sliding down the sides of my frosted pint
glass as I shuffle in beside him. “Hey.”
“Finally. I thought I’d have to leg-wrestle the whole place
for your seat.” He tosses back his bourbon and taps the bar
for another round.
I spin my beer, watch the ripples ride. Henry studies my
reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His eyes narrow.
There’s an extra edge to him tonight, like he’s spent some
time chewing on something and the rawness has set into his
gums.
“You ever gonna talk about it?”
Mon Dieu. I flush to my toes, running hot. Tonight? Now?
We haven’t talked about this since he brought me to his
place.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Not anymore.
Henry snorts. “Yeah, okay. That’s why you’re like this. A
ray of sunshine every damn day.”
My thumbs flick against my glass, nails tap-tapping
away. “If you’re waiting for me to snap out of something,
you’ll be waiting a long time.”
He braces his foot on the rung of my barstool again, then
turns to fully face me. He’s playing with a toothpick, and he
slides one end between his teeth and gnaws on it. “You must
have felt pretty strongly.”
I nod and say nothing.
He screws up his face as he watches me. The bar is
roaring, people talking loud and laughing hard on all sides.
We’re both outside it, though.
“Well, you know what they say. Sometimes the quickest
way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” He
shrugs as I glare at him. “Just sayin’, Sheridan would saw off
his left testicle with a butter knife if it meant he could take
you on a date.”
“You know about that?”
“Oh yeah.” He chuckles. “I know about that. He’s gone
for you.” His eyes narrow. “You got some kind of effect on
guys, huh? Here’s two of ’em—”
“Shut your mouth, Henry. Don’t even start.”
 He holds up his hands in surrender, expression twisted
like I’m the one who insulted him.
My anger is flaring. “Why are you doing this? Merde, this
isn’t a joke! Look what I did to—” I snap my mouth shut
before I say his name.
He’s been egging me on, and now his trap is sprung. I
walked right into it, not even realizing he was setting up an
interrogation. His expression softens, like he’s got me to
admit something, and he nods to himself.
“There it is. You have got to stop blaming yourself,
Reese.” He points the chewed end of his toothpick at me.
“You’re not at fault here. He’s a big fucking boy, and he
knew exactly what he was doing.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“He didn’t realize—”
“Bullshit!” Henry hisses. “You think he believed Secret
Service agents were some perk of the job? I was there when
you explained it all to him, remember?”
“It doesn’t matter!”
“It matters that he went for it! It matters that he went for
what—and who—he wanted. Look,” he says, sliding his
refreshed glass of bourbon around on the bar top. “I was
right there when you two met, and maybe I should have seen
where all this was headed back then. Because he’s known
what he was doing from the day he walked into the Oval, and
he knew what he was doing with you.”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
“No,” he says. “Haven’t you thought about going for it,
too?”
I close my eyes. “Every damn day.”
But the reasons why I can’t be with Brennan haven’t
changed. He’s just as off-limits as he ever was.
 “Then—” He waves his hand toward the door like I
should get up and go straight to Brennan, lay him down with
a kiss.
“Arrête-toi. No, Jesus, Henry. No.”
“Is it a crime? Is it against any law?”
“Dereliction of duty.”
“You couldn’t derelict your duty if you tried.” He scoffs.
“What are you really trying to tell me?”
Henry leans in close, until he’s speaking into my ear. “If
he thought you were worth the risk to him, isn’t he worth
the risk to you?”
“I could destroy him, Henry. What we did… That’s not just
a little risk. I could ruin his life.”
You are bad for Brennan Walker. Bad for his career, his
legacy, his dreams.
“Isn’t what you guys had even worth trying for?”
If this is how Henry thinks he’s going to cheer me up,
he’s wrong. I don’t have to listen to this.
I’m halfway off my bar stool before he grabs my forearm
and hauls me back down. “This is your life, and you only get
one. Make a decision on what you want. Go for it.”
“Real life doesn’t work that way.”
“If I wanted something bad enough, there isn’t a fucking
thing in this world that would stop me.” He grabs my chin
and turns me to him. I can smell the bourbon on his breath.
“You have to do something. I can’t watch this anymore.
Either go make Sheridan’s dreams come true and fuck him
through the mattress—”
I flush. He winks. “Or go after what you really want, and
don’t let anything get in your way.”
It sucks falling in love with someone you can’t be with.
I drag my lip between my teeth.
I want Brennan. I’m in love with Brennan. I want to spend
all my days at his side. And I’m willing to lose everything in
my own life to gain Brennan and his love.
But between us, Brennan shoulders the greater risk in our
love story. He can lose it all.
Maybe this is where I haven’t been able to really get to.
Maybe I haven’t been willing to follow my thoughts this far,
because the question I need to ask and he has to answer is,
does he think I’m worth it?
Would he still love me if he lost everything?
What about the world? He’s responsible for so much
good, and I’m still a risk to his legacy.
I can decide to ignore the risks and the reasons we can’t
be together. They won’t change, but…
I would choose him and give up everything else in a
heartbeat.
What would he choose?
My fingers are wet and wrinkled from spinning my beer
glass. I haven’t taken a single sip. My heart is pounding.
Merde, am I really thinking of going to him? Asking him this
question? Six weeks, sixty thousand minutes. Seeing him
again—
My eyes close.
“Henry, I’m going to take the weekend off.”
Henry’s eyes flash. “Is Sheridan going to need a
wheelchair on Monday?”
“No. But check in on him this weekend, okay? He told me
how he feels about me tonight.”
“Shit, really? Before you got here?” I nod. Henry whistles.
“I’m giving that kid a medal for bravery. Shit, I thought I’d
have to live with him making eyes at you forever. So, why the
weekend off?”
“I’m going to take a trip.”
A slow smile unfurls across his face. “Catoctin
Mountain?”
I nod again. Catoctin Mountain. Camp David.
 I don’t want any more anguished daydreams, or late-
night vigils, or memories that bleed into visions of fantasy
futures.
I need to know.
And then I need to move forward. With him or without
him.
Henry pays the tab and then walks me back across the
street to the White House. He doesn’t say a word as I sign out
an SUV from the motor pool. We walk to the corner of the
garage, to where we’re shaded by darkness and the
overhang, and he holds open the driver’s door as I climb in.
“Gonna radio ahead?”
“Nope.”
“What’s your excuse for heading up there gonna be?”
“I have an hour and a half to figure that out.” I hesitate,
one foot hanging out the door. “I don’t know what will
happen. He might throw me out on my ass.”
“If you need to, come back to my place. Tonight. Okay?”
Henry doesn’t need to be kind after all the shit I’ve shoveled
on him, but he is. “If he has any sense at all, he’s going to
thank his lucky stars and I won’t hear from you until
Monday. But my couch is always open.”
I start up the SUV and roll down the window. “Take care
of Sheridan this weekend?”
“I’ll distract him with video games and weight lifting.
Manly things, so he can’t feel the heartbreak you inflicted.”
I roll my eyes as I put it in reverse.
“Good luck, boss.”
 Chapter Twenty-Six

R eese
T hen

T he drive north is quiet, no sound but the hum of the tires

on the pavement as I pull farther away from Washington.
My mind unfurls in the headlights and follows the curves of
the road.
I have no idea what to say. No idea how to do this.
Doubts creep in with the darkness. Who do I think I am to
ask Brennan to risk everything?
What will he think of me showing up on his doorstep in
the middle of the night?
What will he say to me after I told him he was a mistake?
It’s too late.
I can’t trust you with my heart again.
I’ve had some time to think, and you’re right. It’s not worth it.
You’re not worth it.
It would serve me right if he’s moved on. It would serve
me right to be dealt the same agony that I inflicted on him.
To want, to crave, to love, only to be met with cold dismissal.
 Camp David is nestled in Catoctin Mountain Park in
northern Maryland, just south of the Pennsylvania state line.
It’s a US Navy facility, and it’s the one place the president
goes where the Service doesn’t take the lead. The Marines
are responsible for securing the grounds. We bring a
minimal detachment of agents for travel back and forth, and
if it’s a nonworking weekend and the president is there
purely for relaxation, agents can bring their families up.
The Marine guards aren’t expecting any visitors after
dark, and when I take the turnoff to Camp David, I’m
stopped immediately by the outer patrol. I flash my badge. “I
have to brief POTUS in the morning. Something came up. I’ll
crash in one of the cabins tonight so I’m here first thing.”
The sergeant nods once. “Understood, sir. My men will
escort you onto the grounds.”
Anyone else would be turned around and driven back to
the highway, but I’m the special agent in charge of the
presidential protection detail. I’m trusted.
I’m abusing that trust. Hell, what else is new? At this
point, badging my way into Camp David has to be
somewhere near the bottom of my list of transgressions.
My tires crunch over the leaf-strewn drive as I pull up to
Aspen, the president’s cabin. We call it a cabin, but it’s a log
mansion. The forest runs right up to the walls, surrounding
the president in pristine woodlands and solitude. Narrow
paths wind into the trees, where the rest of the cabins are
nestled in quiet groves and creek-lined copses.
I park. No one else is here. He’s all alone.
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he were entertaining a new
lover? If I had broken the seal, but now he’s moved on, found
someone into yoga and not dangerous enough to destroy
him?
It’s so quiet I can hear myself breathing.
 Ironically, the president never locks his doors. Or he’s
never supposed to. If we need to get to him, we can’t be
slowed down.
Which means there’s nothing stopping me from walking
in.
Except myself. Merde, I’m terrified. More than I’ve ever
been. I’ve faced down men and women set on murdering the
president, but opening this door…
I stop thinking and do it. I stride into Aspen and shut the
door behind me.
I walk into an open living room beneath an exposed-
beam ceiling. One wall is made of glass and overlooks the
pool. Right now, silver shimmers in the water, like
Brennan’s pulled the moon down from the sky. A stone
fireplace runs from floor to ceiling against another wall. In
it, a fire burns low.
Brennan stands on the hearth. He’s holding a glass of
whiskey, and when he sees me, his fingers tighten around
the cut crystal until his hand shakes.
It hurts to look at him, especially with the flickering light
from the fire playing over his face. Then my gaze tracks to
the hollows beneath his eyes and the tightness of the skin
across his cheekbone and jaw. His sweater is looser, and his
jeans hang lower on his hips. He hasn’t been eating. Or
sleeping, it seems.
Coals shift. Embers settle in the grate.
Keys down on the table beside the door. I start stripping
my gear. My cuffs. My baton. My flashlight. My spare
magazines. I slide my weapon from my hip. Lift my pant leg
and undo the magazine holster there. Toss my jacket on the
ground and leave it in a heap, then undo my shoulder
harness and the second pistol I’ve started carrying.
Tonight, I’m not coming to Brennan as the chief of his
detail. I’m coming to him as me. Reese, the man who loves
him.
He watches my every move, eyes raking over me, head to
toe and back again. His gaze is guarded, wary. Iron edged in
torment and colored in remembered pain as our stares lock.
“What are you doing here?” His voice grinds, ragged and
rough and far too deep.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Hasn’t that time passed? He turns, and his face is lost in
shadows. He stares into the dying fire and doesn’t move.
“Reese, I came here to force you out of my mind. I was going
to give myself one more weekend, and then I was going to
bury my feelings for you.”
“Please, don’t.”
“Why not?” He grips the mantel. “You said we were a
mistake.”
“I was trying to protect you. If anyone finds out what
we’ve done—"
My lips clamp shut. Those are old truths. The truths that
should keep us apart. I’ve tilled those worries into the fallow
fields of my psyche, harvested centuries of pain for my
efforts. There is nothing new there.
The fire sputters as the last of the flames wither away. All
that’s left are the coals. His eyes close, and he exhales. “Why
are you here?”
I’m doing this wrong, all wrong. “I’m here because…
Brennan, something has pulled us together from the
moment we met. I don’t understand it, and I never have. I’ve
tried to fight it, and I’ve tried to run away from it, but I
can’t.”
His jaw works, the muscles clenching. “I felt the same,”
he whispers. “The world changed when I looked into your
eyes. Now there’s my life before you and my life after you.
Anguish twists his face. “I fell so deeply in love with you.”
 “I fell in love with you, too.” And I’m still falling. I’m in
free fall. Plunging, this time in terror. “I did make a mistake,
but it wasn’t us falling in love. It was me walking away. I
made the biggest mistake of my life six weeks ago, and if I
could rewind time and go back to that night, I would—”
My voice cracks.
“Merde, I can’t stop imagining what we could be
together. But… We are bad news, Brennan. I’m bad for you.
What am I compared to your whole career? Compared to
everything you’ve done and all the good you can accomplish,
what am I?”
“You never asked what you were worth to me, Reese.
Loving you is bigger than the presidency, or my legacy, or
my reputation. I am a man—”
“You are more than just a man. You are a great
president.”
“Don’t look at me and only see policy.”
“But you can change the world. You already have.”
In the past six weeks, since I walked out, Brennan’s
alliance and his commitment to human rights has saved
thousands. Tens, hundreds of thousands of lives. The
relocations, the graves being dug, the towns being torched.
All of that has been put to an end. Because of Brennan.
It makes me love him even more.
“This world will go on, but I want our world, Reese. I want
what we found together. I want you to look at me and think
of our love.”
Silence envelops us.
“There are things bigger than ourselves,” he says softly.
“Loving you is one.”
He’s so still.
“Brennan… This is…” Fate. Destiny. He’s the love of my
life. “I don’t want to sacrifice anymore. I don’t want to
compromise. I want to be with you.”
 Brutal hope burns from him so fiercely, so intensely. “You
need to be sure.” His voice is shaking. No, he’s shaking,
every part of him. His hands are clenched at his sides like
he’s holding himself back and it’s taking everything inside
him to do it. “I cannot survive you walking away from me
again.”
Six weeks of sleepless nights, of fitful dreams, of waking
up with the ghost of his eyes.
“I’m sure.”
He’s on me in a moment, and his arms wrap around me,
crushing me to him. “Reese…”
Then his mouth is on mine. Our tongues duel as we
devour each other, only breaking for the instant it takes to
shed our shirts. I arch against him as his hands glide over
me.
His touch feels like he’s bringing me back to life. I’ve
missed him so much.
I’m frantic. He’s frantic. His fingers skate down my spine
and farther, into my pants as he grabs my ass. I undo my fly,
and he shoves my pants down as he drops to his knees.
Kisses land on my belly and hips, and then lower, before he
takes my cock in his mouth.
It’s been too long—six weeks—since my last orgasm, and
I rise too quickly, too sharply. I try to claw him off me, but he
takes my hands in his and looks into my eyes as he sucks
deeper—
And I’m lost. Gone. I come crying his name, and he moans
around me as I shoot down his throat. I’m weak after, my
knees shaking, my knuckles clenched into hard ridges as we
hold each other so tight our fingers go numb.
We end up on the couch, completely entwined, naked
bodies rocking and thrusting as we kiss and gasp and try to
breathe each other in. His hands in my hair, my hands
scraping down his back. I harden against his thigh again.
 “I want to spend the rest of my life loving you,” he
whispers.
We move as one. His cock slides over my belly, my hip,
my own cock. I lift my other leg and wrap it around his waist.
His hands thread through mine, and he pins me to the
cushions.
His eyes go wide, and he comes with my name falling
from his lips. I come apart beneath him, trembling and
shuddering and bucking as he keeps thrusting. I’m in pieces.
We lie together, panting, trying to let our hearts calm. My
fingers trace patterns between his pecs, slide over the flat
planes of his stomach.
“How long do we have?”
“You have me for the rest of your life.” I stretch, hooking
one thigh over his hip. “And for the whole weekend.”
“No interruptions? No duty?”
“Nothing short of nuclear war.”
“Even then.” He kisses me, and what starts sweet and
simple becomes so much more.
He takes me apart with his mouth, until I’m nothing but
frayed nerves. Then I go down on him, and I ask him to teach
me exactly what he wants from my lips and my tongue. He
does, and I suck him as I massage his balls, stroke his
thighs, press my fingers against his hole.
Then I devour his ass. Anal isn’t new to me. Brennan is
the first man I’ve been with, but this isn’t the first time I’ve
dived face-first into a perfect pair of cheeks. I hold his thighs
back, bend him in half, and go to town. I missed this the first
time, and I’m not making that mistake again.
Brennan grabs the couch cushion, a throw pillow, yanks
on my hair. I take his hand in mine. His nails gouge the skin
on my palm.
I reduce him to moans, to little jerks and quivers and then
the soft undulations of his hips as he tries to fuck my face.
My tongue is buried as far as it will go and my fingers are
playing with the rim of his hole.
Merde, I want him again. I want to be inside him, so deep
I can feel his thoughts moving in my mind. I rise and wrap
his legs around my waist as I kiss him, then whisper, “Put
your arms around my neck.”
He does, and I stand and carry him down the hall of the
presidential cabin and into his bedroom.
We hit the bed and roll, kissing like we haven’t just
burned up the air between us. He’s in my lap, pressing us
skin to skin, chest to chest, lips to lips. He lunges, fumbling
on the nightstand until he yanks open a drawer, and then
passes me a new bottle of lube. “I was going to try and get
you out of my system.”
He was going to fuck himself and think of me, then try to
forget me.
I slick myself and him. He holds my face in his hands. We
stare into each other as I move into him, and all the endless
nights and anguished days, all the heartsick aching and the
rubbed-raw blisters on my soul, all the ways I’ve been wrong
without Brennan, go up in smoke. This is right. This, us, is
everything.
He rides me slowly. I kiss his chest and bite down on his
nipples, then lave them with my tongue. My hands roam the
expanse of his back, cataloging every shiver and moan, every
white-hot moment, that I pull from him.
Our lovemaking finally stops as the sun is rising. The bed
is destroyed, the sheets torn from the corners, the pillows on
the floor. We lie in the center of the mattress, his head on my
shoulder, my arms around him, and we drift asleep to the
sound of birdsong.
He must have told everyone to leave him undisturbed for
the weekend, because no one interrupts us in the morning.
When we finally wake, past noon, he tells me to stay in bed
and relax while he makes brunch. I packed nothing, came
here with nothing, so I swipe a pair of his boxers and follow
him after a few minutes. After six weeks apart, I don’t want
him out of my sight.
He nearly abandons the French toast in the pan. We bank
the fires between us long enough to eat, but as soon as we’re
done, he lays me on the table and asks for dessert.
When the sun sets, we venture outside. Starlight
illuminates our world, and we talk softly while we watch the
moon rise.
Later, back inside, we make love. I kiss my way down his
body until I take his cock in my mouth. His groan fills every
corner of the room, and his fingers dig into the sheets as his
thighs quake. I hold his stare and suck him slowly.
Finally, I slide into him again. I hold his hand against my
heart as he rides me. This is different than before. This is
more profound. This is the start of forever.
I’m trying to memorize him, memorize the way the
moonlight hugs him and how his eyes rival the brightness of
stars. I need to remember every taut line, every carved
muscle. I need to carry this moment inside me forever.
The future we’ve chosen is not going to be easy. We can
pretend for this weekend, but reality is right around the
corner. We are still dangerous.
But we’ll face that danger together.
The way we are meant to.
He kisses my lips with soft nibbles in between smiles and
slow rocks of his hips. I wrap my hand around the curve of
his face and cradle his cheekbone in my palm.
“I want to marry you.” His voice is less than a whisper.
Less than sound. I feel his words more than I hear them.
It feels like I’m marrying him now. “I’m yours, Brennan.
And I’ll always be yours.”
 Chapter Twenty-Seven

R eese
N ow

A natoly asks to meet at a McDonald’s on the rougher side

of Baltimore, half an hour outside of DC.
Sheridan is silent during the drive. He’s hunched in the
seat with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his
palms. I try to read the quiver in his shoulders, the line of
tension running down his spine.
Is your world collapsing, Sheridan? Are your lies closing in
around you?
I didn’t think Sheridan would be the man who broke my
heart, but here we are. I can feel the cracks forming.
When we arrive, Anatoly is already parked in a corner,
next to the dumpster. I pull up beside him and roll down my
window. “What do you want?”
He rolls his eyes and hauls himself out of his Lexus. “Get
out. We talk face-to-face.”
I’ve got no time for moody Russians, and I almost throw
the SUV into reverse and leave him choking on my fumes.
But I need to know Konstantin’s role in all this. I turn off the
engine and pocket the keys.
An hour ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving
them in the car with Sheridan.
Sheridan follows me out, slamming his door. I eyeball
him as he comes around the hood.
Anatoly’s gaze snaps from me to him.
“Talk. You’ve got three minutes,” I bark. “We’re going to
charge Konstantin in federal court in an hour.” I’m bluffing,
but Anatoly doesn’t know that. “We’ve got him for
assaulting a federal agent. Breaking and entering.
Conspiracy.”
“You think he was somewhere yesterday? That’s what
these made-up charges are all about?”
“Sometime between ten a.m. yesterday and this morning,
yes. He left a print during a break-in at a Secret Service
agent’s home.”
Anatoly’s eyes narrow. “Does this have anything to do
with the car crash in Rock Creek Park last night? Or how the
Secret Service rushed to respond? Almost like…” He lets his
implication hang between us, his eyebrows raised.
I say nothing. Sheridan grinds his heel against a weed.
“Konstantin has an alibi for all of yesterday.”
“How convenient.”
“Maybe, but it’s the truth.” Anatoly pulls out a phone.
Video surveillance from the Russian embassy is preloaded on
his screen, with the date and time stamp in the upper corner.
Yesterday morning, eight a.m. “Watch. You will see
Konstantin enter the embassy. He was meeting me.”
Sure enough, there’s Konstantin striding through the
front doors and greeting Anatoly in the lobby with a hug and
kisses to each cheek. The men amble out of the frame,
heading deeper into the embassy. They’re not in a hurry.
 “He did not leave until the afternoon. Again, with me.” A
new video plays, this time showing Konstantin and Anatoly
leaving the embassy in the company of three other men.
They’re relaxed, laughing with each other, sharing jokes. An
outside camera picks up the recording as they move out of
the lobby frame. The five men climb into Anatoly’s car.
“We went to dinner. We were discussing business with
these men. They were here from out of town.”
“And who are they?”
Anatoly glares at me and doesn’t answer. “Here is the
video surveillance from the restaurant.”
Somehow, he has the surveillance tapes from the St.
Regis. They ate at Alhambra inside the hotel. If this is
legit. The video looks like it’s from the St. Regis, though. I’ve
pulled their surveillance tapes a hundred times. The time
stamp, the date, their logo in the corner. Anatoly drives up in
his Lexus, and the same men climb out. A valet takes the car
as Anatoly and Konstantin usher the men inside at 3:21 p.m.
yesterday.
“We stayed for five hours.”
“Long dinner.”
“Unlike you Americans, we know how to savor
experiences.”
The next video shows the five men leaving at eight thirty.
The valet is different, part of the evening shift. Anatoly and
Konstantin smoke while they wait. When the car arrives,
Konstantin tips the valet.
“We took them to Illumination for vodka.” The infamous
Russian strip club, a laughably thin front for the Russian
mob. Of course, Anatoly has video surveillance from there,
and I watch as all five men enter the club a little before nine.
The drive times line up so far. There’s no chunk of
minutes missing.
 “We stayed until after two in the morning. I remember,
because on the drive back, I heard the news about the crash
in the park.” He also has video of five tipsy men laughing as
they puff on cigars and climb into Anatoly’s Lexus. Time
stamp: 2:37 a.m.
“Konstantin and I dropped off our guests at their hotel
—”
“Where?”
“The Ritz.”
“Of course.”
“—and we went to Konstantin’s home.” The last video is
from a home surveillance camera at what looks like the
townhouse across the street from Konstantin’s Georgetown
walk-up. The Lexus pulls up, and Anatoly and Konstantin
climb out. They’re moving slower, and they smoke before
going inside at 3:23 a.m.
“I stayed for an hour and then left.”
The final video shows Anatoly driving away at four thirty
in the morning. He leaves the video playing.
“And Konstantin stayed home until you came to arrest
him this morning. He went nowhere else. You see, he was
with me all day yesterday. There is no time for him to have
even thought about whatever you are charging him with.”
“This is pretty fucking convenient.” I glare at Anatoly
through my sunglasses. “You know, I’ve lost count of how
many times you guys have tried to pass off phony video
surveillance as authentic. We always find out. You’re not that
good at it.”
“This is not fake. It is real, all of it. You can go to the St.
Regis yourself. And Illumination is waiting for your call.
They will confirm.”
“Of course your Russian bar will confirm your story,
Anatoly. It’s beyond believable that every move of
Konstantin’s yesterday is recorded. It’s like you knew he’d
need an alibi.”
“In my line of work, we need alibis every day. If I am not
trying to hide, I keep myself out in the open. You never know
when some federal agent is going to accuse you of something
you did not do.”
“Cute.”
I run my tongue over my teeth. Glance at Sheridan. He’s
biting his lip so hard I can see a bruise forming. He’s also
skull-fucking Anatoly with his glare. It seems my sunny
Sheridan has packed it in. Has he given up pretending? Is
this the real Sheridan I’m seeing?
“Is this fingerprint inside someone’s home all you have
on Konstantin? What if he was paying a friendly visit? Surely
you didn’t arrest him based on that alone. This is America,
after all.”
“This wasn’t a friendly visit. He trashed the place. Tossed
it from floor to ceiling, looking for something. His print was
on the light bulb he unscrewed on his way in.”
Anatoly tips his head back and laughs. His shoulders
shake, and he raises his hands to his temples, cursing in
Russian for a full minute. “Reese, you are far smarter than
that. You know that is not Konstantin’s print!”
“I know what I know, Anatoly. It’s Konstantin’s fucking
print. Hell, even your embassy confirmed it.”
“Think!” Anatoly snaps. “Why would Konstantin, one of
the best operatives I have ever worked with, leave his
fingerprint behind? Especially if he was breaking into the
home of one of your agents. My man is not so sloppy.”
“Everyone makes mistakes. I don’t need to explain why
he did what he did. All I need to do is show he was there.”
“He was not there.” Anatoly holds out the phone with the
videos. “This is for you. All the videos are on it. Give it to
your FBI and let them dissect the footage. They will find it is
authentic. Konstantin is not your culprit.”
“Then why is his print there? We know the break-in
occurred yesterday after ten a.m.”
But where did that information come from? Sheridan is
silent beside me. He’s not contributing anything to this
conversation. Not helping in any way.
“I have never sent him to break into one of your agents’
homes. I swear. I think, instead, Konstantin is being set up.
Perhaps by someone with a grudge against him, no?”
My gaze flicks to Sheridan again. He shakes his head and
turns away. I lose sight of him when he paces to the other
side of the SUV. A moment later, a fist slams into the
vehicle’s reinforced steel paneling once, twice, three times.
When I turn back to Anatoly, his expression seems to say,
See?
“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” I ask. “Trying to
convince me your man is innocent with some cut-and-paste
video files? Why don’t you send this to the State
Department? I don’t need to be wasting time here.”
“Konstantin is at the edge of something terrible you have
found, Reese. You are groping at shadows. You’ve wandered
into something you don’t understand. I have information
that I think can help you, and I am willing to trade that
information for Konstantin.”
Brennan.
I’ll do anything to get him back. I’ll release a hundred
Russians if that’s the price. This is why our love is so
dangerous. Where is my loyalty now? What wouldn’t I give up
for him? I don’t know the answer. “Do you know where he
is?”
“Do I know where who is?” Anatoly asks slowly.
My teeth scrape against each other. Anatoly called me
here. Anatoly wants to trade. Let him be the one to say it.
 “Here’s what I know,” Anatoly says, stepping closer. He
lowers his voice, and his accent thickens. “I know that
accident last night is more than your government is
pretending. I know something terrible has happened. And I
know you are operating on your own, deep in the darkness.
You and—” He jerks his chin toward where Sheridan
disappeared. “Is he your errand boy? Or is he spying on you?
Who do you trust right now?”
“Not you.”
“I wouldn’t trust me, either. Which is why I want to trade.
Information for Konstantin. We both come out ahead.”
“I can’t agree to a trade until I know what information
you want to give me.”
“I know what has your government in spasms. The secret
that only your president is supposed to know.”
The briefing. Where Brennan was going. “Tell me.”
“There is a spy inside your government at the highest
levels. Someone who works with President Walker.”
“What?” It’s like I’m on a roller coaster that’s falling
apart, parts and pieces and rails flying off in every direction
as I plummet to the ground.
“This spy has been sending Kirilov all of your president’s
decisions. How do you think the Russians know how to
counter your every move? Predict them, preempt them?
Kirilov was able to spring a trap on your SEALs not because
he was lucky. Because he was warned.”
I can count the men and women who were in the Situation
Room that day. Who among them could pass that
information—information that cost American lives—to
Russia?
“How do you know this?”
Anatoly studies me. “These are dangerous times. Events
have been set in motion that cannot be taken back. What
your president did at the UN was the final straw for many in
Russia. Now, decisions are being made, and Kirilov is
growing desperate.”
“Decisions? You’re talking about a palace coup?”
Anatoly’s stare is dark and hard. He can’t confirm, but
he’s not denying, either.
“What’s your part in all this?”
“I’m trying to survive.”
“Like all good Russian boys.”
“Kirilov is old FSB, yes? He still runs spies and
informants, even inside his own government. He plays the
most important close to his chest, so no one knows who they
are. This person in your government, he is one of these spies.
It’s his ace. It’s his last gasp.”
I can’t believe this. I can’t even fucking imagine it. I pace
away from Anatoly. I’ve just been injected with raw
adrenaline. I’m shaking, all the way down to my cells. I’m
playing sudoku with a gun to my head, and someone keeps
changing the numbers on me.
All I want is Brennan. Damn these secrets and lies. Damn
the politics, the subterfuge, the knife waiting to plunge into
my back. I’ll stand there and let it sever my spine if I can
bring Brennan home.
Where the fuck is Sheridan? I turn and spot him leaning
against the tailgate, staring at the ground. He’s spinning the
burner phone Marshall gave him in his hands.
I march back to Anatoly. “How could Kirilov recruit
someone from the president’s inner circle? Everyone is
watched. Everyone is monitored.”
“Kirilov turned to someone he trusted, another spy of his,
to bring this American in. Someone he has been working
with for a very long time. They have been acting as a cutout
between Kirilov and the American.”
“Do you know who the cutout is?”
 Anatoly nods. “Those men I was with yesterday? They
were delivering information about him to me from Moscow.
We believe the cutout and the American spy made contact at
the UN General Assembly in September.”
“Tell me his name.”
“We are trading. I cannot give you everything without you
giving me what I want in exchange.”
“Give me the cutout, and I’ll give you Konstantin.”
“No. It’s not going to work like that. You Americans are
clumsy. You will get me killed when you overplay your hand.
I have been chasing Kirilov’s spy for months. You don’t get
to short-circuit that because you are on a mission of
vengeance.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I will give you the cutout’s name only if we find your
traitor together. You and me, not your entire government
and all your American leaks. I’m trying to keep my head.
More than that, I’m trying to save my country.”
“By keeping Kirilov in power, or removing him? Whose
side are you on, Anatoly?”
He bares his teeth. “I’m on the side of my country. Russia
needs her future back.”
How am I supposed to parse that answer? Damn Russians
and their doublespeak.
“Sir?”
Sheridan’s voice, right behind me, makes me flinch. I
never even heard him move. “What?”
He’s ashen, and I can see the whites of his eyes. He’s got
his cell phone in his hand with a breaking news article pulled
up on the screen. “Look.”
President Missing, screams the headline, in the largest
text I’ve ever seen on CNN. Mystery Car Crash in Rock Creek
Park Confirmed to Involve President Walker. Multiple Fatalities
Reported. Possibly No Survivors.
 “Fuck,” I bellow. “Fuck!”
“There’s more, sir,” Sheridan whispers. “Marshall is
going to make a statement.”
 Chapter Twenty-Eight

R eese
T hen

W e’ve made it through several months with this secret

between us. We’ve sneaked kisses and I-love-yous in the
Oval Office and his study, and miles of private, longing looks
travel from his eyes and mine. I escort him from the
Residence to the Oval every morning and then stay for coffee.
I spend too much time with him.
I’m sure Matt knows.
Nights are the most difficult.
I want to follow him up to the Residence at the end of
each day and fall asleep in his arms and in his bed. I want to
move my body into the White House the same way I’ve
moved my heart.
We have a standing date for dinner in the Residence. It’s
called a briefing. It’s us in the kitchen, trading kisses as
Brennan cooks us dinner. It’s him teaching me yoga and
interrupting his own forms to lean over and kiss me. It’s me
holding him as I hum a blues song I grew up with as we slow
dance to the beat of our hearts.
 If I can, when Brennan isn’t locked in the Situation Room
or in meetings with his national security team, I slip upstairs
over the weekend and we steal twenty-four hours together. I
imagine those days are what our lives will be like in the
future: not the demands of the presidency but waking to
kisses and the warmth of bare skin. Talking for hours. Never
having enough of our hands on each other’s body.
One night, a Sazerac into the evening, he looks me in the
eye and says, “I wish you could be my First Gentleman.”
I don’t know how to respond.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. I’ve wondered
what if. If I could snap my fingers and rearrange my life. If I
could go from being the man at his side with a gun to the
man at his side with his heart for the whole world to see.
Never hiding. Never having to sneak out of the Residence or
pretend I don’t love him every time our eyes meet in the
West Wing.
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Ignore what I said.”
“Do you wish I were different?”
“No.” He takes my hand on the kitchen counter and spins
his glass as the smells of pork chops roasting in cinnamon
apples and sweet potatoes fill the kitchen. “I wouldn’t
change a single thing about you. What I want is impossible: I
wish you could be you, exactly as you are, and be my First
Gentleman. I wish you could go from securing my state
dinner to standing by my side in the receiving line. Securing
the motorcade and then falling into step with me. No
sacrifices. No compromises.”
I thread our fingers together. “You’re right: that is
impossible.”
“Then this—what we have—is what I want,” he says.
“Well…” He grins. “I want you to spend the night a few more
days of the week. Like, all of them.”
I kiss him, and we don’t speak about it again.
W e ’ re eating pizza when the call comes in. Brennan has his
arm around my shoulders as we drag cheesy slices into our
laps, sitting on the floor in front of the couch in his
bedroom. My gear is in a pile along with his jacket and tie.
We’re sharing a soda.
The phone rings. The secure one, the Top Secret line that
runs straight to the Situation Room. There’s a handset in
every room, and when they go off, the Residence sounds like
the inside of a fire department getting an emergency call.
He groans, pushes to his feet, and grabs the phone beside
his bed. “Walker.” His face hardens. “When?” And then,
“Get everyone in the Situation Room.”
We scramble. I grab my gear and rush down the back
stairs as he goes to the elevator, then meet up with him
again outside the Situation Room. The Situation Room is
right across from our command center, so half my detail has
a front-row seat to the two of us.
“Mr. President,” I say as I badge open the secure door.
Technically, I’m still on duty, and since I am the ranking
agent, I’m responsible for accompanying him.
As I follow him in, Henry pokes his head out of the
command center and holds up four fingers. It’s silent, quick
code: You code four? You all right? I nod. His gaze sweeps me,
and he raises an eyebrow before I lock Brennan and myself in
the Situation Room.
It’s smaller than people imagine. Only half of Brennan’s
national security staff have made it so far, and Shannon
gives Brennan a quick rundown as McClintock growls into a
phone. Military officers are swarming, pulling up satellite
maps of Ukraine. Everything is dim, only the glow of the
screens and the low-hanging overhead lights illuminating
the room.
 “One of our fighters has gone down, Mr. President. It was
flying a patrol over one of our humanitarian corridors in
Ukraine. Satellite imagery shows an air-to-ground missile
launch from behind the Russian occupation line.”
“The pilot?” It’s Brennan’s first question.
“Air Force Captain Isabella Wilkes, sir. She ejected, and
her locator beacon is transmitting. She’s behind the Russian
line in the mountains of eastern Ukraine.”
Brennan’s knuckles whiten as his hands clench. “Can we
confirm the Russians fired?”
“Not 100 percent, sir. The launcher is stationed in
occupied territory, and it’s a region of forest the Russians
are known to operate from. But we don’t have eyes on for a
visual confirmation.”
Which means the Russians could false-flag this. Rather
than admitting to downing an American fighter jet, which
would bring the full fury of the United States down in a
hammer strike, they could try to point the finger at
insurgents. Claim this wasn’t them.
“First things first: we have to rescue Captain Wilkes.
Options?”
Brennan goes back and forth with Liu and Shannon, and
McClintock joins in after he slams down the phone. Marshall
is badged into the Situation Room, Sheridan with him.
Sheridan is filling in on the vice president’s detail, taking
command of a few swing shifts while the detail lead is on
extended leave. This is not a transfer. In fact, it’s the
opposite. I’m working him up to be a team lead on Brennan’s
detail. If Henry is my right hand, I want Sheridan to be my
left. We have lunch twice a week. I still go to his three-on-
three games. In fact, I’m his loudest cheerleader.
We’ve never spoken about what we said on the half court.
Sheridan joins me in the shadows at the back. It’s his first
time in the Situation Room during a crisis, and he’s wide-
eyed and pale as he tries to take everything in.
The door opens again, and this time, Henry escorts the
secretary of defense in. The secretary joins the growing team
around the conference table, and the tension in the room
ratchets higher. Henry doesn’t need to be here, but he stays,
sliding alongside Sheridan and me.
Marshall leans into the narrow ring of light on the table.
“Mr. President, we have a platoon of Navy SEALs on ready
status in Poland. We can move them across the border and to
Captain Wilkes’s position before dawn for an extraction.”
“American boots on the ground in Ukraine has been the
Russians’ red line for going to war—” Shannon starts.
“They’ve all but declared war on us, haven’t they?”
McClintock’s Texas twang is rising. “They just shot one of
our jets out of the sky!”
“And they could be trying to pull us into a broader
engagement with that shoot-down,” Brennan says. “Since
the last round of sanctions, Russia has plunged into
turmoil.”
Brennan made a lot of promises at the UN, and he’s
delivered on all of them. Humanitarian corridors are
patrolled. Arms and aid continue to flow into Ukraine.
And Brennan successfully united the West in sanctioning
more than just a handful of top figureheads or oligarchs, the
men and women who already had their wealth squirreled
away in untouchable vaults. He went after the real power
behind Kirilov: the generals, the colonels, the battlefield
commanders. The division heads of the FSB. The people up
to their eyeballs in blood and corruption. The ones running
the war, the secret police, the prisons. The people on the
front lines pulling triggers.
The idea of sanctioning thousands of middle-class
Russians was laughed at when Brennan first brought it up at
the roundtable after his state dinner. Sanctioning individuals
would not put pressure on a nation, he was told. You couldn’t
cripple a country’s economy that way.
Brennan has personally driven aid convoys through
minefields. He’s dodged artillery strikes to deliver generator
fuel and medicine to hospitals holding lives together with
nothing but Band-Aids and string. He’s helped field
surgeons operating in forests and hidden beneath
camouflage tarps, washing IV tubing and plastic gloves so
they can be reused again. He’s dug graves with his bare
hands. He’s lived behind enemy lines.
“Bring real consequences to the people with their fingers
on the trigger,” he’d told everyone, “and you’ll force change
to happen.”
Marshall’s eyes are like black diamonds sucking in the
light as he listens to Brennan.
“Dragging the US into a shooting war would shift the
narrative in Moscow from the campaign in Ukraine being a
deadly misdirection to it being a war of self-preservation
against Western aggression. That’s how they’re likely to spin
this shoot-down. That we are on the brink of invasion. If we
give them any fuel for that fire, we’ve just escalated this into
no-man’s-land.”
Silence, until McClintock speaks. “Then you aren’t going
to respond Mr. President?”
“There are many ways to respond. I don’t want to give
Kirilov exactly what he might be looking for: an excuse for
escalation that will inflate his own position at home. War
with us might be the only thing that can save him at this
point.”
“Mr. President, Russia has shot down one of our jets—”
“And you’re allowing Kirilov to dictate how and when this
conflict escalates, Dean!” Brennan barks. “You’re reacting,
reacting, reacting to his every move. He’s trying to force our
hand, and you’re walking right into it.”
 Brittle silence fills the Situation Room.
Brennan flicks his gaze to his secretary of defense. “Bob,
talk to me about rescuing our pilot. Can it be done quietly,
without the Russians knowing?”
“It will be tight, Mr. President, but it’s doable. The SEALs
have the best chance of getting across the border undetected.
If they’re caught, Russia will most likely take their presence
in Ukraine as an act of war. You’re right, they might be
laying a trap. Shoot down our pilot, drag us into a rescue that
goes sideways. Shots are fired, and then we’re in World War
III.”
Brennan leans back and watches the live satellite feed
high over Ukraine. It’s the dead of night on the other side of
the world, and the sky looks like spilled ink. Smoke rises
from a crater the size of a smudge. A thermal overlay on a
separate screen shows fires burning in the forest. Tiny dots
of heat miles away are moving, heading for the crash.
His eyes close, and he dips his chin to his chest.
This is the paradox of the presidency, and it can break
those who sit in that chair.
The burden of the world rests on Brennan’s shoulders,
everything from nuclear war to the life of one American
pilot, lost and alone behind enemy lines. It would be easy to
strike back, easy to wound as we have been wounded. Tit for
tat.
There is no man whose choices are more impactful. With
one word, Brennan can defend or destroy countless lives.
And because of that, he bears a greater responsibility than
anyone else to preserve the world’s peace. He has to be
bigger. He has to be better.
It is an excruciating position.
“Launch the SEALs,” he says. “Get her out of there.
Quietly.”
“Mr. President—” McClintock protests.
 “If we escalate this, we turn Kirilov into the mythic hero
he imagines himself to be. I am not going to feed his
fantasies, Dean.”
Silence fills the Situation Room, into every shadowed
corner.
McClintock’s nostrils flare. Marshall leans back, his
features disappearing from the conference table’s light,
leaving only his hands slowly spinning a pen.
I’m too frozen to fracture the stillness by breathing. From
the corner of my eye, I see Henry swallow. I hear Sheridan’s
heart pounding.
“Our military is the finest in the world. Our SEALs are
more than capable of rescuing Captain Wilkes, and we, the
United States, are more than capable of finding a way
through this that doesn’t end in an all-out war with Russia
by dawn. We have an opportunity tonight. Let’s not squander
it.”
It takes McClintock a full five seconds to say, “Yes, Mr.
President.”
“Patrick, I want you to reach out and see if there are any
forces in the area we can call on for backup. I don’t want to
tip our hand, but if our people need the cavalry, I want them
ready.”
“NATO, sir?” Marshall asks.
“No, let’s keep this one quieter than that. Call the UK.
We’ll keep this one close.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Bob.” He turns to the secretary of defense. “Rapidly
deploy our quick reaction forces to our new FOBs in Eastern
Europe. Kirilov needs to see that we’re ready to fight and
have the numbers to do so. He needs to know that the burden
of escalation is on him. If he wants to start a war, he has to
take the first step.”
“Hasn’t he already, Mr. President?” McClintock grunts.
 “You tell me, Dean. If we can get Captain Wilkes out alive
without starting a war that will kill millions, isn’t that a
better outcome?”
McClintock’s face twists. He glares at the darkness.
“Are you so eager to watch missiles destroy American
cities?” Brennan asks.
Sheridan’s breath trembles. Henry’s eyes slide past him
and meet mine.
“Let’s get this done.” Brennan rises.
The Situation Room goes from unnatural stillness to a
tornado of activity. Marshall and Shannon leave first, their
heads together. Sheridan follows, but before he leaves, he
gives me a look I can’t understand. I’m not sure what I’m
seeing, and the dim light erases more than it reveals. I catch
that hard, dark edge to his normally bright eyes, an echo of
when we were running on the Mall and when we were
shooting at Rowley.
Sometimes, in this job, our past leaps out at us and grabs
us by the throat, but there’s no time to deal with it in the
moment. That’s why we’re supposed to know each other
inside and out, so we can trust each other all the way to our
marrow.
I should know what that look means.
Henry doesn’t leave until McClintock and the secretary of
defense do. He’s not supposed to be in here anyway, but he
was checking on me and Sheridan and I give him the space to
slip out silently. If I’d needed him, I could have put
everything into his hands. He would have covered for me
with no questions asked.
Brennan knows when it’s time to let the experts do their
work, when his questions turn from direction and guidance
to micromanagement and interference. He tells the room
he’ll be in the Oval. I hold the door for him, and volumes
pass between our eyes.
 He spends the rest of the night in the West Wing. I stay by
his side, and I’m with him when dawn brings McClintock
and Marshall into the Oval. The rising sun reveals the
haggard lines, the shadows on both men’s faces. They stand
in front of the Resolute desk, and their words spill like
poison.
“Mr. President—” McClintock’s eyes close. His jowls
tremble. “I’m sorry. The mission was a failure. We did not
locate Captain Wilkes, and we lost four of our SEALs.”
Brennan bows his head over his clasped hands. Sunlight
breaks through the windows, painting the walls and the
great American seal in a golden glow. Birds in the Rose
Garden call back and forth, and voices echo down the West
Wing hallways.
“Tell me what happened.”
It sounds like an ambush, like the whole thing was a
setup. Our people were fired on before they were ever on
target, and from the first to the last, they were on the
defensive. When the SEALs finally reached Captain Wilkes’s
emergency beacon, there was no sign of her, only blood-
stained snow and a bullet-dented helmet. The SEALs fought
their way back to the border, dragging their wounded and
their dead.
“Do you have the names of who we lost?” Brennan asks
after they’ve dissected every moment of the attack,
backward and forward and left and right.
“Right here, sir.” Marshall hands him a red-banded
folder. “I’ve cleared my morning, Mr. President, if—”
“Thanks, Patrick, but I’m going to make these calls on
my own.”
They leave, but I stay. Exhaustion wars with defeat in
Brennan’s eyes.
“These were the first of what will likely be many if this all
goes horribly wrong.” He sighs. “It’s going to be a punishing
day. Can I see you tonight?”
“Of course, mon cher.”
Damn the secrecy. I sneak into the Residence and wait for
him. I’m not careful, and I’m not circumspect, and for once,
I don’t care. I wait, and I pace, and I don’t give a damn about
anything except him.
 Chapter Twenty-Nine

R eese
N ow

“I have a short statement,” Marshall begins, once the press

in the briefing room have stopped shouting, “and I will
not be taking questions at this time.”
Anatoly, Sheridan, and I are crowded around Sheridan’s
cell phone watching the live video stream from CNN. The
screen is shaking because Sheridan is shaking. I grab his
wrist.
Marshall stares into the camera, and it feels like I’m right
in front of him, like he’s speaking straight to me.
“Last night, there was an incident in Rock Creek Park.
Two United States Secret Service agents and President
Walker were lost.”
The briefing room explodes. Three dozen reporters leap to
their feet, questions shouted on top of each other. “What do
you mean by lost?” “Was the president killed?” “Was it an
attack?”
My mind circles over “lost.” Is Marshall being cagey? Or
does he know more than I do? I haven’t heard from Ahn. Did
the facial recognition program come back with a definitive
identity?
I’ve got to call her, but I can’t tear myself away from the
press conference.
Marshall waits the media out. They give up when he
refuses to answer, and the room settles into shutter clicks
and the pop of camera flashes. “We are still investigating
and are working to understand the exact sequence of events
that led to this tragedy. Right now, all signs point to a critical
failure within the Secret Service.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. “He’s hanging it on us.”
I knew this was going to happen from the moment I
walked out of the Oval Office this morning. So did Britton.
We knew we were going to get hung out to dry.
Marshall is alone on the White House podium. I scan the
edges of the frame, trying to spot the agents who are always
supposed to shadow the president and vice president. No
one’s there. They aren’t hovering against the wall. Did he
push my people away? Or—
“Our investigation has uncovered disturbing patterns of
behavior within the Secret Service. None more so than by the
special agent in charge of the presidential protective detail,
Reese Theriot.” My service photo appears on the screens
behind Marshall on either side of the press podium. “At this
moment, the Justice Department is filing charges against
Theriot. These charges include gross negligence and
dereliction of duty that led directly to the endangerment of
President Walker. The FBI is currently investigating Theriot
as the principal suspect in additional crimes, crimes against
the United States which rise to the highest and most severe
level.”
Marshall’s words are bullets fired straight at my heart.
“Theriot is now a fugitive from justice. I am asking all
Americans to remain vigilant and report any sightings of
him immediately to their local police or to the FBI. Please do
not approach him on your own. He is armed and should be
considered extremely dangerous.”
“I don’t believe this,” I murmur. “This can’t be
happening.”
“To my fellow Americans, know that even in this dark
hour, we are united, strong, and absolutely dedicated to the
swift pursuit of justice. Thank you. God bless America,” he
says, almost shouting over the room’s eruption and descent
into shouts and hurled questions: “Are you the president
now?” “Have you been sworn in?” “What time did Brennan
Walker die?”
He strides off the podium, and the feed cuts back to the
CNN newsroom, where two shocked anchors are scrambling
to respond.
Sheridan powers off his phone screen.
“You are being framed, Reese,” Anatoly says.
Fury eclipses everything within me, every thought, every
emotion. I shove Sheridan hard, both hands in the center of
his chest. “Did you know?” He stumbles back, barely staying
on his feet. He’s exhausted, and he’s slowing down. Maybe
that’s why he’s slipping. Can’t keep up his facade? “Did you
fucking know?”
“No! I had no idea he was going to hold a press
conference!”
“Did you know he was going to frame me?”
Sheridan’s jaw clenches so hard his bones might snap.
“No.”
How can I believe him now, after everything?
Why did Marshall call me a fugitive when Sheridan has
been feeding him information all morning? Hell, the Service
could track our SUV if they wanted to. Maybe they’re
refusing. Maybe there’s a signal malfunction. Radio is down,
Mr. Vice President. Sorry.
 I don’t know what to make of the absence of my agents at
the press briefing. I know what I want it to mean. It’s the
kind of message Henry would send to me, silent support and
a giant “Fuck you” to the powers that be all in one.
But Henry is gone.
Two United States Secret Service agents and President Walker
were lost.
We only have two sets of remains. Two blackened
skeletons.
I need to call Ahn. I need to know what Marshall knows. I
turn my back on Sheridan and pull out my BlackBerry.
Anatoly has stepped away and is speaking into his phone
in Russian. I don’t know if he’s trying to get a snatch-and-
grab team out to collect me or if he’s just talking to his wife.
Anything is possible right now.
Ahn answers after the fourth ring, while I’m chewing on
my thumbnail and pacing the length of the SUV. “Hi, Mom,”
Ahn says. “Let me get somewhere I can talk.”
Shit. I wait, and I listen to her breathing and the sound of
a door shutting and locking.
“I saw the press conference,” she says. “Right before, I was
ordered to box up everything related to the crash and turn it over
to the White House and the vice president. His chief of staff is here,
and he won’t leave my side. I have maybe a minute to talk before
he comes and finds me.”
“Does Marshall know something I don’t? He implied
there were three sets of remains. Have you—”
“No. I don’t know why he said that. We still only have the
two.”
I collapse against the side of the SUV. There’s still hope,
however microscopic. I can’t, won’t, let go of that hope.
“And the facial recognition program?”
“I need another hour. I had to transfer it off my laptop. It’s on
a virtual server off-site now. You’re the only one who knows it’s
even running.”
And I never told Sheridan.
“Are you going to tell Marshall?”
“No.”
Which means this is our one remaining bullet. “Thank
you.”
“Shit.” I hear banging over the line, a fist pounding on a
heavy door. “I have to go.” The line cuts out. She’s hung up
on me.
I tip my head back. Diesel fumes and garbage assail me,
wafting from the overflowing dumpster and the gas station
on the other side of a chain-link fence.
Brennan is out there. I know it. That skull does not belong
to him. Wouldn’t I know if he were dead? He is the love of
my life. This can’t be a world that Brennan isn’t a part of.
The sun wouldn’t shine, and the sky wouldn’t be the same
color as his eyes.
“Reese.” Anatoly leans in beside me. “We need to get you
off the street. My people say the FBI is hunting for you right
now.”
“But not the Secret Service?”
“How much do you trust them?”
My gaze drifts to Sheridan. If Anatoly had asked me this
twenty-four hours ago, I would have said, “With my life.” No,
with more than that. With Brennan’s life.
He takes my silence as his answer. “I have somewhere we
can go where you will not be found.”
“Where?”
“One of our safe houses, one your people have not
uncovered yet. You and I, we have work to do. We need to
find your traitor.”
I snort and scrub my hands over my face. Am I really
going to follow Anatoly? Throw in my lot with the FSB? Go
on the run from my own government and into the arms of
the Russians?
Marshall is setting me up to take the fall for this whole
catastrophe. If I run away with Anatoly, am I playing into the
vice president’s hands?
“We do not have much time, Reese.”
“Okay, okay.”
And what do I do about Sheridan? He’s standing alone in
the middle of the parking lot, still frozen in place where I
shoved him. Months ago, he told me he loved me. Now he
might be helping to frame me for murder. For treason.
He knows too much for me to cut him loose. If I ditch
him, he’ll call Marshall, and then the whole United States
government will know I’ve run off with Anatoly.
No, he’s stuck with me and I’m stuck with him. We’re
both each other’s prisoner.
“Sheridan, get in.” When we’re buckled back into the
SUV, I hold out my hand. “Give me your weapon.”
He’s staying, but I’m not stupid.
He passes it over without a word.
I shove his weapon—our service issue, not a .45—into my
waistband and follow Anatoly back toward DC.
The SUV is too small for all this betrayal and heartbreak.
We pull into an alley behind a row house off U Street,
north of downtown DC. Anatoly is right: I didn’t know about
this place. Which is a fucking problem, because it’s only a
mile from the White House. Merde.
Inside, it’s comfortably, if cheaply, furnished. The decor
is Goodwill eclectic: mismatched dining chairs and kitchen
table, a sagging plaid couch beneath the bay window in the
front room. The curtains are sewn closed. The whole place is
dim and dusty. “There are bedrooms upstairs,” Anatoly says.
“Maybe you want to rest, no?” He’s looking at Sheridan.
“Go,” I say. I need him away from me.
 Without arguing, he stomps up the stairs. We listen to his
heavy footfalls move along the upstairs hall and into the
bedroom above the kitchen. A door squeaks open. Doesn’t
close.
Anatoly and I sit at the wobbly table. He’s brought a
laptop from his car. “Now, let us begin.”
“No more games. Who is the cutout?”
He spins his laptop toward me. He’s pulled up a photo, a
publicity shot, and it’s a man I know well.
A month ago, he sat across the table from Brennan in the
Roosevelt Room and briefed him on the escalating hair-
trigger tensions in Ukraine, asking Brennan to send more
arms and aid to the insurgency.
“General Adrian Quinten? The deputy head of Allied
Command Operations for NATO?”
General Quinten of the British Army is the right hand of
the Supreme Allied Commander Europe. He’s read into all
classified briefings, knows the movements of every NATO
member’s military forces. He’s sat in the Situation Room
with Brennan. He’s worked up dozens of strategies for
countering Russian aggression in Eastern Europe in
coordination with the Pentagon, the British and German
Ministries of Defence, and France’s Ministry of Armed
Forces.
“A devastating blow, no?”
The world is tunneling, my vision narrowing, my heart
pounding so hard my skull feels like it’s going to explode. I
can’t speak. All I can do is run my teeth over my lips, try to
blink and open my eyes on a different world.
“Many years ago, Quinten fell in love with a beautiful
young woman.”
“The old Russian love story: a honeypot?”
How many men have fallen victim to the perfect Russian
lover? She’s everything they ever imagined, ever desired,
until suddenly it’s not her hand caressing their nuts but
Mother Russia’s, and they have him in a vise grip until he
does exactly what Russia wants.
“Not exactly. They were both truly in love, and she was
not an operative. At the time, he was only a mid-ranking
officer and did not have dreams of a long military career. He
was going to finish his term of duty and then leave to be with
the woman he loved. They knew they couldn’t marry while
he was serving, and they thought they had covered their
tracks well enough that no one knew they were together.”
“Why would they need to cover their tracks? Who was
she?”
“President Kirilov’s half sister.”
“Kirilov doesn’t have a sister.”
“No, but he did.” Anatoly’s eyes flash. “She was the first-
born of Kirilov’s father’s first wife, the Siberian peasant he
left behind when he moved up in the party and transferred to
Moscow. Kirilov’s father tried to erase those years, and
Kirilov kept up the charade. Except for a few summers he
spent in Siberia when he was a teenager.”
I shake my head, my thoughts crashing.
“Lena Kirilov was killed in Finland twenty years ago. Run
off the road after crossing the border from Russia. Her car
tumbled into a fjord so thick with snow and ice her body was
left there for almost two years before she could be recovered.
I only learned of her existence because of a single hospital
record. Kirilov broke his arm when he was fifteen in Tomsk.
Why was he there, I wondered. Why Siberia?”
Anatoly leans close, his face almost next to mine. “I found
his father’s cast-off family, and then I found her. Lena. I dug
into her life, and, finally, I found the records of Lena Kirilov
and Adrian Quinten’s visits to a maternity hospital in
Helsinki.”
“She was pregnant.”
 Anatoly nods. “You understand how difficult it has been
to pull all this together, yes?”
“Did she have the baby?”
“No. She was four months pregnant when she was run off
the road.”
“You’re certain she was killed?”
“Kirilov and Quinten are certain. The accident report was
mysteriously lost on the Finnish police servers. There is only
a single hard copy left, and I dug it out of a warehouse. The
details of the crash, the damage to her vehicle—it sounds
like a textbook assassination. Either FSB or a CIA or MI6
operation.”
“Why would either side want to assassinate Lena
Kirilov?”
“Both were likely worried that the men she was close to
were compromised. If it was the FSB who killed her, certain
factions might have thought that the then brand-new
President Kirilov would be open to pressure from his sister,
or the West acting through her. If Lena—compromised by
the CIA or MI6—asked her brother for a favor, would he
agree? And the same goes for the CIA or MI6, if they thought
a promising British Army officer would do anything for the
woman he loved, and the secret sister of the new president of
Russia.”
“How does her murder turn Quinten into a personal spy
for President Kirilov?”
“The simplest reason in the world: rage. If I had to put
money on it, I would say a faction of the FSB tried to take
President Kirilov out early, and they thought killing his
sister would weaken him. And even if it did not, they’d
removed a potential security risk. But Kirilov and Quinten
believe otherwise. To them, the West is to blame for Lena’s
death, and the hole left in their lives has never been filled.
They united in their grief.”
 “So Quinten turned traitor? You said he hadn’t planned
on a long military career. He was only a young officer when
this happened.”
“Revenge is a dish best served ice cold. With the right
guidance, the right motivation, Captain Adrian Quinten
became General Adrian Quinten, and then the deputy head of
Allied Command for NATO forces. Could there be any better
spy for Russia? He is a knife in the heart of NATO.”
“Jesus.” I run my hands through my hair as memories of
Quinten’s most recent meeting with Brennan flash through
me. I led him through security. I escorted him into the
Roosevelt Room. Marshall had introduced him as his “good
friend.”
“Vice President Marshall is close to him. Marshall
brought him to the White House, and it was the two of them
who convinced Brennan to funnel more arms and
ammunition to domestic opposition inside Ukraine.”
“All of which, I guarantee you, went right to Kirilov’s
supporters. Those weapons were probably used against your
allied forces in Ukraine.”
I can’t believe how deeply we’ve been played. How
thoroughly, how completely.
Everywhere I turn, there’s another betrayal, another
patch of quicksand.
“You’ve been tracking Quinten?”
“I only uncovered his identity as Kirilov’s cutout very
recently. I have been working day and night, trying to move
backward through all his movements and all his contacts.
Your vice president is one, but there are more in your
president’s circle who are connected to him.”
I close my eyes and dig the heels of my palms into my
eyes. “I think Marshall’s connection to Quinten is strong.”
“Maybe. But your vice president wasn’t at the United
Nations General Assembly, and that is where we believe
General Quinten connected with the spy inside your
government. It must have been there. The timing lines up.”
Anatoly’s eyes roll to the ceiling. Sheridan has gone silent
above us. “Now, there is something I want you to see,” he
says as he pulls up a video file.
It’s Russian surveillance, a pinhole camera view of the
interior of a Manhattan bar I recognize. It’s a block away
from the UN, and the place is packed. The date and time in
the corner say it’s the night of the General Assembly. The
night I slept with Brennan.
“What am I looking at?”
“Here.” Anatoly points to the edge of the video, to a two-
seater high-top against the wall. Two men in dark suits are
drinking beer. There are four empty bottles between them.
One leans across the table, and his partner turns his head so
he can hear—
It’s Sheridan.
I watch as Sheridan nods and stands. Now that he’s out of
the way, I see it’s Henry sitting on the other side of the table.
He waves his empty bottle at Sheridan. Sheridan laughs, and
then he pushes through the crowd like a salmon fighting his
way upstream.
At the bar, Sheridan looks left, right, and left again, as if
he’s looking for something or someone. He eventually
elbows his way in next to a tall, silver-haired man nursing a
martini.
That man—Adrian Quinten—turns with a smile and
opens a space for Sheridan.
They fall into conversation until the bartender arrives and
Sheridan orders his and Henry’s beers. I watch him and
Quinten talk for two minutes and thirty-six seconds. Quinten
smiles at Sheridan and says something in his ear. Sheridan
smiles back. Nods.
 Then Sheridan turns away with the beers, only to dart
back a moment later. He tries to get the bartender’s
attention again, but he’s gone, already pouring cosmos for
three women at the other end of the bar. Quinten slides
Sheridan an ashtray, and Sheridan mouths, “Thanks.” He
grabs the ashtray and makes his way back to Henry.
Anatoly stops the video. “As I said, we’ve been chasing
down every moment of Quinten’s movements in New York.
We’re especially interested in everyone he spoke to. Imagine
our surprise when we discovered this young man was a Secret
Service agent. That was intriguing, so we have been
following him since New York.”
They’ve been following Sheridan. My Sheridan.
But is he really mine anymore? Was he ever?
He refused to leave after the fight at the UN.
“What did you find?”
“This.” Anatoly pulls up a new window on his laptop with
files that show cell phone intercepts. Jesus, the FBI and NSA
have years of rebuilding to do. The United States and Russia
have always been playing a spy-versus-spy game, but we
like to think we’re in the lead. We’re not. We’re clearly not.
“We have been monitoring his communications.”
There are nine highlighted calls on Sheridan’s cell phone
records going back six months. “This number he dialed,”
Anatoly says, “we have recently traced to a burner phone
that Quinten bought in New York during the UN.”
A pit opens inside me, a chasm with no bottom. The
farther I fall, the darker my thoughts become.
I trusted him. I trusted Sheridan with Brennan.
I draw my weapon and rise. Anatoly follows, pulling his
own pistol from beneath his jacket. We move to the stairs,
and our backs hit the wall. I peer up. I can’t see anything.
Each step I take is slow, careful. Anatoly shadows my
moves, until we’re mirror images of each other. Not long
ago, I’d have thought it absurd that I could ever be in
formation with the head of the FSB, closing in on an
American traitor inside the Secret Service. I would have said I
could trust my people. With Brennan’s life.
How wrong I was.
The second floor is silent. Based on what he let us hear,
Sheridan is in the bedroom at the end of the hall. I clear the
two other bedrooms first, peering in open doors and
sweeping the corners as Anatoly covers me. Both are empty.
I stack outside the left side of the last bedroom while
Anatoly takes the right. The door is cracked enough for
Sheridan to have eavesdropped on our conversation if he
pressed his ear against the frame, but I can see daylight all
the way down the slit. If he was listening, he’s not there
now.
I give the countdown. This is Anatoly’s house, but
Sheridan is my man. He’ll go in first. I’ll make the arrest.
On one, I kick the door open and drop back. Anatoly
charges in, slings himself right—
Sheridan leaps from where he was hidden flush against
the wall and ducks under Anatoly’s locked arms. He shoves
upward, cracking Anatoly’s elbow and forcing his pistol
toward the ceiling.
Two shots go off. Bullets bury themselves in the plaster
overhead, and dust and drywall rain down as Sheridan kicks
out Anatoly’s knees and wraps his tie twice around Anatoly’s
throat.
In two seconds, Sheridan has Anatoly on the ground, the
muscles in his forearms bulging as he pulls on the ends of
the tie I last saw shoved in his pocket when we sat on the
tailgate of the SUV at Henry’s house, waiting for Hudson.
Sheridan roars as he pulls tighter—
I press my pistol to the back of his head. “Freeze,
Sheridan.”
 He doesn’t move. Anatoly’s face is turning purple.
I dig my weapon into his scalp. “Let him go, or I’ll pull
the trigger.”
Sheridan opens his hands. Anatoly sags to the floor and
drags in a gulp of air as he rips the tie free. His face is red,
and from more than the near strangulation. Sheridan took
him down in less time than it takes to blink. I’d be proud if I
didn’t want to vomit.
“Hands up,” I growl. “Now!”
“Reese—” Sheridan starts.
“I don’t want to hear it. Put your hands up!”
He does, slowly. I kick him to the ground, lay him
facedown, and strip him of his badge, cuffs, flashlight, and
magazines. The only other things he has on him are his two
cell phones.
I put him in an armlock and drag him into the bathroom,
then cuff him around the pipes beneath the sink. He doesn’t
fight me. He’s limp. He’s shaking. Tears are running down
his face. Snot drips from his nose. His teeth are chattering,
and when he looks up at me, there’s so much agony pouring
from him that it nearly breaks my heart.
No. He used me. He wormed his way past all my defenses.
He played me perfectly, but now his time is up.
I point my pistol at his forehead. Fresh tears race down
his cheeks.
“Tell me everything, Sheridan. Starting with where
Brennan is.”
 Chapter Thirty

B rennan
T hen

F or the first time in my presidency and in my life, I am not

alone. I have Reese at my side, and more than that, in my
heart.
Our morning meetings appear on my calendar again. In
the never-ending chaos, those thirty minutes that are ours
alone are what I set my heart to. As the world splinters into
agonizing choices and spreading darkness, I find my shelter
in the light of Reese’s eyes and the reassurance of his
embrace.
He spends a whole flight to Brussels in my office, playing
devil’s advocate against my arguments. He sits on my desk
eating M&M’s as I pace in front of him, and somewhere over
Ireland, it hits me that this is a moment taken directly from
one of my thousands of daydreams: him and me, together
against the world.
We fly back to Washington on a red-eye, and while
everyone else is snoring, I blow him across three time zones,
until he’s slumped on my office couch and I’m licking his
come from my lips. “Is there a mile-high club for Air Force
One?” I tease.
I’ve lived my life with secrets, but now I want to fling
them into the ocean. I want to be open about loving him.
I want to hear his opinions, bounce ideas off him, and
listen to his advice while we’re in the Oval and the Situation
Room.
Once, I almost asked him to stay and help unravel my
thoughts when Marshall invited the deputy head of NATO
Allied Command Operations to the White House to discuss
more-robust arms and aid for Ukraine. After the disaster
with our SEAL team, I welcome alternative options.
Russia still seems to be one step ahead of our every move,
anticipating our choices, our actions. Our humanitarian
corridors are bombarded. Our pilots are harassed, antiair
batteries near-missing our jets almost every day.
I don’t say it, but it feels like we’re on the defensive.
The sanctions I ordered against Kirilov’s military officers
have shaken Russia to her core, at least.
General Quinten asks for more weapons and for American
Special Forces to enter Ukraine to train the insurgents
crossing in and out of the Russian-occupied zone. If they’re
discovered, their presence would be a gift-wrapped excuse
for Kirilov to escalate his war against us. Against me.
But we must ensure our humanitarian aid reaches the
people. I’ve been on the ground during an occupation when
the food and the medicine are gone and hunger replaces
hope, when fear and desperation are the only currencies left.
With the world rushing toward what feels more and more
like an inevitable and inescapable war, I crave the moments I
can find for Reese and me.
I cook him a Louisiana feast on the Saturday closest to
Mardi Gras. Crawfish étouffée, jambalaya, boudin balls, roast
duck, cush cush, and pecan pie. I tell him to sit and do
nothing more than drink from a bottle of champagne I pop
open.
By the time dinner is ready, we’re well into a second
bottle and have moved past tipsy, and we feed each other by
hand right there in the kitchen. We never make it to the
dining room or try out the newly arrived official state china
for my administration.
Later, he makes love to me, undoing me until I cry out so
loudly we’re both afraid the agents on duty will investigate.
He falls asleep nestled into my side with his cheek pillowed
on my chest. In the morning, we spread out intelligence
reports and, together, try to unravel this intractably tangled
globe.
We’ve come a long way in the six months that have
passed since New York.
There is a world of difference between falling in love and
being in love. All the held breaths and hesitations from
before have vanished. Certainty fills me.
I am more than who I was before. I’m a better man, and a
better president, for loving him.
All I need to do, when I feel the dark tides rising or the
pressures of this office pulling me in a thousand different
directions, is turn to Reese and stand on the bridge we’ve
built between us. I can reach out, and he’s there. I’m not
alone. The light in his eyes and the beat of his heart guide
me, and I know—I know—he will always find me.
 Chapter Thirty-One

R eese
N ow

“T ell me everything, Sheridan. Starting with where

Brennan is.”
“How could I possibly know that?”
“Because you betrayed me. You’ve betrayed all of us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes are
blood red. “I don’t know where he is. I swear.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I know where he is? How would I know?”
“Because you’ve sold us out to Russia—"
“What?”
“It’s over, Sheridan. I saw you meet with the cutout in
New York. You’re on video. I saw you. Don’t try to deny it
anymore.”
The blood drains from his face.
“You leaked Brennan’s motorcade information, didn’t
you? You were hoping the Russians would take him out.
What better opportunity could you ever have been given? An
empty road in the middle of the night.”
 “No! Jesus, no! How could you even—”
“How did you arrange your meeting in New York? Did he
come to you, or did you go to him?”
“I swear, I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“When did you decide to become a spy?”
His lips are quivering. “Reese—”
“Don’t you dare say my name!” I bellow. It’s cutting me
to the quick, and he must know it. He’s always known how to
slide under my skin and into my heart, make a home there
for himself. I’ve been watching you. He knew exactly how to
play me.
Anatoly leans against the door, watching the two of us. He
hasn’t said a word. “Get the video,” I tell him. “Let him see
what we know.”
Sheridan trembles when I play it for him.
“There you are, searching for the cutout. Now you’re side
by side. See how friendly you two are? You had so much to
talk about, didn’t you?”
When the video is over, he squeezes his eyes shut. “That
was just some guy at the bar. I was getting beers, that’s all, I
swear.”
“That’s General Adrian Quinten. You know exactly who he
is.”
Sheridan blinks fast. “NATO,” he whispers. “Deputy head
of Allied Command. He was at the White House last month
—”
“See? You do know him. Tell me, how did you guys first
link up? In the Pentagon? Did you meet him on a Joint Staff
assignment?”
I need to cross-check Sheridan’s service history against
Quinten’s, pinpoint exactly where their connection began.
“I—I didn’t recognize him at the bar—”
“Bullshit!” I snarl. “You know he’s working for President
Kirilov! You know he’s running the spy inside Brennan’s
inner circle! And you know that every decision Brennan has
made for the past six months, Quinten has given right to
Kirilov!”
Sheridan goes ash white and stills.
“How do you think Quinten gets his information?”
His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Those big, wide
eyes are so fragile I expect them to shatter in his skull.
“You give it to him, Sheridan.”
“No!”
“Stop lying. Stop pretending. Stop protesting. You’re not
helping yourself. The best thing you can do is admit the
truth.”
“This is a mistake. All of this, it’s a huge mistake—”
“Evidence isn’t a mistake.”
“This isn’t happening. Oh my God, this isn’t happening
—”
“I have your phone records. You’ve called Quinten nine
times since Thanksgiving. He gave you a phone number in
that bar so you two could communicate, didn’t he? You’re a
smart guy. You memorized it right away.”
“No,” he breathes. “I didn’t.”
“If you admit the truth and give us Quinten, you might be
able to avoid the death penalty. But two agents are dead
because of you. Four SEALs are dead because of you. Brennan
is—” My throat closes. “Give me Brennan, and I’ll do
everything I can to keep them from sticking a needle in you.”
He’s hyperventilating. His pulse is racing faster than I
thought a heart could beat.
“How could you do this to Henry?”
Sheridan moans.
I grab his face and yank him forward until his wrists
strain against the cuffs. “Stop the bullshit! Tu me fais chier!
I have the evidence, Sheridan! Hard evidence, so stop with
this fucking charade! I have you meeting Quinten on camera.
I have your phone calls to him. You were in the Situation
Room when Brennan ordered the SEALs to rescue Captain
Wilkes.”
He flinches, and his eyes fall away from mine.
I force him to look at me again. “You’re passing
Brennan’s secrets to Russia in exchange for… what? Money?
Did Kirilov set you up with a fat bank account overseas?
Something you think we can’t track and trace?”
His tears run over my fingers and down my arm before
dripping to the floor. There’s a river building in the cracked
tile beneath his knees.
I shove him away. “Did you think you could buy yourself a
new conscience? Or do you not have one to begin with? You
told me you loved me, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?”
Sheridan makes a sound that isn’t even human. He lunges
for me as far as his cuffs will allow, until he looks like a man
hung by his wrists. His teeth are bared, eyes bloodshot,
desperate keens falling from him.
“Let’s see what you and Marshall have been texting
about.”
When I open their conversation, I see a lot more
exchanges than I expected. And even though I know Sheridan
has betrayed me, it’s sickening to read what he’s written.
Theriot has no idea what’s going on. He’s got nothing. We’re going in
circles.
“Merde, what is this?” I’d thought I couldn’t feel worse,
but I was wrong.
“I was trying to protect you.” Snot falls from Sheridan’s
nose all the way to the tile, one long strand of misery.
“How the fuck is this protecting me?”
“It’s like what you said this morning: if I wasn’t involved,
I could survive. Well, if the vice president thought you didn’t
know anything or do anything, then how could he hold you
responsible, either?”
 I laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll start punching walls. “Try
again, Sheridan! Marshall just told the world I murdered
Brennan!”
His shoulders quake as sobs tear out of his chest. “I’m
sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I don’t want your sorrys,” I roar. “I want Brennan!
Where is he?”
“I don’t know!” he shrieks, so loud his vocal cords sound
like they’re shredding. “I don’t know! I swear to fucking
God!”
Suddenly he’s lashing out, kicking at the pipes beneath
the sink, trying to pull his wrists from the cuffs, fighting to
break free any way he can. His head slams against the
porcelain, bounces off the tile. He’s a caged animal, nothing
but raw desperation.
Anatoly slugs him, his fat fist slamming across Sheridan’s
nose and his left cheek with a crunch. Sheridan slumps to the
ground, woozy but not unconscious, as blood seeps from his
nose and his split-open lip. He blinks up at me. Tears cling
to his long lashes.
“What else have you been planning?” I ask, after the
quiet stretches long enough for his sanity to splinter.
I throw the memory card I pulled from his mattress onto
the floor in front of him. It bounces, tiny plastic plinks like
gunshots in this terrible bathroom.
He sags, every muscle releasing as he exhales. It sounds
like a death rattle. “That’s not mine—”
“Of course it’s not.”
“I stole it.” His lips smear in the pool of blood spreading
beneath his broken nose. “From the White House
photographer.”
I freeze. “What?”
“I overheard him talking about how he kept seeing you
with the president and how he started taking more and more
photos because he was suspicious. So I sneaked into his
office and stole the memory card out of his camera.”
“Why?”
“Because I know. I know you guys are in love. I’ve known
ever since we all ran together. The Vietnam Memorial. New
York. You split up for a while, but then…”
Anatoly’s eyebrows skyrocket.
“So you’ve been waiting for the right moment to
blackmail me?”
“No…” He sniffs. His voice fractures. “Reese, I do love
you. I’ve only ever been trying to protect you. And him.”
Fuck, why? Why, Sheridan, why did you do this? I relied on
him, trusted him, even loved him back in my own way. He
became so much to me in such a short time—
No. He completely fooled me. I can’t trust what he’s
saying.
I should have paid more attention when I saw the edges of
his darkness. When his facade slipped and his true self came
out.
“Is everything about you a lie?” My words shatter like
glass.
I can’t do this anymore. This bathroom, these questions,
his tears. I’m one second from coming apart, from shaking
him and demanding Why why why.
I barely make it into the hall before my knees hit the
floor. I fall forward, a silent scream lodged in my throat.
I won’t survive this day. All this loss. All this betrayal.
Anatoly leaves me there. He must be loving this. No one
can shred Americans like other Americans. We’re
professionals at ripping out our own hearts. He’s watching
us stab ourselves deeper than he or his FSB could ever dream
of: a traitor at the center of our government, inside the
president’s circle.
 I need to move. I need to line everything up, connect the
dots. I need to bring this to Director Britton, Director Liu.
Hell, even McClintock. I need to let everyone know the truth.
It doesn’t register at first when my BlackBerry starts to
ring. The sound is something far off, a distant warble, and
the call almost rolls to voicemail, but I drag it to my ear a
second before it’s too late. “Theriot.”
“I don’t have much time,” Ahn whispers. She sounds like
she’s hiding. Her voice has that scratchy sound from
someone breathing too close to the mic. “The facial
recognition program. It’s finished.”
My fingernails dig into the floorboards. Splinters slice
into my skin.
“It’s not Agent Ellis, and it’s not the president. I don’t know
who it is. I’m going to send you a picture of the reconstruction.
I’ve got to delete it. The vice president, he’s—” There’s a curse,
and then a crash. The line cuts out.
Three seconds later, a text message arrives. It’s a single
photo of a laptop screen. The laptop is balanced on Ahn’s
knees, and it looks as if she’s hiding in a bathroom stall.
She doesn’t recognize the face on her screen, but I do. I
know exactly who it is.
I’m looking at Clint Cross.

W hy are Clint Cross’s burned remains outside the driver’s

door of Brennan’s SUV?
Where is Henry? Where is Brennan?
My stomach is churning, bile and despair clawing up my
throat. I’ve got Sheridan’s phone in front of me, and I’m
poring over the photos he took at Clint’s apartment. What
did I miss? What didn’t I see?
 Clint’s library. His extremist books. His photo of Brennan.
The receipt from the gun range. His gamer’s nest. Those
video games: the genesis of his violent fantasies, or a
symptom? His PlayStation—
I stop midswipe. Clint’s PlayStation fills the screen.
What if something crawled up the pipe and slid into his
PlayStation?
I swipe past Clint’s saved games, past his screen grabs of
victories and kill shots. Sheridan took photos of everything,
logged every screen. He’s so good.
No, he’s a fucking traitor.
Finally, I find Clint’s online contacts. There are three:
BulletEater. Sl4ught3r3r. And LoneGunman.
There are two entries for chat logs, one with BulletEater
and one with LoneGunman. BulletEater’s chat is trash-
talking back and forth, insults like “noob, eat shit,” and
“you got pwned,” going back for months.
The contents of LoneGunman’s chat log have been
deleted.
I know in my bones that LoneGunman is a Secret Service
agent.
I parked our SUV in Anatoly’s garage so it wouldn’t be
spotted, and I’d cry at the irony of a Secret Service vehicle in
a Russian safe house if it weren’t for Anatoly being the only
reason I’m not in handcuffs. Part of me is shocked that it’s
still right where I left it, the engine ticking as it cools. I’m
not sure what I expected: a team of Russians to have already
torn it apart, stripped it down to the bolts?
The spare suit Sheridan grabbed from Henry’s is in the
back seat, and I shake out his navy pants and baby blue shirt.
The jacket is wrapped around something, and when I tug on
it, Henry’s destroyed PlayStation tumbles onto the seat.
“Anatoly!” I shout, running back into the kitchen. “I need
a screwdriver!”
 He must think I’ve lost my mind. He doesn’t say anything
as I unscrew the casing and tear out Henry’s hard drive.
Whoever smashed the system didn’t go far enough. The
drive is still intact.
“I need your laptop, Anatoly. I need to rip the data from
this.”
We may be helping each other, but asking to use his
laptop is clearly a bridge too far. He balks. “What are you
looking for on this… thing?”
“Usernames. Chat logs.”
“Reese—”
“Mon Dieu, I don’t want your fucking secrets. I don’t care
right now about you, or the FSB, or even Russia. I need to
scan this fucking drive. Either let me use your laptop or get
me another computer I can use, but make it fast.”
I watch him weigh the decision. Finally, he spins his
laptop across the kitchen table to me. Before he can change
his mind, I plug the hard drive in and open a command
screen.
It only takes a few minutes to break into the PlayStation’s
subsystems. Lines of code appear. I scroll through pages of
data, bloated operating systems and saved game files and
system updates. Where is it? Where the fuck is it?
Finally. System Users. There are two folders.
Anatoly reads over my shoulder. “USMC1994…”
That must be Sheridan. He was born in 1994.
“And… BodyguardMyBeer?” Anatoly gives me a look.
Today has not been a day highlighting the best and
brightest of the Secret Service.
“That’s Henry.” I collapse in my chair. Fear releases its
stranglehold on me. I can breathe again. There are no other
users.
Wait—
 Cold sweat slicks my palms. There’s a folder I didn’t see
right away. Deleted Users.
Time slows. Every key I press takes a lifetime. I close my
eyes before I finish the command to recover the data.
One deleted user: LoneGunman
I’m on autopilot. My mind is making connections without
me. Everything is too fast and too slow. Half-formed
thoughts zoom by. Fragments of realizations. There’s a
scream building in my chest.
Two men had access to this PlayStation. One is missing.
The other is a broken wreck upstairs. Which one is
LoneGunman?
“Anatoly, show me that video from the bar again.” I don’t
recognize my voice.
He’s a smart man, and he doesn’t question me. He pulls
the surveillance video up on his phone and hands it to me.
I set it on the table. My hands are shaking too much to
hold it steady.
The video plays from the beginning. The crowded bar.
Sheridan and Henry at the table against the wall. Henry
waggling his beer bottle and Sheridan going to fetch another
round. Quinten and Sheridan shaking hands, smiling, talking
to each other. Quinten points to his black eye, and I can
almost hear Sheridan retelling the story of tackling
Konstantin.
The beers arrive. Sheridan grabs them and says goodbye.
He steps away and then turns back. He’s looking for an
ashtray. After midnight, the bar lets people smoke cigars.
You don’t realize it until you travel outside of America, but
smoking is still wildly popular in the rest of the world.
Thanks to this place being on the doorstep of the UN, most
of the patrons want to light up, especially after a few rounds.
Quinten passes an ashtray over. Sheridan thanks him and
turns away again.
 I stopped the video before, but this time, I let it play.
Sheridan makes his way back to his and Henry’s table. He
sets down the beers and hands the ashtray to Henry.
Henry leaves it on the edge of the table. I fast-forward as
they talk and laugh, drinking their beers, and ten minutes
later, Henry pulls out a cigar from his suit jacket and lights
up. He and Sheridan keep talking as he puffs away.
Three minutes later, Quinten sets his martini on the bar
and walks out.
“Did you follow both of these men?”
“We tailed the younger one through New York. Other than
this night with his fellow agent, he never went anywhere
that wasn’t part of his assignment.”
“And the other man?”
“We bribed the manager of the hotel where he was
staying—”
“You mean where the president was staying.”
Anatoly shrugs. “You can buy anything in this world.
Don’t think that your Secret Service is all-powerful,
especially after you pack up and leave town.”
You can even buy a Secret Service agent. “Did you see
anything suspicious from him?” My finger jabs the screen
and covers Henry’s face.
Anatoly shakes his head. “I can show you the footage. You
can see for yourself.”
He takes back his laptop and searches for the file,
muttering in Russian as he pecks at the keys. I watch his
every move, and when the surveillance video from our hotel
in Manhattan comes up, I push his hands away and take over
his laptop again.
The video looks authentic. It’s the right format, the right
time stamp. I speed up the footage and watch two days pass
in five minutes: Henry arriving and dumping his suitcase.
Leaving for the evening reception. Coming back with a bag of
ice on his shoulder. In the morning, he’s stiff and sore, but
he laughs when he sees Sheridan and checks out his black
eye. Nothing for the whole day and then into the night. I
know where we are. We’re at the UN, and then the command
center eating pizza, and then he and Sheridan are at the bar
—
Henry comes back after two in the morning, waving good
night to Sheridan before he goes into his room.
An hour later, room service appears. A tall man pushes a
cart down the hotel hallway. He stops outside Henry’s door
and knocks. Henry answers, fresh from a shower with a
towel wrapped around his waist—
But I paid Henry’s fucking hotel bill. I paid it because I
ordered room service, and there was only one charge for the
whole goddamn stay. What the fuck am I watching?
I rewind and play the last few minutes again, from the
appearance of the tall man to Henry taking the covered plate
he hands over. I can’t make out his face. He keeps his head
down. He never looks up.
“It was the ashtray,” I whisper. “That was the signal.”
It wasn’t the conversation between Quentin and Sheridan
—that was the distraction.
Quentin passed Sheridan an ashtray for Henry. And then
he watched, and waited—
It was Henry lighting up, Henry smoking a cigar, Henry
using the ashtray—that was the signal to go ahead with this
intelligence pass.
The truth detonates inside me: Henry created a secret line
of communication with Quinten. Henry arranged for an
intelligence pass in Brennan’s fucking hotel.
What was hidden in that room service tray? Instructions
on how to communicate further? A burner phone? A phone
number?
 My fingers work the laptop, and I bring up the PlayStation
system files again. There’s a chat log under Sheridan’s
username. I don’t recognize the other user. It’s not Clint
Cross. It’s someone else. Quinten?
I understand the context easily enough.
11:46:37 a.m.
USMC1994: Tonight. Zero-one-hundred. 38.953581,
-77.046827
I don’t need to look up the GPS numbers. I already know
that’s Rock Creek Park, and that’s the time Brennan was
scheduled to leave the White House on his clandestine drive
to Langley.
There’s just one giant fucking problem: I was eating
lunch with Sheridan when this message was sent.
Where was Henry yesterday? I don’t remember seeing
him until the start of second shift.
I never thought twice about it.
He could have had all morning once Sheridan left for the
White House. All morning to toss his own house. Stage a
break-in and blame it on Konstantin with one planted
fingerprint to confuse the investigation.
And, of course, if all the rest of the evidence—the
PlayStation, the meet in Manhattan, the cell phone records
—points to Sheridan, why wouldn’t Sheridan also be the one
to plant that print?
The cell records. Sheridan has been living with Henry for
months. Henry could have swiped his phone and made those
calls when Sheridan was in the shower. When he was
sleeping. Behind his back while Sheridan grabbed beers for
them when they were hanging out and playing on this very
PlayStation.
Who could do a better job kidnapping the president than a
member of his own Secret Service detail? Who could throw
our investigation so perfectly? Merde, he even planned this
crash to throw the scent from the start so we’d get lost in his
fake trail.
Henry knew every step we’d take.
More than that, he knows me. He knows exactly how I
would run this down.
And he made it hurt.
There are more chat logs.
11:47:13 a.m.
FatalDestiny: You said we need fifteen hours.
11:47:55 a.m.
USMC1994: Don’t worry.
Why fifteen hours? If Quinten and Henry were planning
on murdering Brennan, they could do it and be done inside
of a minute. What would force them to wait?
What does Henry know? What did he plan for?
After an attack on the president, all air, sea, and ground
transportation into and out of Washington, DC, is shut down for a
minimum of twelve hours.
“Anatoly, are there any Russian-flagged cargo ships
docked in ports on the Eastern Seaboard?”
He takes his laptop back as I look up the FAA’s website on
my BlackBerry. No way could Brennan be smuggled out of
the country on any commercial flight. Which leaves cargo
flights, private flights, or—
“There is a Malaysian-flagged carrier that departed from
Philadelphia yesterday,” Anatoly says, frowning at his
laptop. “One of its stops is Kaliningrad. Other than that—”
“They’re not on a ship.” My chair clatters behind me as I
jump to my feet. “There’s an Iranian diplomatic flight on the
tarmac at Dulles right now. They scheduled a refuel in
Moscow on the way to Tehran. Supposedly, they just came
down from the Iranian office at the UN in Manhattan.”
There aren’t any official diplomatic relations between
Iran and the United States. Instead, Russia sometimes serves
as Iran’s power in Washington, and a single Iranian
diplomat works at the UN and sometimes at the Russian
embassy in New York.
In an entire year, there are maybe three or four Iranian
diplomatic flights. Maybe.
And now, today, there is an Iranian-flagged plane at
Dulles, ready to take off, with a flight plan that goes through
Moscow. There haven’t been any direct US flights to Moscow
since the invasion of Ukraine. But this flight is scheduled to
depart in less than an hour.
We need fifteen hours.
Henry is on that plane, with Brennan.
I race to the stairs and climb them three at a time, almost
bear crawling I’m moving so fast. “Sheridan!” I roar.
“Sheridan!” I fly through the bathroom door and bounce off
the wall, grab the sink and the window frame to stop my
momentum.
Sheridan is on his knees, straining at his cuffs. His tears
have dried into salt tracks on his cheeks, and his shirt is wet
with his blood. He stares up at me with wide eyes, and, damn
it, he’s still so painfully open, so agonizingly eager to help
me.
My hands shake as I pull out my handcuff keys. They fall
to the floor between us.
If Sheridan were the traitor I accused him of being, he’d
lunge for them, headbutt me, swing his legs around and get
me in a headlock before snapping my neck. He’d make his
escape. I just handed it to him.
Instead, he waits, watching as I fall to my knees at his
side.
“Reese, what is it? What’s happening?”
“I know where Brennan is.”
“I swear, I didn’t have anything to do with—”
 “I know.” I grab the keys and reach behind him to undo
the cuffs. My hair brushes his cheek. “He set you up. He
framed you. Merde, he’s been framing you all along. I fell for
it, and I’m sorry, Sheridan. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Sheridan sags against me as soon as I free him. I hold him
up, wrap my arms around him. He buries his face against my
neck with his hands on my waist until he has the strength to
pull back.
“Who? Who framed me? Who has the president?”
This is going to destroy him.
His wrists are black and blue and swollen from my
handcuffs, and I take them into my hands and try to rub the
blood back in with my thumbs. Shit, he might not believe me.
Ten minutes ago, I would have said he and Henry were closer
than brothers. I would have said they would die for each
other.
There’s no way to soften this for him, so I look him dead
in the eye as I say it. “Henry. He betrayed all of us.”
He searches me, and I let him see my own agony, my
heartbreak, my desperate wish that this weren’t true. But it
is, it fucking is.
He curls forward, his head bowed almost to the ground,
and the roar that tears out of his throat is the sound of a
heart wrenching in two. I hold on to him, and he clings to
me. If I let go, he might shatter. Or I might. I don’t know
which of us is holding the other up anymore.
“They’re at the airport. There’s a diplomatic flight to
Moscow taking off in an hour. Henry has Brennan, and
they’re on it.” I hold out his weapon. “We’ve got to stop
them.”
That darkness I only ever saw echoes of explodes out of
Sheridan. His eyes are bottomless black holes as he takes his
pistol back and slides it into his holster. “Let’s go.”
 Chapter Thirty-Two

B rennan
L ast N ight

R eese walked into my life and everything stopped, frozen

on a held breath and a waiting heartbeat.
He’s the light that tickles the sky before dawn and the
heady buzz of stars burning at midnight. He’s taken me from
my weary world and spilled color and heat and flame. When
he looks at me, I feel like I’m the only man on this earth.
He undoes me time and time again and then rebuilds me,
recreating me out of love and promises of forever. My life,
with all its twists and turns, all the secrets and buried truths,
has led me to him. To us. I am incomplete without him.
I can never get enough of his love. Even now, minutes
before I need to leave, I have to feel him. I sweep the binders
and briefs from my desk, then chase him and his kiss. My
home is in his arms.
I’m desperate to stay here with him instead of facing
what’s beyond those doors. Right now, I’m not supposed to
be Brennan and he’s not supposed to be Reese, and our time
doesn’t belong to us.
 “Four minutes are up,” Reese whispers against my lips.
“Time to go, mon cher.”
I’m not ready. I don’t want to move on from this. I rest
my forehead against his. My eyes close.
I wish I could drop to one knee and reach into my pocket.
Instead of going to Langley, I want to pull out the ring I’ve
been carrying with me for days. I’d rather stumble through
the question I’ve rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed,
late into the night and even when I’m supposed to be
listening to my cabinet.
Holding that question inside is suffocating me. Reese
needs to know how I feel, know that I am his forever.
We’ve said it, and we feel it, but there’s a difference
between saying the words and sliding a ring onto your man’s
finger.
But this isn’t the time. Not yet.
The classified pouch with Director Liu’s request for
tonight’s meeting is on the ground. I want to leave it there.
Ignore it, banish it. One page, one handwritten paragraph to
me from Liu is enough to nearly destroy my world.
There’s a traitor inside your inner circle, Mr. President.
Someone has been giving President Kirilov your private
conversations.
How could there be a traitor among my closest advisors?
It’s unfathomable.
Yet it must be true.
I’ve been turning over the thought for days, trying to
rationalize, to reason my way past this suspicion. But I can’t.
How can Kirilov know the thoughts I have and the decisions I
make minutes after I’ve made them? Someone is funneling
him information. Someone close.
This traitor has American blood on their hands. Four dead
SEALs and an American pilot.
 How could anyone I work with be capable of that? Who do
I say hello to every day who is murdering their fellow
Americans?
The last line of Liu’s note says, Tell no one. Trust no one.
We’ve set up a one-on-one briefing tonight with the
analyst who uncovered echoes of the traitor’s movements.
It’s just Liu, the analyst, and me.
Liu was explicit: do not tell the Secret Service. It’s too great
a risk, he said.
It’s killing me to not confide in Reese, but I gave Liu my
word. And if keeping this from Reese keeps him safe, then
that’s the right choice to make.
Still, Reese was the only person I could ask to arrange
this.
He balked. Tonight flies in the face of his training and his
beliefs, his regulations and his procedures. But tonight,
everything is out the window. And he hates it.
I have to do this, though.
His earpiece chirps. It’s Henry, and in the stillness, I hear
his voice. “Cupcake ready in the underground.”
“Time to go.”
I kiss Reese’s fingers as he keys his wrist mic and replies,
“Acknowledged.”
We move through the silent West Wing, passing the dark
offices of my chief of staff and the vice president before
Reese leads me down the stairs and into the basement
garage.
Reese’s best and closest agents are here. Henry’s driving.
Stewart, from CAT, is in the front seat. Sheridan will be at
Reese’s side at the White House while I’m gone. With the two
of them on overwatch, every flap of a bird’s wings will be
monitored. Every inhale, every exhale.
Henry is already behind the wheel of the blacked-out SUV
Reese has readied, and he watches us both as I climb into the
rear.
This is really happening. Up until now, I could pretend
that it was all a nightmare. There wasn’t going to be a secret
meeting about a traitor. Liu didn’t slip me his note. It’s the
stuff of spy movies and pulp novels. But now my hands are
shaking, and my stomach is in knots. Dread is choking me.
I want to reach out to Reese—
Reese shuts the door and locks me in the safe cocoon of
the SUV.
Our eyes meet through the bulletproof glass. He’s
distorted, like I’m looking through a window soaked in rain.
He slaps the door twice. I hold his stare as Henry rolls us
forward.
This is it.
We sneak out of the White House under cover of darkness.
The drive is uneventful, save for the novelty of stopping
at traffic lights. I watch the scattered cars, the cabs that dot
the city. Henry and Stewart are silent in the front seat. Henry
studies me in the rearview mirror as we make the turn onto
Piney Branch Parkway.
I close my eyes. I try to picture Reese’s face when I pull
out the ring and ask him to marry me. Shock. Joy, I hope. An
instant, irreversible Yes.
Squealing brakes throw me forward against the seat belt. I
get an arm up and brace myself before my forehead slams
into the headrest.
Stewart curses. “What the hell is that guy doing in the
road?”
“I don’t know,” Henry growls as he throws the SUV into
reverse. We peel backward, burning rubber filling my nose.
Glass splinters, and Stewart curses again as the front
windshield fractures into a dozen spiderwebs. “Fucker’s
shooting at us! I’m going to—”
 Henry floors it. We almost fishtail, but the tires grab the
road and we punch forward. How can Henry see anything
through the shattered glass? “Henry!” Stewart shouts.
“Watch out—”
Free fall grabs me. I’m floating, flying inside the
millimeters my seat belt gives. I turn my head to the right
and see him, the man who was shooting. He’s still pointing
his weapon at me even as we’re soaring right for a thick
clump of trees.
Impact jars every bone in my body. The seat belt jerks my
shoulder to a stop. Something snaps. My teeth slam together,
nearly slicing my tongue in half, and my head bounces
forward and back, then slams into the frame over the
passenger door. Metal screams, the sound of steel tearing,
and glass buckles as the SUV gouges the earth. We’re
completely out of control.
We end in a sudden, violent collision, upside down, when
the passenger side of the SUV slams into a tree trunk.
Stewart’s head hits the dash with a wet crunch. He doesn’t
move.
I’m hanging from my seat belt, arms dangling over my
head. Blood drips up my face, falling from my chin to my
cheek and then into my eyes. I can’t move. Am I paralyzed?
No, I’m in shock. My fingers curl, one at a time.
Uncoordinated, I try to free myself and get nowhere.
Scampering on our right.
Only one headlight still works, and it’s shining on tree
trunks before fading into the darkness of Rock Creek Park.
The shooter is still here, and for the moment, we are at his
mercy.
“Mr. President, are you alive back there?” Henry
unbuckles his seat belt and rolls onto his shoulder. He leans
his weight into the driver’s window and shoves. The cracked
glass bows, then buckles, and he pulls back, punches the
window, once, twice, a third time, before it separates from
the frame. He sticks his palms through the gap and peels the
whole thing back like he’s opening a tin can.
“I’m alive,” I croak. “Get me out of here, Henry.”
Those footsteps are back, a quiet shuffling in the night.
Henry army crawls out of the driver’s seat and crouches,
pulling out his sidearm. He waits.
“I’m here,” a voice whispers.
Henry stands. “He’s alive. We don’t have much time.
Hurry the fuck up.”
A man emerges from the forest. The same man from the
road, dressed in black and carrying his pistol the way I’ve
seen the Secret Service do. His eyes glide left and right before
he moves to Henry’s side.
“Did you bring everything?” Henry asks.
“Yeah.” The man sheds a backpack at Henry’s feet.
Stewart groans. He turns his head—
The man in black squats and fires through the window at
him. The bullet punches into Stewart’s side, traveling
through his body before embedding in the door.
Stewart sags with a long, fading sigh, and he doesn’t
breathe again.
“Motherfucker!” Henry grabs the man by the front of his
dark shirt and throws him against the SUV. Their legs dance
in front of my cracked window. “What the fuck are you
doing?”
“He was still alive!”
“I didn’t tell you to fucking shoot, did I?” Henry hisses.
The man is silent. “Did I?”
I hear my heartbeat for a full three seconds as the two
men square off. I’m frozen, like an animal caught in a
predator’s stare. What am I hearing? What am I seeing?
Nothing makes sense. I’ve hit my head. I must be delusional.
Or I’m unconscious and this all really is a nightmare.
 Henry throws the man in black to the ground. He hits
face-first, choking on dirt before he flips onto his back. “Hey
—”
Three bullets slam into his chest. He flails with each
impact, then goes terribly still.
Reality jerks forward in fits and starts. Henry curses. He
grabs the dead man’s backpack and riffles through it. Pulls
out a change of clothes and sheds his suit. Dresses all in
black and then throws his suit into the front of the SUV. It’s
been maybe a minute since we crashed.
I try to scramble away when Henry punches through my
broken window, and I manage to throw an uncoordinated fist
at his face at the same time I fumble with my seat belt.
Henry grabs my fist in one of his and twists. My bones
grind and then snap, snap, snap.
I should scream. I should draw attention to this. I’ve been
told to keep quiet and let the Secret Service save me if the
worst should happen, but the worst is happening and they
aren’t going to save me.
Henry is going to kill me.
He gets a hand around my neck before he undoes my seat
belt. I fall in a tangle of arms and limbs, backward and
upside down. Pain flares from my mangled hand, my ribs,
my head. I can’t tell which way is up. All I can see are
Stewart’s sightless eyes and a pool of blood dripping onto
the dashboard and the roof.
Henry drags me by my throat through the shattered
window, and I end up facedown in the dirt. The man in black
lies a foot in front of me, motionless.
This is the end. I’m going to be executed by a man I
trusted with my life.
There’s a traitor in your inner circle.
It wasn’t Valerie Shannon or Patrick Marshall or Dean
McClintock. Or any of my cabinet.
 We’re often closer than your shadow—and we have to be, to do
our jobs.
I never thought it. Never even considered it. Never
imagined one of my protectors could turn so fully against
me.
“Why?” I choke out. “Henry, why—”
“Shut up,” he grunts. His knee lands on the center of my
back, heaving the breath from me. My lips move like I’m a
fish out of water. Henry slams my face into the ground. Dirt
fills my mouth, slides down my throat. He’s going to
suffocate me. He’s going to—
A needle stabs me in the neck. Ice floods my veins,
spreading into my chest and down deep in my lungs. “We’ve
got a long way to go,” Henry says, “and I need you to stay
quiet, Mr. President.”
I roar, finally, shouting into the dirt as I try to fight him
off, this man who I thought was larger than life, who I
imagined as an American hero, who I was proud to have at
my side. Now he’s going to kill me, and as my lungs seize
and my heart races and my vision goes dark, the thing I
regret most is that I never asked Reese to marry me.
Reese, I love you. I love you so—
 Chapter Thirty-Three

R eese
N ow

“A ll stations, all stations, this is Special Agent Reese

Theriot. Ranger located at Dulles International, runway
one-two right. Ranger held hostage by former Special Agent
Henry Ellis on India seventeen, Iranian diplomatic flight
bound for Moscow. Converge on Dulles Airport for intercept.
Immediate execute.”
I slam the radio down as Sheridan mounts the median on
the Dulles direct parkway. He’s redlining the engine, lights
flashing and sirens blaring, and we’re flying past traffic
that’s already booking it. The speedometer says Sheridan has
us pushing 140.
Will anyone come and back us up? I don’t know what my
name means in the Service anymore. The FBI was hunting
me ten minutes ago. Will my people respond when I need
them?
I count down in sixty-second intervals. My hand squeezes
and releases the grab bar next to my head, squeezes and
releases. Sirens blare behind us, far away.
 Sheridan blows through the toll booth outside the airport
and swings us on two wheels onto the access road. We
parallel the runway on the other side of a chain-link fence,
blasting past terminals C and D until we get to the
governmental hangars.
“There!”
Sheridan jerks the wheel, and we slam through the fence
like it isn’t even there. Torn steel scrapes over the SUV. A
long, thin line of razor wire ends up wrapped around our
tire, unwinding from the top of the fence like a spool of
thread as we haul ass across the tarmac.
India seventeen, the Iranian diplomatic flight, is lining up
for takeoff. The plane is an old Boeing 707, a leftover from
the seventies that was offloaded on auction to the third
world twenty years ago, then resold at some point to Iran.
She’s purposely plain, one long, white tube with a single
green stripe running its length.
The radio squawks, Dulles tower issuing an immediate
ground stop and halting all traffic. Every plane is ordered to
freeze in place and power down, not move one inch. We’ve
breached the airport perimeter, and everyone is shitting
themselves.
Of course, India seventeen doesn’t listen. She rolls
forward, slowly picking up speed as she turns onto runway
one-two right.
“Do not let that plane take off,” I growl. “Whatever it
takes.”
Sheridan pushes us past the redline. The engine is
wailing, and the SUV is shaking so hard my bones hurt. We
plow over a grassy median, and we’re airborne for four
seconds before we skid out on the pavement of runway one-
two right.
Six thousand feet in front of us, India seventeen starts her
taxi.
 Sheridan white-knuckles the steering wheel as I turn to
the back seat. We keep our spare weapons under the bench,
and I flip it up and pull out an MP5.
“Hold us steady,” I tell Sheridan as I roll down my
window.
For ten years, I’ve qualified in the top 1 percent with every
weapon in the Secret Service arsenal. I’ve hit bull’s-eyes
dead center while standing in the footwell of the presidential
limo as it travels at seventy miles an hour. I’ve shot a perfect
score after a ten-mile run and fifty push-ups, when my arms
were jelly and I didn’t think I could even squeeze the trigger.
I’ve never had to take a shot that mattered as much as
this one.
“We’ve got company,” Sheridan shouts.
My gaze flicks to the rearview. Red-and-blues, and lots of
them. They’re either coming to arrest us or coming to help
us, and from here, I don’t know which. I guess we’ll find out
if they start shooting.
“Be careful.” Sheridan hasn’t taken his eyes off the road,
but for a moment, he glances at me. Our eyes meet.
I jam the stock into the meat of my shoulder and lean out
the window. The wind almost knocks me back, but I push
into it. Grip the barrel. Squeeze the trigger.
I’m too far for any real accuracy, but any pilot worth their
wings will abort a takeoff when there are bullets flying
toward them. For now, I keep my aim low and focused on the
tires. The landing gear.
The thousands of feet between India seventeen and our
SUV bleed away. She can’t get airborne without running us
over, which the pilot may be reckless enough to try. I’d want
to get in the air, too, if I had a kidnapped president on board.
The sirens are growing louder.
Closer, closer. Two thousand feet between us and India
seventeen.
 I stop firing and conserve my ammo. Fifteen hundred.
One thousand. She’s almost on top of us. Seven hundred.
I open fire again.
At three hundred feet, both front tires on the right
landing gear explode when I put twelve bullets in each wheel
well. India seventeen swerves right and then left, careening
off the runway toward a shallow ditch. The left wing dips,
scraping the pavement, and the plane jerks into a sideways
slide for another four hundred feet until she tips and buries
her left wing in the grass on the runway’s shoulder.
Sheridan grabs me, hauling me back into the SUV as our
brakes lock and we slide out of control, screaming beneath
India seventeen’s engine so close I could reach out and touch
it. Our SUV teeters on two tires, then one, and for a moment I
think we’re going to go over, but Sheridan wrestles us back
down. We end up burning rubber in a triple pirouette, finally
gliding to a stop facing India seventeen’s tail and, beyond
that, the army of red-and-blues on top of black SUVs still
barreling down the runway.
“India seventeen,” the radio crackles. I recognize that
voice. It’s Nuñez. “This is the United States Secret Service. Shut
down your engines and prepare to be boarded.”
The cavalry has arrived.

T here isn ’ t a peep from the plane for ten minutes.

Sheridan and I drive our smoking SUV across the tarmac
and join up with the others. Nuñez has taken charge of the
Secret Service reinforcements, and she’s brought at least a
hundred backup vehicles from the Secret Service, the FBI, DC
Metropolitan, and the airport police. Fire trucks and
ambulances are standing by. There are so many flashing
lights it seems like the world has been repainted in flaring
red and rotating blue.
Secret Service snipers watch the plane through binoculars
and scopes, trying to get a look inside the cockpit or through
the cabin windows.
“All window shades are drawn. We have no visual contact.”
“Cockpit is dark. No movement.”
Nuñez has the schematics for the Boeing 707 spread out
on her tailgate, the papers held down by spare ammunition
and a pair of NVGs.
“Standard hostage rescue procedure would be to send a
breach team in through the emergency exits with maximum
force. There’s an assumption of risk with that plan, though,
sir. Not every hostage may survive a forced breach.”
“Unacceptable. We cannot lose the president. We also
can’t do this one by the book. We’re going up against Henry,
and he knows all our tactics.” Wind whips through my hair
as I study the schematics. Nose to tail, wingtip to wingtip.
“What’s the internal setup of this plane? Do we know?”
“She was originally a passenger liner, but now she runs
cargo. Everything aft of the first-class cabin has been
converted. Behind the wings, she’s one big open bay.”
“Are they heavy?”
“No. The flight plan says they’re flying mostly empty.
Only two pilots, five crew, fifteen passengers. We reached
out to our Iranian diplomatic contact. He claims to have no
idea what this flight is, so good money says everyone is
Russian.” She hesitates. “They also list ‘diplomatic cargo’ on
board.”
Diplomatic cargo. My nails bite into my palm. Brennan,
hold on. I’m coming for you. “We need to assume they’re all
Russian, and all loyal to Kirilov.”
“And Henry,” Sheridan growls.
 Nuñez’s gaze sweeps over Sheridan. He looks worse than
hell, bloody and bruised with his wrists black and blue. He
shed his dress shirt when we tumbled out of our vehicle, but
there’s a large bloodstain soaking the front of his undershirt.
Dried blood still crusts his face, down from his nose and
across his chin.
“One thing is for certain: they’re not going anywhere,”
Nuñez says. Not with the plane tipped on her left wing and
the tires blown to shit.
My BlackBerry rings. The melody is out of place on this
wind-whipped runway. I pull it out and stare at the screen.
Every muscle in me locks up.
It’s Henry.
At the last moment, I stab the screen and pull it to my ear.
I don’t say a word.
I hear him breathing. “Reese.”
“You motherfucker. You fucking—”
“Shut up. You don’t want to talk to me that way.”
“You have no idea what I want to do to you, Henry.”
“Let me rephrase. You don’t want to talk to me that way while
I have my weapon pressed against your precious president’s
face.”
I swallow and say nothing.
“That’s what I thought.”
“What do you want?”
“What I want is to get the fuck out of here. I want to be over
the Atlantic right now. I want you and everyone else to be in my
fucking rearview.”
“Everyone, like Sheridan? You wanted him to go down for
this, didn’t you?”
This time, Henry stays quiet. Next to me, Sheridan glares
hard down the runway, a dark brutality wavering from him.
“I’m opening the aft cargo door. You, and only you, Reese, will
approach the plane. Leave your weapons on the tarmac and come
inside.”
“Fuck you—”
“If you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in his skull.”
Henry, more than anyone, knows what Brennan means to
me. “I want to hear his voice. I want to know he’s alive.”
“No. See for yourself if he’s alive or not when you come
aboard.”
“Henry—”
“If anyone else comes near the plane, I’ll throw his body out of
the cargo hold for the world to see. You have five minutes.”
He hangs up.
My forehead falls to my BlackBerry. Why wouldn’t he let
me hear Brennan? He knew I’d ask for proof of life. It’s a
standard part of hostage negotiation. Is Brennan—
Don’t think it.
Sheridan’s fingers brush the inside of my forearm. “You
can’t go in there.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“We don’t have to listen to him—”
“Sheridan, Brennan’s life is measured in minutes right
now. He was useful to Henry and the Russians when they
could hold him as a hostage outside the US, but his value is
dropping exponentially the longer they sit in that plane.
Henry has to know he can’t get out of here alive. What’s his
next play? What are his options? What does he have left?”
Sheridan puts it together, the horror show that could
ensnare the world in the next few minutes. All around the
airport perimeter, cameras are pointed at us.
“We need to stop him before he executes Brennan on live
TV,” I say.
His eyes widen. His lips thin, and his chest rises and falls,
faster, faster.
“Henry has trained on our hostage rescue procedures. He
knows how we’re supposed to breach. He’ll be waiting for us,
ready for anything we try from the book.”
“Then what do you suggest, sir?” Nuñez asks.
I trace the schematics, the lines of the wings, the cargo
doors. The open interior of the 707 unfolds in my mind as
Nuñez described it: one large, cavernous bay. Cargo decking.
The two sealed overwing emergency exits. Forward of the
wings, the plane is split into two levels: cargo below, first-
class seating above.
“Henry will be holding the most defensible position.” I
point to the center, behind the wings and the wheels. “Here.
This is where he’ll have Brennan. He’ll position guards on
the upper level in first class and at the left and right doors
along the fuselage.”
“What about the cockpit?” Nuñez asks. “We’re not seeing
any movement, not since she ran off the runway. He has to
be watching us from somewhere, and the cockpit has the
best vantage point.”
“He’ll have a spotter in there. Maybe two. He’ll also want
to maximize his firepower at the breach points.” I point to
each of the doors forward of the wings and the aft cargo door
where he told me to enter.
My time—and Brennan’s—is running out. A minute is
already gone. Somewhere in that plane, Brennan is waiting
for me.
“Here’s what we do.”
I sketch out my breach plan in fifty-five seconds. Nuñez
listens carefully, her eyes following as I point to each
section. “How long will it take everyone to get into
position?”
There’s no room for misunderstanding, or guesswork, or
a second’s slip. Not if this is going to work.
She calculates the distance between the tail and the nose
of the plane and what I’m asking of her and her people.
“Nineteen minutes.”
 “Synchronize your watch with mine.” We wait for the
thirty-second mark and synchronize. Sheridan does, too.
“Time begins as soon as I enter the cargo hold.
Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sheridan, come with me.”
He follows me to the passenger side of our battered,
weary SUV, waiting as I dump my radio, baton, flashlight,
and spare magazines in the front seat. Behind us, Nuñez is
quietly issuing orders and moving her people to the rear of
our blockade. They’ll gear up behind the fire trucks out of
sight of the cockpit.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Sheridan says when we’re
alone. The SUV is blocking most of the wind, and it’s
unnaturally still, like the world has paused for the two of us.
“You can’t follow me in there.” Two minutes, forty-five
seconds have passed.
“You’re not going in alone.” He’s so close I can feel the
heat from his body.
“Don’t, Sheridan. That’s an order.”
His jaw clenches. “I have never left your side. I’m not
going to now.”
Three minutes.
My eyes find Sheridan’s. He stares back and lets me see
all the way into the deepest parts of him, where his agony
and his love coexist. “Reese—”
I shove him in the center of his chest. Pin him to the open
door of our SUV. He grunts—
And I kiss him. My lips move gently over his.
He stills, goes rigid—
My handcuffs close around his wrist for the second time
today, and before he can move, I’ve locked the other cuff to
the inside handle of the passenger door.
 Sheridan’s jaw goes slack. All the color drains from his
face.
“You can’t be at my side this time,” I breathe.
“Reese, don’t do this,” he begs. “Please.” I can see the
panic building in his eyes.
“You’ve given everything to me, and the Service, and look
how you’ve been repaid.” My hand is on his cheek. My
thumb brushes his stubble, the line of his jaw.
He turns into my touch. “I don’t care. I don’t.”
“I don’t know how this is going to go down. When it’s
over, I need you to survive. Maybe Brennan and I won’t, but I
need you to be okay.”
“How can I be, if you do this?”
Desperation pours off him as I back away. He jerks on the
cuffs. Kicks the door. Strains to pull himself free.
Three minutes, forty-five seconds. I raise my hands over
my head and step out from behind the line of black SUVs.
The three hundred feet between me and the plane take an
eternity to traverse. Everything falls away, save for the
sound of my shoes striking the pavement. The stench of
burned rubber, of superheated metal. Spilled diesel fuel.
Shredded grass and torn-up dirt.
Ahead of me is the aft cargo door. It’s opening into a
black void. Snipers are watching me, and they’ll be scanning
the interior with their scopes. Henry knows that. No one will
be able to see anything inside this plane.
I don’t know what I’m going to find. I don’t know what
the next minute will bring.
Either Brennan is alive or he isn’t. If he is, nothing will
stop me from saving him. If he isn’t, nothing will stop me
from avenging him.
If Brennan is dead, I’m not leaving that plane.
I stop outside the cargo door and pull out my weapons.
One hand stays in the air as I lay them on the ground, then
kick them away. Metal clatters across pavement.
There isn’t a whisper of sound from inside the hold.
“Henry, I’m coming in!”
My eyes take a few seconds to adjust from the afternoon
glare to the pitch black of the tilted hold. I keep my hands
over my head as spots of color burst and bleed across my
vision.
A smothered shout draws my attention. There, toward the
nose of the plane. I spin—
Merde, it’s Brennan.
He’s on his knees, forced down in front of Henry, facing
me. Hands bound behind his back, mouth gagged. His suit
jacket is gone, and his dress shirt is covered in dirt and
bloodstains. A bruise blooms across his face, from his jaw up
to his left eye.
Henry is behind him, with his weapon pressed to the back
of Brennan’s skull.
I’ll never forget this moment. Not for as long as I live.
As I expected, Henry has stationed the Russians flying
with him on the upper deck. I spot five men with rifles
overhead, their muzzles trained on me. Three men are
covering the cargo door from the rear of the plane. That
leaves twelve more in the dark, plus the pilots.
“Why, Henry? Just tell me why.”
Henry laughs. It’s the same laugh I’ve heard for years, the
two of us bullshitting and hanging out and sharing beers, but
this isn’t the man I thought I knew.
“After what he’s done?” Henry pushes his weapon
against Brennan’s head.
I lurch forward.
“Don’t move, Reese.”
“Don’t hurt him.”
Henry sneers.
 “What did he do? Explain this to me, because I can’t
understand what’s happening.”
“He’s dragging us where we don’t belong!” Henry roars.
“The rest of the world is not our fucking problem. I spent too
many years of my life fighting other people’s wars, and
finally, finally we were done. But now this asshole thinks he
can save everybody!”
“Henry—”
“Saving people who can’t save themselves is not our
fucking fight. I learned that. Hell, Sheridan learned, too, but
he’s too blinded by his hero worship of you to think clearly.”
Or maybe Sheridan is a far better man than you.
“Do you have any idea what I have given up? What real
Americans have given up?”
“Henry—”
“Do you have any idea how much American blood we’ve
wasted? For countries that don’t give one fucking shit about
us? The whole fucking world is an ocean of American blood,
and he—” Henry grabs Brennan’s hair and drags him closer,
digs his pistol into Brennan’s temple. “He’s going to make
more Americans die for this ungrateful fucking world.”
“Henry, merde, what are you even saying?”
“I’m saying someone has to stop him.”
“By betraying the US to Russia?”
“This isn’t America,” he sneers. “Look around you. Do
you even recognize this place? I can’t betray a country that
doesn’t exist anymore.” The hand holding his weapon
trembles. “Countries rise and fall. Our time is up. It’s time to
cash it in, Reese.”
“Can’t you hear yourself? You’re destroying everything
you’ve ever believed in.”
“I’m the only one who believes in what needs to happen!
I’m the only one who will do what is necessary!”
 A mission. That’s what the range owner said. The ones
who get it in their head that they have a special purpose. Henry’s
has been hammered together on the devil’s anvil. His soul
has gone dark, his brain white-hot. He’s boiling in ecstatic
fury. How long has he been building to this?
“I believe in putting ourselves first.” Rancid contempt
drips from him. “The rest of the world can go fuck itself. He
can go fuck himself.”
Again, he drags Brennan by his hair, shoves his weapon
against Brennan’s head. Hot iron tears through me. Melts
me, makes me weak. Rips the air from my lungs.
“You can go fuck yourself, Reese.”
He screws up his face, and for an instant, I think he’s
going to do it. He’s going to execute Brennan in front of me.
“No, fuck, Henry! Merde, don’t!”
“You know, I thought you could be beside me.” Is that
regret in Henry’s voice, simmering under all the rage? “I
really thought we could do this together.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” It’s like he never
knew me at all.
Henry’s eyes flash. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “Why are you
even here? You were supposed to chase your fucking tail for
another five hours. You were supposed to be paralyzed when
you realized Sheridan had betrayed everyone. And I’m
supposed to be halfway across the Atlantic, heading for my
new life!”
“You know we would have found you. If not here, then in
the air. How did this play out? How did this end in your
mind?”
“Who would dare attack anyone holding the president
captive? Who would dare shoot this plane down? Or launch
an invasion against the country that would execute him as
soon as a single fucking boot touched their soil?”
I swallow. “No one.”
 “I was going to bring the world to its knees.”
Adrian Quinten melts out of the darkness behind Henry.
He’s clearly the stable one behind this operation. Henry’s
psyche has shattered. He’s held on to the pieces of his mind
through white-knuckled rage, and now it’s coming undone. I
have moments left before Henry reaches his end, and tries
for a last play in his desperation.
“How much are you paying him?” I ask Quinten.
“Enough.”
“This isn’t about money,” Henry snaps.
“You know, it wasn’t the CIA or MI6 that killed Lena. It
was the FSB.” My eyes drill into Quinten’s. “You’re working
for the people who murdered her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinten
barks.
“I know she was pregnant. I know you loved her, and she
loved you.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Henry grits his teeth and roars as he
shoves Brennan from his knees to his belly and digs the
barrel of his weapon into the back of Brennan’s neck.
Brennan twists, and his eyes meet mine—
Do not give up. His voice is inside my head, the thought in
his eyes so clear and bright I can hear him within me.
I hope my eyes are speaking just as loudly. Je t’aime, mon
cher.
My internal countdown hits sixteen minutes.
“How did you come this unglued without me noticing,
Henry?”
“You were so busy falling in love, you didn’t notice a
fucking thing. How could you notice anything when all you
saw was him?”
“And Sheridan? Did you think at all about what you were
doing to him?”
 “He’s so fucking gone for you he can’t see anything,
either.” Henry’s expression is ugly, hateful. “What is with
you? Why did both of them go crazy over you?”
Like the two best men I know thinking I’m worth making
space for in their hearts isn’t the biggest honor of my life.
“What about Clint? How does he fit into the picture?”
“Clint was waiting to be told all his conspiracy theories
were true. Who better to red pill him than me? Someone on
the inside who could see it all. Clint was primed and ready to
believe Walker was the traitor he was hunting, that he was
the one selling America to Russia. It was too easy to lead him
where I needed him to go.”
Silence. Metal cools and ticks, heat escaping from atoms.
“What happens now, Henry?”
“You’re going to get us a new plane.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Because if you don’t, I’m going to execute him
—” He kicks Brennan in his ribs, hard. “—in front of you,
and you will spend the rest of your days knowing that you are
the reason Brennan Walker, the love of your life, is dead.”
“No,” I whisper. “No, merci. Please.”
I have to sell this. I have to sell this to the man I thought
was my best friend.
“And after you get us the plane, you’re going to get us a
guarantee of safe passage out of American airspace and an
escort all the way to Moscow.”
“I’ll do whatever you want.” My voice shakes. My teeth
clench. “As long as you don’t hurt him.”
Henry grins at Quinten. “What did I tell you?” To me, he
says, “You’re so fucking predictable, Reese.”
Nineteen minutes are up.
A pane of glass splinters, quieter than a gasp. I hear a
thud, like a book dropping on carpet, somewhere forward,
near the cockpit. Then another.
 Right on time.
Nuñez has led her team on a two-pronged strike. The first
team ran under the belly of the plane as the second silently
roped up the horizontal stabilizers and belly-slid down the
top of the fuselage. They met at the cockpit, the rooftop team
ready to rappel in as soon as the ground team fired a
suppressed shot through the first officer’s window and took
out the spotter Henry left crouched in the darkness.
And as soon as they gain control of the cockpit—
“Fuck,” Henry snarls.
The cockpit door explodes into the passenger cabin above,
blasting off its hinges. The whole plane shakes, then leans
onto her broken wing.
Shouts, curses in Russian. Footsteps, boots pounding,
voices bellowing. Bodies fall, and screams choke off in wet
gurgles as Nuñez’s and her team open fire.
Their bullets drop the Russians one by one, and her team
glides through the plane like wraiths, taking over positions
where the Russians were only moments ago.
Everything happens in the space between heartbeats.
Henry puts a bullet in the center of Quinten’s neck,
dropping him. Brennan shouts, his muffled voice bellowing
my name. Henry grabs him around the throat and hauls him
up as a human shield. He backs away from me and the firing
angles of Nuñez’s team.
“Henry!” I shout.
He vanishes into the gloom of the lower cargo hold, and I
follow him into the belly of the plane.
The fading light catches on Brennan’s eyes. He has the
same look he had the moment we met. The same one he had
when we danced on the Truman Balcony and when he kissed
me in Manhattan. The same look he had when he told me he
loved me. It’s always been the same, every single time. He’s
always loved me, from that first moment.
 The open cargo door is a blinding rectangle behind me.
I’m in the worst possible position, perfectly silhouetted.
Henry can put a bullet through my heart without even trying.
He’s in the shadows. “It’s just you and me now, Reese,”
he says. “And you know I’m not going to die alone.”
“Va te faire foutre,” I spit.
Henry’s too far away to rush. At this distance, he’s going
to be able to squeeze that trigger before I can get to him.
I have to choose.
Try to take down Henry, but risk him putting a bullet in
Brennan’s skull before I can.
Or go for Brennan and take the shots I know are coming.
Nuñez is racing for us, but she’s seconds behind me, and
Henry’s going to pull the trigger now.
I only have one chance.
Every muscle in my body fires at once.
Henry’s finger squeezes—
A single crack blooms through the cargo hold like cannon
fire. In the hollow metal tube, the blast sounds and feels like
being at ground zero of a dropped bomb. Cavitation waves
slam into me as I get my arms around Brennan and bring
him to the deck. I roll, coming out on top of him with my
back to Henry, in case there’s another shot.
Nuñez will come. She’ll save Brennan. But I—
I only have moments left. This close, any center mass
shot is deadly. I don’t feel it yet, but that’s the adrenaline.
I’m going to bleed out before Nuñez can get a medic to me.
There’s enough time to tell Brennan I love him, enough time
for one final kiss—
Henry’s body slams to the deck. His gun clatters out of his
hands, echoing in the empty hold, and his head lolls to the
side.
His sightless eyes stare into mine. A perfect bullet hole
marks the center of his forehead.
 I turn, and there’s Sheridan, silhouetted in the halo of the
open cargo door. I know it’s him even though I can’t see his
face. Who else would be behind me with a pair of handcuffs
and the interior panel of a SUV door dangling from one
wrist?
He drops his weapon and stumbles until his back hits the
bulkhead and he slides to his ass, his head sagging,
shoulders slumping.
In the next two seconds, Nuñez’s team rappels from the
upper deck and sweeps the hold with their rifles and
flashlights. I call an all clear, and a dozen pairs of boots run
the length of the fuselage to me and Brennan.
Three of Nuñez’s team circle Henry, their rifles trained on
his corpse as if there’s a chance he’ll come back to life and
they can shoot him again.
I help Brennan sit up, easing the gag from his mouth as
Nuñez cuts his hands free. One is black and blue and swollen.
Broken.
“We’ve got you, Mr. President,” Nuñez says. “We’ve got
you.”
We’re surrounded, but who gives a fuck? As soon as he’s
free, I kiss him. His arms wrap around me, and we kiss as if
this is the last time we ever will, pouring everything of
ourselves into each other.
We nearly didn’t have this.
No one says a word.
We break apart when we need to breathe. I rest my
forehead against his and run my hands over his cheeks, slide
my fingers into his matted hair. Flashlights shine down on
us, our only illumination, but it’s enough for me to see the
blood on his face and the bruises around his neck. He’s hurt,
badly. Henry worked him over, either getting him out of
Rock Creek Park or after, when he could unload his rage on
Brennan in private.
 Nuñez’s medic is beside us, guiding Brennan’s face gently
away from mine. “Mr. President,” he says, “please look at
me.” He shines a penlight into Brennan’s eyes. Brennan
laces his uninjured fingers through mine. “Can you stand?”
“Yes. I’m walking out of here.”
“Then let’s get you to your feet, sir.”
The whole team brackets us as he rises. After one step, he
falters and leans into me. I wrap my arm around his waist,
and he rests his arm gingerly over my shoulder. “I knew
you’d find me.”
I kiss him again in front of everyone. He lays his cheek
against mine.
Then he takes a jerking step sideways and holds out his
uninjured hand. “Sheridan,” he says “Let’s go home.”
Sheridan stares up at Brennan, not moving, not
breathing.
Finally, he reaches up.
Brennan leans hard into me as he helps Sheridan to his
feet. I fumble for my handcuff keys in the bottom of my
pocket, and I get them out, get to Sheridan’s side. Unlock the
cuffs I placed around him for the second time today, and
drop them and the ripped-apart door panel to the cargo
deck.
Sheridan is shaking like he’s got no center, no pillars
inside him anymore, and he’s going to collapse in seconds.
He takes a step, but like Brennan, he falters. He stumbles
into me and sinks against my chest. His open mouth presses
against my shoulder, tears and snot and a broken moan
falling from him.
Brennan lays his hand on Sheridan’s neck. I cradle
Sheridan’s cheek, press my lips to his forehead.
We wait for Sheridan to scrape his soul back together.
He steadies his breaths, and his hands uncurl from their
white-knuckle clench in the fabric of my shirt. He draws
back, and Brennan loops his arm around Sheridan’s waist.
I give Nuñez the nod. “Call it in.”
“All stations,” she radios. “Threat is neutralized. Ranger
is secure.”
 Chapter Thirty-Four

R eese
N ow

B rennan spends the night at Bethesda Naval Hospital. I

stay by his side. I’m not on duty, and I’m not pretending
to be. I’m sitting at his bedside and holding his hand.
Nuñez steps up as my temporary second-in-command.
She turns Bethesda into a fortress, every one of my agents
outfitted in their full tactical rig. If anyone comes for a
second try at Brennan, they won’t get farther than an inch.
No one does.
For now, the threat has passed. President Kirilov has
vanished, and a general several rungs down the pecking
order appeared on Russian state television, denouncing him
and Henry and Quinten and the whole conspiracy. The
general even offers to meet in Vienna for peace talks with the
government of Ukraine in exchange for a conversation about
easing those sanctions on Russia’s military officers.
Anatoly doesn’t answer when I call. Maybe that palace
coup took place. Kirilov was desperate, Anatoly had said.
Moves were being made, by Kirilov and by others. Maybe
kidnapping Brennan was Kirilov’s—and Quinten’s—last
gamble, one that didn’t pay off.
Brennan has two broken ribs, a broken hand, a split lip, a
black eye, bruises and cuts over his whole body, and the
lingering remnants of benzodiazepines in his system. He
tells his story to the vice president, the attorney general, the
director of the FBI, and Director Britton from his hospital
bed. I turn over Henry’s PlayStation hard drive and give my
minute-by-minute account of the last twenty-four hours.
I make sure everyone knows Sheridan is a hero.
Brennan finally falls asleep once everyone leaves. I hold
his hand and watch him breathe.
Will I be able to close my eyes again?
If I do, will I see Henry in my nightmares? Not the man I
worked with for years, but the monster from those last
moments?
How can I ever let Brennan out of my sight after this?
Despite my fears, my eyes slip closed as I’m stroking my
thumb over the back of Brennan’s hand, and I sleep like I’ve
fallen into a black hole. Three hours later, I jerk awake,
reaching for my weapon as I instinctively move to cover
Brennan.
He’s awake, and he’s watching me. He smiles. “I’m okay.
I’m right here.”
My hand shakes as I try to holster my weapon. It takes me
three tries to get it in. “Bordel de merde,” I mutter. Then,
“I’m sorry. Brennan, I’m so sorry—”
He cuts me off. “Stop. It’s not your fault. Henry played all
of us.”
“I thought he supported us.”
But he didn’t. All that time, Henry was laying the
foundation for his betrayal, setting me up so he could use my
love for Brennan against me.
 “I suspect we have different support now.” He nods
toward the door. Three agents are standing guard, and not a
word has been said about Brennan and me.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, holding hands and
listening to his monitor beep a steady rhythm. He’s holding
my left hand, and he rubs his thumb over my ring finger.
“Reese,” he finally says. He reaches into the pocket of his
sweats, brought for him from the White House, and pulls out
a ring. It’s a simple gold band, and he’s holding it out to me.
I’ve thought my heart would stop a hundred different
times since 1:17 yesterday morning, when Sheridan woke me
up to tell me they’d lost contact with Brennan and Henry’s
SUV. I thought the next second would be my last, over and
over again.
No. Now, this moment—this is what I won’t survive.
“I was afraid today,” Brennan says. “Not because I was
afraid to die, but because if I did, you wouldn’t have known
that I wanted to do this. I kept myself going by telling myself
that when you rescued me, I wouldn’t let another day pass
without asking you…”
He holds the ring at my finger.
“Spend forever with me, Reese. Will you marry me?”
I can’t say a thing. I nod, and when he slides the ring on
me, I bury my face in his chest as the fears I’ve held in a
stranglehold for twenty-four hours finally break free. My
tears fall and soak the bandage over his ribs, and he runs his
hand through my hair, kissing the top of my head as he
whispers, “I love you,” and “I knew you would save me.”
Dawn’s first light slips between the blinds of his hospital
room. Brennan takes my hand and kisses my ring finger and
his engagement ring. “Made it.”
“I thought you were the traitor .” Vice President Marshall
looks me dead in the eye across his desk. “When Director Liu
told me what President Walker’s briefing was supposed to be
about, I thought you were the traitor. That’s why I was
boxing you in. I was certain it was you.”
“I could never betray him.”
“I know that now.” Marshall gives me a tiny smile.
We’re in his office in the White House. The grandfather
clock in the corner echoes.
I want to claw through the walls and disappear.
This is my first time back in the West Wing since
everything happened. Everywhere I turn, I run into
memories of Henry. I’m walking around with my hand on
my weapon like I’m about to draw, expecting danger around
every corner.
We’ve buttoned up the White House. Only essential
personnel are allowed. The hallways are empty, but I hear
plenty of ghosts.
“I knew there was something unusual about your
relationship with President Walker. I knew you were closer
than a president and a detail lead should be. I kept an eye on
you both for months.”
My tongue slides over the front of my teeth.
“I wondered if your dedication to him masked an ulterior
motive. Maybe you were playing him. Maybe you were
abusing your position.” He sighs and looks down, past his
steepled fingers. Regret washes over his features. “I had the
right idea,” he says slowly, “but the wrong person.”
The Secret Service and the FBI have torn Henry’s life
apart. They analyzed every line of code in both his and
Clint’s PlayStations. LoneGunman, Henry’s alternate
account, and TruthWarrior14, Clint’s online persona. Henry
had circled Clint like a predator, playing on his vulnerable,
conspiracy-laden mind.
 Three years ago, Henry was assigned to a special task
force on radicalization to better understand the steps
someone took before they made the decision to attack the
president or the United States government.
It wasn’t supposed to be a training manual.
Reading their chat logs broke my heart. Henry convinced
Clint the intelligence Clint saw with his own eyes couldn’t be
trusted. That Brennan himself was the traitor and was
framing someone in his administration. And at the same
time Henry was telling me to go to Brennan and take a
chance on everything I wanted, he was promising Clint that
he’d have a real target to shoot once he was good enough at
the range. For months, they calmly discussed murdering
Brennan.
The plan Henry sold to Clint was that they’d run Brennan
off the road and then kidnap him, hold a kangaroo court, and
execute him for treason. Henry even promised Clint he could
pull the trigger.
All of it was a lie. Clint was a tool, the first smoke screen
Henry laid down for us, the first of the many ways he
covered his tracks. In reality, Quinten was lying in wait in
Rock Creek Park, ready to spirit Brennan away with Henry.
My idea to cross-check Sheridan’s service record with
Quinten’s was the right approach, but like everyone else, I
was looking at the wrong man. When the FBI compared
Henry’s and Quinten’s records, they found an overlap:
eighteen months in Afghanistan, serving on a Joint
Command staff. They’d had ample time to get to know one
another. Years have passed since then, long enough that no
one knew they’d once been friends.
Last I heard, the FBI was still putting together the echoes
of their conversations. They communicated online while
playing video games and through the private PlayStation
Network. They’d deleted their direct messages before the
attack, leaving behind only the chat log that implicated
Sheridan.
Who reached out first? Did Henry go to Quinten with his
slowly boiling rage? Or did Quinten do to Henry what Henry
did to Clint?
We might never know.
“About Agent Sheridan,” Marshall says.
I’ve been waiting for this reckoning. This is the last piece
of the puzzle from that day.
What Henry did to Clint was awful, but what he did to
Sheridan is unspeakable. I don’t know if there was anything
real about Henry’s friendship with Sheridan. Everything
down to the tiniest detail was wreathed in manipulation.
Henry was the reason Sheridan was at Clint’s gun range.
He sent Sheridan there and told him the way to really
impress me was to get good as hell with his weapon, and that
that range would let him shoot as many rounds as he wanted,
no questions asked.
“Don’t hold Sheridan’s cooperation with me against
him,” Marshall continues. “He refused to spy on you when I
first ordered him to, and it wasn’t until I threatened to have
you arrested that he agreed.”
I frown.
“Agent Sheridan was with me when Stephen approached
me with concerns about you and President Walker.”
Stephen Payne, the White House photographer. My hands
curl around the wooden arms of my chair.
“Sheridan was within earshot when Stephen described
what he’d seen. Stephen told me about certain photos he’d
taken that, he felt, indicated a possible inappropriate
relationship. The next day, when he came to me in a rage and
said his memory card had been stolen, it wasn’t hard to put
two and two together. Not with the loyalty your people have
for you.”
 I say nothing.
“I told Stephen that I would look into both your
relationship with President Walker and the theft of his
memory card. I didn’t confront Sheridan then. It wasn’t until
I needed his cooperation that I told him I knew what he’d
done. He didn’t deny it.” He sighs. “Ironically, it was Agent
Sheridan overhearing my conversation that first gave me the
idea that the traitor could be a Secret Service agent. Who else
knows every one of our secrets?”
We’re often closer than your shadow—and we have to be, to do
our jobs.
I shake my head. That memory is tainted by Henry’s
presence. Everything he touched tastes like ash. “I found the
memory card in Sheridan’s bedroom. He’d hidden it.”
I’ve carried it with me ever since. It’s my self-indictment.
I set it on Marshall’s desk.
Marshall plucks the card from his desktop and snaps it in
half, then tosses each piece into the classified wastebasket,
the garbage that is collected every hour and shredded. Even
the scraps are burned.
“I understand, now, the depth of your dedication and
devotion to President Walker.” His eyes flick to my left hand,
where Brennan’s gold band lies.
Silence lengthens between us, punctuated by the deep
tolls of his grandfather clock. “Thank you,” I finally say.
“You were right, you know.”
“Sir?”
“You told me you’d have whoever was responsible on
their knees by the end of the day. It took you less than that to
put everything together and save the president.”
“I had help, sir. I wasn’t alone.”
“Still. I am proud you’re leading the detail, Agent
Theriot.” He holds out his hand as he walks me to the door.
 The allegations of dereliction of duty—and worse—have
been dropped. Marshall himself issued a retraction from
Bethesda and spent more time than necessary praising my
efforts to rescue Brennan.
“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”
“You and Brennan are both very lucky men.”

I wander the empty West Wing until I end up outside the

Residence, in the courtyard beneath the North Portico. What
should be a bustling space is deathly quiet. There are no
delivery trucks pulling in with flowers or fresh food, no
cooks barbecuing in the sunshine.
We’re going to be running a skeleton crew for a while
now, until this clench around everyone’s hearts has eased.
There’s a man in a dark suit sitting on the steps leading
up to the North Drive. His elbows are on his knees, and he’s
leaning forward, staring at the ground as he sucks down a
cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked.” I climb the stairs until I’m
side by side with Sheridan.
He flicks the ash away. “I used to, in the Marines. I quit
when I got this job. Now…” He shrugs.
I sit, my right side leaning into his left. We’re connected
from our shoulders to our hips to our thighs. He’s warm
from the sun. He’s been out here a long time.
When Brennan came back to the Residence, I came with
him and never left. It’s not something anyone talks about. In
fact, someone has been signing me in and out of the logs
each day. I think it’s Sheridan.
Henry’s house is a crime scene, and it’s still being picked
apart by our forensic techs. Sheridan was homeless for one
minute until I gave him the keys to my place and told him to
move in. He’s living in my second bedroom now.
Does he watch the White House from the balcony like I
used to?
Is he sleeping? I barely can. Every time I close my eyes,
even wrapped in Brennan’s arms, I’m plunged right back
into those awful hours. I’m back at the crash, only this time,
Henry left Brennan there to burn alive, and I watch him
writhe and scream, hanging upside down until he’s gone.
Other times, I’m in the bathroom in Anatoly’s safe house.
I don’t have to imagine a worse outcome there. What
happened in that tiny room is a nightmare that lives between
Sheridan and me.
I finally figured Sheridan out, too. It was a bad moon that
pulled the pieces together. I woke in a cold sweat, whatever
nightmare that had crawled through me skittering away in
the dark. Still, there would be no more sleep that night, and I
watched Brennan breathe until dawn.
As the hours ticked by, I thought of Sheridan. The dark
pools of his eyes used to hold so many questions for me. I
was afraid he was hiding some twisted secret, or that there
was an unpredictable or threatening version of him I needed
to uncover. That I needed to peel the truth out of him until I
could trust who he really was.
I know now. The truth came out in the belly of that plane.
Those black moments I glimpse are holes he’s punched in
his soul. Deaths he’s dealt. Horror he’s seen. His usual smiles
hide Stygian crypts where terrible history haunts him no
matter how he tries to move on. I thought once that he
reminded me of a younger version of Brennan. I had no idea
how right I was.
Now he’s punched a new hole in his soul. He put a bullet
through Henry’s skull to save me and Brennan.
 We’re both going to need to find a way to move past
Henry’s betrayal.
Some days, I think what Henry did to Sheridan is worse
than what he did to me. He betrayed me and the long years
of our friendship, threatened my career and my life and—
most unforgivable of all—Brennan’s life. But he isolated
Sheridan, made the world and everyone Sheridan loved turn
against him. He turned me against Sheridan.
I’ve told him I’m sorry so many times that he’s asked me
to stop.
But he’s still been avoiding me. There’s an empty space in
my days where I used to see his smile. The basketball court is
quiet. No one is playing pickup games.
Sheridan takes another long drag of his cigarette. Embers
flare. Ash falls between his knees. “There’s something I need
to tell you,” he says. Smoke wraps around each of his words.
“I need you to listen, okay? Really listen.”
I nod.
“I need you to know—know—that I’ll never betray you
like Henry did. I could never do something like that. I’ll
never go against you, Reese. No matter what.”
“I do know that, Sheridan.”
“Do you?” His cheeks hollow as he pulls in another
lungful of smoke. “I mean it. I’d die for you. I’d—”
“I know.” I stop him before he says it. I’d kill for you. He
already has.
And he loves me, in a to-the-end-of-time kind of way.
We walked through hell together. Every minute of those
endless hours was our own inferno, from the first to the last.
From him waking me up until he fired that fatal, final bullet.
We were bound through it, pulled together and ripped apart
and turned against one another, only to end up right back
where we started: at each other’s side.
 “Sheridan, there’s no one I trust more than you, and
that’s why you are now my second-in-command.”
He twists and stares, midpull on his cigarette.
“You’ve earned it.” I pluck the cigarette from his lips,
then flick it away. “But you need to quit smoking. That’s not
allowed on my command team.”
He chuckles. It’s a sad sound. He scrubs his hands over
his face, and his hair sticks up in a dozen different
directions.
“Will you have dinner with us?” I nod toward the
Residence. “I miss you. So does Brennan.”
“Me?”
“You.”
Sheridan is important to us both. He’s been with us
through the wondrous, the secretive, the horrific. He saved
our lives, and the sight of him raising his weapon in that
cargo hold and pulling the trigger behind me has
permanently burned itself into Brennan’s psyche.
Sheridan is a part of us, and he always will be.
“Brennan is still healing, so I’m in charge of cooking,
which means you’ll probably end up eating macaroni and
cheese. But I’ll throw some Chachere’s on it and season it
up.”
This time, he really laughs, tipping his head back and
letting the sun fall on his face. I wait as he takes a deep
breath, holds it, lets it out.
He turns to me with a smile, that Sheridan smile that’s
been missing from my life. “Yes, sir.”

I joke , but I can’t betray my blood. There’s a Cajun way to

spice up mac and cheese, and I gather the holy trinity,
shredded pork, and extra cheese, and get to work.
 On the other side of the kitchen island, Brennan is
teaching Sheridan how to make bacon-wrapped goat cheese
asparagus. We’re eating good tonight, it seems, despite my
dire warnings.
While my pan simmers, I watch Brennan and Sheridan as
they make a mess out of the goat cheese. Based on what’s
happening over there, Sheridan might never have seen the
inside of a kitchen. He’s flushed and trying not to laugh.
Brennan is laughing, and they both look as relaxed as I’ve
seen either of them since the cargo hold.
It’s almost enough to make me look away from the splint
on Brennan’s hand or the bruises still discoloring his cheek,
chin, and eye.
But not quite.
When they’re finished, I pass out victory beers for us all,
and we clutter up the kitchen while the asparagus bakes and
the mac and cheese simmers.
Sheridan and Brennan get along as well as they did when
we ran the Mall. This time, Brennan makes Sheridan laugh
with his stories of California politics and the absurdities of
the West Wing. He does his impression of McClintock again,
and it’s just as funny as the first time I heard it, running at
his side on the South Lawn track.
McClintock and Brennan have buried the hatchet.
McClintock was scarred by Brennan’s abduction and near
slaying, and he’d cried when he took Brennan’s hand at his
hospital bedside. They’ve found peace between them.
We keep the good times rolling through dinner. Brennan
and Sheridan are such different men, but they come together
like equals. It’s never awkward. Never stilted.
Brennan knows everything about Sheridan and me. How
Henry shaped us, drew us together, dragged us apart. He
listened last night as I choked through my confession of
what happened in that cramped bathroom. “I thought he
knew where you were. And, in that moment, I realized I
would do anything to get you back. Anything, Brennan. I
would have pulled the trigger on a lot of choices in there,
even if they cost me Sheridan.”
“But you didn’t pull the trigger.”
He meant it metaphorically. I meant it literally. I scraped
my teeth over my bottom lip and let my gaze crater to the
floor.
“Reese.” His hand cupped my cheek, and he turned my
face up to his. “Mon cher.” I smiled. He kissed my forehead,
my nose, my lips. “You are a good man. One of the finest I’ve
ever known.”
I told him about the basketball court, too, and how
Sheridan’s kindness was the only thing that kept me sane as
I crawled the walls of my regret. He’d smiled and said, “I’m
glad he was there for you.”
“But who was there for you?”
I already knew the answer. Guilt sliced me from belly to
sternum.
“That’s the past.” Brennan kissed me again. “What
matters is now and what we do with today. Tomorrow is a
dream. The past is forgotten. Today, I love you.”
“You’re a far better man than I am, mon cher.”
“I disagree.”
We played the “No, you are,” and “I love you more” game
until our kisses claimed our words, and the rest of the night
we spoke with our hands and our bodies as we made love.
It doesn’t matter what he says, though. The truth is
objective. Brennan Walker is the best man I’ve ever known
and ever will know.
Watching him bring another smile to Sheridan’s face at
our kitchen table only solidifies that conviction. He’s got
Sheridan talking about the basketball league he and Nuñez
organized within the detail. Sheridan owns that, and those
games are wholly his. Henry never brushed against those, at
least. Sheridan can hold on to his memories untainted.
“Do you play?” Sheridan asks Brennan.
“In high school, but I mostly warmed the bench. When I
worked overseas, there were a lot of casual games. Basketball
is one of the universal sports. No matter where I was or who
I was with, everyone knew how to play.” He grins. “Most of
the time our hoops were baskets on the ends of brooms stuck
in the ground. It was easy to dunk.”
Sheridan laughs, again. I’m drunk on the sound of their
voices and their laughs. Their happiness has lit fireworks in
my veins, and I’m content to sit back and watch. Hold
Brennan’s hand and smile.
This is not the life I deserve, but it is the life I’ve been
granted.
“Maybe we could play a few games?” Sheridan asks.
“When this comes off—” Brennan waves his splinted
hand. “Absolutely.”
After dinner, Sheridan insists on helping with the dishes,
and he dries as I wash while Brennan sits on the kitchen
island. It’s late when we’re done, late enough that Brennan
should be alone and neither Sheridan nor I should be
anywhere near the Residence.
But this is our White House. We know every person inside
these walls, all the way down to their molecules. The rat is
gone. And for the moment, we—and Brennan and I—are
safe.
It’s almost eleven by the time I escort Sheridan down
from the Residence and across the East Wing. We’re alone,
and we pop out on the same small parking lot we used when
we smuggled Brennan out to run the Mall.
Sheridan’s thoughts must be mirroring mine, because he
says, “Reminds me of when we did that run with him.”
 “Little bit.” We’re hovering in the shadows of the East
Wing entrance, not ready to say goodbye yet.
Henry was with us then.
But the memory isn’t cutting as sharply now. He was
there. He’s not here now. He made his choices, and those
choices removed him from our lives. Now his ashes are in a
box in the director’s office.
“We should do that again,” Sheridan says. “That was a
good night.”
“It was. And we will.” We share a smile, like we’ve both
put something away. “Hey, just a heads-up. I’ll be by the
apartment this weekend. I’ve got to do laundry, pick up dry
cleaning, do some stuff.”
“Of course. It’s your place.”
“It’s our place.”
He flushes.
“Are you free? We could hit the court, too.”
Another Sheridan smile. “Yeah, definitely. And bring him,
if he’s free?” Sheridan nods to the White House.
He’s stuck in that place where, now that he knows
Brennan, now that he’s laughed with him and made dinner
with him, it feels too distant to call him POTUS, yet too
familiar to call him by his name. Brennan will catch his
awkwardness soon, and then he’ll tell Sheridan, “Call me
Brennan,” and Sheridan will turn as neon as a bayou beer
sign flickering over the marshy waters.
Sheridan’s grin turns wicked. “He can cheer you on while
I’m destroying you.”
“Oh, you have big dreams.”
“Bring it. Let’s see what you got.”
“You’re asking for it now.”
“I’m confident.”
I shove him, gently. He’s laughing, shoulders loose, head
tipped back, and he drops down the steps of the East Wing
entrance with a contented sigh. “See you tomorrow,” he
calls.
“Later, ’gator.”
I watch him head into the night, his hands in his pockets,
face turned up to the stars.
We’re going to be okay.

I into the Residence and stop in my tracks.

walk back
Soft blues are playing, the mournful, soul-melting kind.
My favorite. Candles are lit, four or five scattered on the
tables in the West Sitting Hall. There’s a glow coming from
Brennan’s bedroom, too, as if there are more lit inside.
And Brennan is waiting for me. He holds out his hand.
“Danse avec moi, mon amour.”
We dance until the candles burn out, murmuring sweet
nothings into each other's ears. Promises for tomorrow, for
the day after, for all the days to come. He runs his thumb
over the band of my ring, kisses my hand and my fingers. I
hold him close, brush our lips together. Our noses, our
foreheads, until we’re as close as we can be without being
inside each other.
“Mon cher, tu es l’amour de ma vie.”
“And you are the love of my life,” Brennan whispers back,
before he kisses me more softly, more sweetly, than he ever
has before.

I’ m lying in Brennan’s bed, naked, tangled in his arms. I

draw shapes on his chest, lazy hearts and suns and egrets.
My ring catches the light. Months ago, I’d have hid this.
Worn it on a chain around my neck. Now? Let the world see I
am taken.
His splint came off today. His bruises are gone. The first
thing we did was head to the basketball court, where
Sheridan and his smile were waiting for us. Brennan
practiced free throws and layups until his hand cramped, and
then I massaged his fingers while we watched Sheridan make
jump ball after jump ball.
“It’s been six weeks.” Brennan runs his fingers through
my hair and kisses the top of my head.
I nod. Six weeks of tiptoeing around. Six weeks of waiting.
Six weeks of wondering.
Six weeks of wrestling with myself. Can I continue as
Brennan’s detail lead?
Before, I feared I wouldn’t be objective or able to function
if Brennan were injured—or worse—but in the space of a few
hours, I learned what I was truly capable of when Brennan
was taken from me. How I will saw the sky from the earth,
drain the oceans, haul down the stars. How I will melt my
soul to molten steel and form bullets out of my broken heart.
I will never stop until Brennan is safe.
I’m not proud of every moment. There are things I wish I
could take back. More than that, I wish I’d never been tested,
never discovered the to-the-quick truth of what I would do if
there was a gun to Brennan’s head.
But I also learned I wasn’t alone.
And that Brennan and I are not alone.
I’ve made my decision. I’m staying right where I am: at
Brennan’s side. In his life and on the detail.
I prop my chin on his chest. “Are you saying I’ve
overstayed my welcome?”
His eyes flash.
“Are you hinting I need to head out, Mr. President?”
He can’t fight his smile. I see his lips twitch.
 “I’ll start packing my things—”
“Don’t you dare.” He pulls me into his arms until we’re
as close as we can possibly get. I roll with him until he’s
beneath me and I’ve trapped him in the protection of my
arms against the bed. We’ve already made love, but he’s
hardening again. He holds my face in his hand. I kiss the
inside of his wrist, nuzzle his forearm and palm.
“You belong here,” he says.
I capture his lips in mine. “I do, mon cher. I belong with
you.”

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 About the Author

Who is Tal?

Tal Bauer writes breathtaking, heartfelt, and often action-packed gay romance
novels. His characters are head over heels for each other, and fight against all
odds for their happy ending. Nothing stands in the way of love. Tal is best known
for his romantic suspense novels, including the Executive Office series, The Night
Of, and the Noah & Cole thrillers, including The Murder Between Us and The Grave
Between Us. He has also written You & Me, The Jock and The Quarterback, along with
the Big Bend Texas Rangers series.
 Also by Tal Bauer

Contemporary MM Romance
You & Me

The Noah & Cole Thrillers | MM Romantic Suspense:

The Murder Between Us
The Grave Between Us

Contemporary MM | Sports Romance:

The Jock
The Quarterback

Big Bend Texas Rangers | MM Romantic Suspense:

Never Stay Gone

The Sean & Jonathan White House Mysteries | MM Romantic Suspense:

The Night Of

The Executive Office Series | MM Romantic Suspense:

Enemies of the State
Interlude
Enemy of My Enemy
Enemy Within
Interlude: Cavatina

The Executive Power Series | MM Romantic Suspense:

Ascendent
Stars

The D.C. Novels | MM Romantic Suspense:

Hush
 Whisper

Stand Alone Novels

Hell and Gone: Gay Western Romantic Suspense
A Time to Rise: Gay Paranormal Romantic Suspense
Splintered: Gay Paranormal Romantic Suspense
Soul on Fire: Gay Romantic Suspense
His First Time: Gay Erotic Short Stories