“We’re not holding court here,” McKeon cut her off. “I’m sure that, as with most issues, there are multiple layers to everything that has happened over the last few months. But what we must not forget is that there are yet moles within the government and it is imperative to the President that we root them out immediately.”

“Thank you, Lee,” Drake said, almost dismissively. McKeon would have to talk to him about that. “I’d like each of you prepare a list of everyone you’ve ever seen with Winfield Palmer.” He raised an eyebrow at Virginia Ross. “And I’m not interested in your opinions. I just want names.”

“That bitch has flown straight off the reservation,” Drake said after the two directors had gone. “I thought she was one we could trust to toe the line — if only out of self-preservation.”

“As did I.” McKeon nodded. “But that does not appear to be the case. We should start thinking about a suitable replacement.”

The Japanese woman stood stoically at her post along the wall.

“She seemed like such an empty suit,” Drake went on. “What do you think prompted her little show of team spirit for Palmer?”

“Integrity, I’d imagine,” McKeon said.

“Well,” Drake said, “we can’t have that screwing up our plans. What’s your take on the Uyghur prisoners? Do you think turning them over to Pakistan will be enough to push Chen Min over the edge?”

“I do,” McKeon said. He shot a glance at Ran, who rolled her eyes. She could not stand Hartman Drake and begged McKeon to let her kill the man every night when they went to bed. “We cannot be too brash.”

McKeon knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Drake was the very picture of brash. Everything he did was flamboyant, from his colorful bowties to his firebrand speeches. McKeon’s biological father had dreamed of the day when one of his children — or the children he’d placed in positions of power — made it to the White House. It had taken years of patience and planning to make it happen. But it would take much more patience and planning to make it worthwhile. A sitting president, even one bent on the fall of the United States, had to work slowly. He could not, for instance, just hand the bomb to Iran, normalize relations with North Korea — or declare war on China. Everything had to appear to come from the outside. If he moved too quickly or acted outside the apparent best interest of the nation, there were still plenty of wary members of Congress who would bring impeachment charges in a heartbeat.

No, there were better ways to bring down a government, insidious ways that would see the American public clamoring for — even demanding — the very actions that would bring about their own destruction.

“Chen Min will rise to the bait. There is no doubt of that.” McKeon took a deep breath, too fatigued to rehash things they’d discussed ad nauseam. “Ranjhani’s plan will help us keep up the anti-China rhetoric with the public.”

“Another bomb.” Drake snorted, his dismissive tone rising to the surface again. His tone made McKeon consider letting Ran have her way. But he needed the imbecile for a while longer.

“A bomb, indeed,” McKeon said. “But not just any bomb. A simple explosion destroys only steel and bone. My father was a brilliant man. He knew that America was strong enough to fend off any outside encroachment of Islam. We have seen how good this country is at stopping attack after attack. But my father knew, and stated many times, when this country falls, it will be because it rips itself to pieces from within.”

Drake laughed to himself, as if he’d just thought of something funny. His feet slid off the desk and fell to the floor. Turning slightly, he took a moment to check out the reflection of his shoulders in the Rose Garden window. “I think my biceps might be shrinking. I have got to get down to the gym.” He glanced up. “Anyway, good thing we’re keeping an eye on Virginia Ross. We do have eyes on her, don’t we?”

“Yes,” McKeon said, suddenly more tired than he had ever been. With a partner like Drake, he might as well be doing this alone. “We have eyes on everyone we know of who had a relationship to Winfield Palmer. But the time for watching is over.”

“Damn, Lee.” Drake gave him a condescending grimace. “I’m surprised you ever got elected to public office. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you have a creepy way of saying things?” He grabbed a gym bag from under the desk and stopped to look at the Vice President. “Every time you talk about this thing we’re doing, I expect you to follow up with an evil laugh. ‘The time for watching is over… Bwahahahahah.’ I mean, shit, give me a break…”

Ran tensed at the insult. She took a half step forward. Thick veins throbbed at the base of her neck. Drake was so caught up in his own joke that he didn’t notice how close he was to dying. McKeon gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, stopping her. He mouthed the word soon as the President continued his mock laughter and walked past the Secret Service agent posted outside the door.

Kim and Mattie Quinn made the perfect mother-daughter pair. Both wore blue ALASKA GROWN T-shirts and denim shorts. Their hair styled in classy, off-the-shoulder updos, the two were virtual twins but for the fact that Kim was a blonde and Mattie had coal-black curls like her father. Mattie also happened to have two working legs, where her mother sported a metal prosthetic limb where her left leg had been amputated above the knee. She was back to using a cane again for a few days while she grew accustomed to the newly fitted prosthetic.

Five months after a sniper’s bullet that was meant for Mattie had torn through her thigh, Kim knew that she had more swagger with one leg than she’d ever had with two.

Of course, it hadn’t started out that way. When she’d first come out of anesthesia after surgery, the look on Jericho’s face had told her the leg was gone. She’d hated him in that moment, a difficult thing to do with Jericho, though she didn’t let him know that. Considering the sort of work he did, it was not a hard case to make that her ex-husband was responsible for bringing the assassin’s bullet ripping into their family. But Kim knew that life was much more complicated than that.

Despair and grief over the loss of her leg was compounded by the fact that she’d chased Jericho away with the lines she’d drawn and then dared him not to cross. Neither of them had ever been good with ultimatums — but she’d given them anyway. For a week after the surgery, she’d felt absolutely alone and feared that without two good legs, she’d never be attractive to any man, let alone Jericho. It didn’t really matter. She’d kicked him out, driven him away with her wild fears about him getting killed. In her quiet, solitary moments, she told herself it would be better to have a little of him, than none at all — that Mattie deserved to have a father, and she deserved to have at least some semblance of a husband, even if he was gone more than half the time to godforsaken hellholes where everyone wanted to kill him. At least then, she had been able to call him hers. But then, he’d come around and her stubborn streak would rise up like some kind of bitchy dragon lady that she couldn’t control — sending him retreating back into the arms of his new girlfriend. It didn’t matter now.

Kim had just started to come to grips with that when the phantom pains began. They roared in like a river of molten lava, searing the bones of her missing limb and peeling back the toenails of the foot that was no longer even there. The docs had given her something to quiet the nerves and, in time, the phantom pain had retreated, but never quite disappeared.