Tate and Birch hurried back through the tunnels to the White House. Within minutes of hanging up the phone that had just been sitting on the president’s desk in his private study, it rang again.

“Yes?” Birch asked. “He has? Is he all right? Okay, just let me know who my new lead agent is.”

Tate waited for Birch to explain, but he just shook his head. “Well, what happened?”

“Apparently Humphrey somehow tripped Peter going down the stairs and Peter is at the hospital with a broken leg. He’ll be off active duty for months.”

Tate felt her mouth drop. “Humphrey broke Peter’s leg? No way.”

“I sure did. And I don’t feel bad about it at all,” Humphrey said, coming into the room.

“What, did you shove him down the stairs?” Birch asked, wide-eyed.

“Ye of little faith. I used fishing line. And as soon as Peter tumbled, I put the line in my pocket before anyone could see it. I even called the doctor for him. But now we need you visible. You need to thank the military at the White House before your speech on the South Lawn to kick off the military BBQ picnic. Then you’re welcoming guests for this evening’s reception starting at seven tonight. You’ll be at the reception from seven until nine, with fireworks following shortly after dinner is completed. Guests will move to the South Lawn to watch the fireworks at the Mall and then move back inside for dancing until eleven,” Humphrey said as if he hadn’t just broken a guy’s leg.

“Humphrey, can we get Tate something to wear to both events?”

“I can—” Tate started to say.

Birch held up his hand. “You’re not leaving the White House until I know you’re safe.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Humphrey hurried out, and Birch went to meet with the Marines and other service members who were stationed at the White House and were guests for the day’s festivities. Tate walked back to her room. She stepped up to the window and regretted it the instant she did. Protesters in front of the White House held signs that said things like Whore of the White House and Keep our children safe from Tate. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Pain squeezed her heart as she read more and more signs. And at the end, these people who hated her enough because of one picture to protest her would never know she was saving all their lives and freedoms. Or maybe she should just let Mollia Domini win. Then these people wouldn’t have the right to protest.

Tate turned her phone on and went to sit on the couch. She would not look on social media. She would not let people who are so filled with such hate that they only feel good about themselves if they were tearing other people down destroy her. Instead, she answered emails and deleted all media requests except one. Flint Scott said he was onto something and wanted to meet with her at Lancy’s.

Tate replied that she could meet him tomorrow evening, but the entire meeting and everything said in it must remain confidential. As she set down her phone, she heard a ring. But this time it was the phone that only one person had the number to.

“Hello, Brent,” Tate answered in her best valley girl impersonation.

“I have the information you want. Your story has almost broken my servers.”

“Good. I’ll text you the upload instructions. And I have an even bigger story for you.”

“What is it?” Brent asked, trying to temper his excitement.

“You’ll have to wait and see. I’d add some reinforcements to your server if I were you.”

“It would be easier if you just told me who you are and what you have. I’ll protect your identity.”

“I know you would. When I send this second story to you, how long will it take to get it up?”

“I’ll have to vet it first.”

“You already have. It involves everyone you just looked into.”

“Video?”

“Yes,” Tate answered.

“Thirty minutes to verify the video is unedited and to write the story that accompanies it.”

“Timing is everything, Brent. It has to be thirty minutes and not a minute sooner or later. Can you promise me that?”

“What are you involved in?” Brent asked instead.

“I just want to wake people up to the realities of the world. Promise me, or you don’t get the file. I have another reporter I can trust with it,” Tate threatened.

“I promise.”

“You’ll get it Monday at four forty-five your time. Happy Fourth of July.”

Tate hung up as Humphrey knocked on her door. “I hope these clothes are all right. And I got you a little something in the box, too.”

“Thank you, Humphrey.”

Humphrey shoved his glasses up his nose. “How are you doing?”

“It’s going to be a long couple of days. I can’t wait until Monday night.”

“You have to hang on until then.” Humphrey sent her a smile and placed the clothes and the box on her bed before leaving. Three days of constant harassment. She could do it. She looked back out the window. Fire the slut was being chanted. Tears pressed against her eyes as her heart began to pound. Anxiety threatened to crush her. No, she could do this. She did this to herself. She knew it would be hard. Tate took a deep breath and reminded herself that putting her life on the line was for a greater good. It would expose Claudia as the hypocrite she was. It would show the people currently demanding her head on a spike that it was Claudia who was trying to hurt them, not Tate. She just hoped they’d listen because she was doing this all for them.

Birch walked down the long hallway filled with military. He thanked each one as he shook their hands. He felt Brock standing slightly behind him and for the first time, felt that he didn’t need to watch his own back. The trouble was it wasn’t his back he was worried about. It was Tate’s. She hadn’t said anything, but this morning after she’d checked her email and had seen the morning news, she had withdrawn into herself.

When Birch made his way to the end of the line of military, the director of the Secret Service was standing there waiting for him. “I need a word, sir,” she said.

“Yes?” Birch said, resigned to the fact it would be bad news. After all, the director didn’t need to see him most times. It was usually the head of the presidential protection division or the intelligence division.

“You have on your agenda that Miss Carlisle will be attending the Fourth of July picnic. Is that still the plan?” she asked.

“Yes. She’ll be down shortly for it. Why?” Birch asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Today’s threat report is in. There have been credible reports against Miss Carlisle and yourself for employing her. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to attend.”

Birch stared down the woman he wasn’t completely sure he could trust. “Are you saying you and your agents can’t keep us safe?”

“No, sir. I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying that you don’t want to do the extra work to keep her safe. The White House has had some of the most hated people in the world visit before and they were all protected. If you can’t or don’t want to do the job, then I’ll be happy to find someone who can.”

Birch saw her jaw work in irritation. She’d been a Mitchell appointment, and they had not meshed well since he took over the presidency. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll assign more agents to the event.”

Birch wanted to tell her that’s what she should have done in the first place, but instead he walked past her to his office. “Brock, a word.”

Birch opened the door to his office and shut it behind Brock, the only agent he knew he could trust. “Did they fill you in on the threat assessment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your take on it?”

“My take is Mollia Domini is using the photo to rile up citizens in hopes that the people will do their dirty work from them. I think Tate is probably in their gray area, and they won’t mind if someone takes her out just so they don’t have to worry about her. I read some of the threats. They’re nasty, but BBN and some of the papers have been saying worse. A couple of BBN’s reporters, especially Claudia Hughes, have been using social media to post memes of Tate along with making her address and other personal information available. I suggest we ask her to turn over her phone and give me access to her email so I can monitor for those who go beyond the regular hate speech into defamation and stalker. It’s really sad. They think they have a right to go after her because she’s somehow done them a wrong,” Brock explained.

Birch let out a sound of frustration. “Regular hate speech,” he said, shaking his head. “I remember a time if I said something rude, even if it was just speaking to myself and my mother heard me, lord help me. Respect, manners, civility. They were drilled into me as a boy. Anyway, I want men you trust on her. Right now, she may be more of a target than I am.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Brock promised.

It was scary how fast Alex had printed the press pass out of the trunk of his beat-up car. A few strokes of the keys and Dalton was on every VIP all-access press list. He’d made a quick stop at the camera store and picked up a professional camera with a microphone attachment.

“Press pass,” a guard ordered as Dalton approached the gate reserved for the media to enter in for the South Lawn BBQ.

Dalton handed him his identification as another guard searched his bags. When he was cleared, he walked through a metal detector and was then patted down. “Excuse me, where is the VIP room?” Dalton asked one of the guards.

“Show your badge to that guard, and he’ll show you where to go.”

Dalton looked to where he was pointing. Two guards stood by the base of the steps leading to the portico. Dalton headed their way. “Hey, I’m heading to the VIP room.”

“Up the steps. People are gathering in the Blue Room and on the portico, but I need to see your pass,” one of the guards said as the other talked with a woman Dalton recognized as a senator. “Okay, you’re all set.”

Dalton thanked him and headed up the steps after the senator. It was a warm day but not overly hot for July. The portico overlooking the South Lawn was filled with politicians mingling with some of the more famous journalists and celebrities attending the event. Dalton headed toward some photographers and nodded his hello before using his camera to scope the area and find Senator Epps. Bingo, inside the Blue Room, talking to Sandra Cummings.

Dalton examined his camera to record and made sure his microphone was on before slinging the camera over his neck and walking into the Blue Room. As he went to get a drink, he moved the camera to face Senator Epps and the secretary of state, sitting next to a refreshment table.

They ignored Dalton as he got a drink and looked over the finger food. Epps gestured wildly with his hands, and his voice went from unheard to a harsh whisper. “That’s wrong and you know it.”

“I don’t care what kind of intelligence you think you have, Martin. I can guarantee you it’s nowhere near as reliable as mine,” Sandra hissed.

“I’m warning you, Sandra. I’m doing this with or without you,” Senator Epps threatened as he turned his back on the secretary of state and stormed from the Blue Room through the opened jib door and disappeared from sight onto the portico.

Dalton picked up a drink and slowly followed. He took a position on the far side of the portico and watched an obviously aggravated Senator Epps talking to Thurmond Culpepper, the secretary of state’s top aide.

Slowly making his way closer to Epps, Dalton kept his eyes on the streams of military families now making their way onto the South Lawn. This time Epps didn’t seem as worried about keeping his voice down.

“If you thought that Blackhawk being shot down in Syria was bad, just wait,” Epps said as he poked Thurmond in his thin chest.

“Senator Epps, please. There are some things that are better left to those with the clearances to know how to handle them. I’m sure the secretary will do the right thing,” Thurmond said, rubbing the spot Epps had poked.

“Get this straight, you little shit. If you don’t listen to me, then I’ll make sure you two go down in flames—one way or another.”

Epps turned and disappeared back into the White House as Sandra came out to join Thurmond. “Is he still insisting everything must be done his way?”

“He threatened us if we didn’t,” Thurmond said with a shake of his head before taking a drink. “He mentioned Syria.”

Sandra’s hand fisted, and then she forcibly relaxed it. “That bastard. If he’s behind . . . Oh my god. I can’t believe it. The president brought her!”

Dalton turned as the crowd grew silent. President Stratton and Tate walked out onto the portico with Secret Service hovering nearby. A couple staunch allies stepped forward to greet them as others began to lean their heads together and trade gossip. Tate stood with her hands clasped as she looked out at the lawn with a serene and completely forced smile on her face. At that moment, Dalton realized Tate was the strongest person on the portico.