“I can’t stand it anymore,” Epps growled to Kirby. The two men stood in the back of the ballroom as the guests watched Birch and Tate dance. Dalton stood in the shadows by the literature on the National Archives.

“Patience, Martin,” Kirby hissed. “Or you will ruin everything. Now stop talking to me in public.”

Kirby walked off and Epps’s hands clenched at his side. He took a deep breath and asked his wife to dance as other couples took to the floor.

Dalton pulled out his phone and sent Lizzy a text. There was something in the way Birch was looking at Tate that caused him to miss Lizzy. His phone vibrated a minute later, and he read her text. She was safe, back at the bar. She’d told people she’d tried to ride a motorcycle. When will you be home? Home. Being with his unit of PJs had been his home for more years than he could remember. Six? Seven? Hell, it was probably closer to a decade. But at some point in the last week, he’d stopped thinking of his black site in the middle of hostile territory as home. Home was with Lizzy in the small house in Quantico with a little fluff ball of a dog.

Epps was their guy. He didn’t know how Epps had been cleared the last time, but there was enough on his camera that he wouldn’t be getting away again. There were too many unanswered questions that Epps appeared to have the answer to. Furthermore, with a bomb missing, Kirby’s not notifying Birch about it, and their overheard conversations, Dalton was pretty sure Epps and Kirby were working together.

The Washington Leader had yanked the story and replaced it with a statement that Jeff was mentally ill and was on a leave of absence while he sought professional help. The story seemed so far-fetched that hardly anyone mentioned it that night. The mission was coming to a head. Dalton felt it in his bones. When Epps and his wife left the dance floor and the White House shortly afterward, Dalton headed home.

“I’m going to kill her,” Lizzy hissed to Alex as she wiped sweat from her forehead. It was almost midnight and the bar had only picked up in activity. “Have you found anything about where Valeria has gone?”

“Not a thing. She’s completely off the grid.” Alex picked up a tray of beers with one hand and hiked up his sagging shorts with the other.

“Not only would it be helpful to have her on the missions, she’s left me high and dry at the bar as well. Let me know when you find her, and you’d better find her.”

“Dude, do you want me looking for Val or taking prints from the folders. I can only do so much, and every time I get ready to run some prints you call me away. Come rescue me. Get a private plane. I need a new phone . . . for the hundredth time,” Alex snapped.

Lizzy took a deep breath. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I just feel as if we’re so close to getting answers but having to maintain a cover is wearing me down. It means things move slower. I’m sorry, Alex.”

Alex sent her a half smile. “I know. I miss being cussed out in a language I don’t understand, too.”

“It feels like our family isn’t together. I just can’t help but feel she needs us.”

“You know what I need?” the deep voice said.

“Dalton!” Lizzy cried in relief.

“Dude,” Alex sighed happily before taking off with the full tray.

Lizzy watched as Dalton walked around the bar, and before she knew it, he was standing behind her. He placed a soft kiss on her neck, and she leaned back onto him, ignoring the shouts for orders for just a second longer.

“Let’s get to work so I can get you home. I’ve been thinking about you all evening,” Dalton whispered before diving into the orders waiting to be filled.

Tate couldn’t catch her breath. They’d danced the first dance together, and it was the most romantic moment of her life. He loved her. But just as fast as the excitement came, it went. Birch wasn’t just Birch, he was the president. A president didn’t date. He’d be crucified for taking time away from running the country to have a personal life. Re-election would be impossible.

Tate couldn’t do that to Birch. If Birch wasn’t in office, then their group wouldn’t exist and Mollia Domini would flourish. Tate watched as Birch danced with Sandra. It was the hardest thing to do, but she had to walk away. There were more important things than her heart right now. Until Mollia Domini was dismantled, she couldn’t risk Birch having a political misstep. And having an affair with his press secretary wasn’t a misstep; it was something so much bigger.

Tate took one last look at the man she loved before turning around and slipping from the crowd. Her heart broke as she thought of Birch’s reaction. She would have to tell him they had to wait. It would be hard, but until Mollia Domini was destroyed everything had to be completely professional between them. He would understand. She would make sure of it.

“Ma’am?” Brock asked, coming to walk next to her.

“Tate, please.”

“Where are you going, Tate?” Brock asked, following her out to the hallway to the grand staircase.

“Home.”

“I’ll see you to the residence.”

Tate shook her head. “No, I’m going to my home.”

Tate made her way up to the residence with Brock right behind her. “Does the president know?”

“He will,” Tate said, walking into the Treaty Room and picking up a piece of paper. She began her note. She explained her reasoning and hoped he’d understand that she was doing this not just for his election, but so they still had enough power and sway to take down Mollia Domini. No matter how much it came to power figures versus power figures, the public would play the biggest role. They just didn’t realize it yet. And if they didn’t believe in or didn’t trust Birch, then Mollia Domini could still live for another day.

“Then I’m coming with you,” Brock announced as he followed her to her room. Tate threw her clothes into her bag, and in minutes was ready to go.

“Just make sure he gets this,” she said, handing him the letter.

“Ma’am? Can I be of assistance?” Gene said from the door. He looked concerned about the bag she held in her hand.

“Yes,” Brock answered for her. “Give this to the president the second he comes upstairs. I’m accompanying Miss Carlisle home.”

“Of course,” Gene said, taking the note. “Ma’am.”

Tate smiled at him and gave him a hug. “Thank you for being my hero today.”

Tate hurried from the room before she changed her mind and ran into Birch’s arms.

The drive home was made in complete silence. When they pulled up to her house, she swallowed as fear shot through her. WHORE was scrawled on her garage door in red spray paint.

“I’m taking you back to the White House,” Brock said, but Tate already had the door open.

“It’ll be fine. It’s not as if I haven’t heard it before.” Tate pulled out her keys and opened the front door. She looked around. It was clean. Brock checked the entire house with Tate following behind him. The people she had hired did a great job. Everything broken was simply gone. The house was set up a little differently, but it was still home.

“I can crash on the couch,” Brock said as he took a seat.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Brock smiled softly. He was a good man. “You’re a friend of Val’s. She’ll kill me if I don’t take care of you.”

Tate gave a little laugh. “I don’t think Val likes me very much.”

“Is she hard on you?”

Tate almost rolled her eyes. “That’s a massive understatement.”

“It just means she believes in you. She always pushes harder on those she sees something in than everyone else. It’s her way.”

Tate kicked off her heels and took a seat in the one remaining chair in the room. The other had been smashed. “What happened between you two? She said it was just a distance thing after you went into the service and she went with the DEA.”

Brock shrugged. “Basically. We never stopped loving each other, though. We realized we both were each other’s number two. For her, the DEA came first. For me, the Secret Service came first. It shouldn’t be that way when you’re deeply in love.”

“Do you miss her?” Tate asked softly as her mind went to Birch.

“Sometimes. She was my best friend as well. But we both know we made the right decision. Not all couples are like us. If you love him—”

Tate shook her head. “No, we’re exactly like you. The country and Mollia Domini’s defeat must come first.”

Tate loved Birch with all her heart. But as Brock said, sometimes there were things that were even more important than love. Tate climbed into bed and turned off the light.

She didn’t know whether she was dreaming or not when she heard a crash. She sat up and screamed as she tried to figure out what was going on.

“Stay there!” she heard Brock yell. It was no dream.

Tate looked around her room. It was empty except for the sound of glass breaking again. It echoed in the house as tires spun on the pavement outside. She heard the front door slam behind her as Brock raced out into the street.

Then, from the darkness of her closet, a shadow emerged. Tate opened her mouth to scream, but the gun pointed at her stopped her as he put a finger to his lips to indicate she needed to be silent.

“Hola, Miss Carlisle,” the man said with a Latin accent. His tan skin and dark hair made her think he’d just come from a beach in Mexico.

He wasn’t tall, probably close to Tate’s five feet eight inches. But he was strong. The muscles on his arms were three times the size of Tate’s and covered in tattoos. He stepped closer and ran a hand over her cheek. “I don’t mean to scare you, but I need some answers for my boss. And you’ll answer them for me, sí?”

Tate nodded as her body shook. “Do you know Valeria McGregor?”

Tate couldn’t stop the shock from showing on her face. This wasn’t about Mollia Domini?

“I can see you do,” he said softly as he continued to stroke her face as if he were trying to calm a wild animal. “Who is she?”

“She’s a waitress at a bar I go to. Why would you—?” The hand tightened on her face, pushing her cheeks into her teeth. Tate winced.

“I’ll ask the questions. You be the good chica and answer them.” Tate nodded, and he relaxed his grip.

“She’s a waitress. Where?”

“Lancy’s.”

“How do you know her?”

“I meet my brother there for drinks,” Tate said, sticking to the story they’d all agreed on. “He tried to pick her up one time. That’s the first time I met her.”

“Did it work? Is she a whore like you are?”

Tate’s eyes snapped to his in anger, and she spat in his face. She was as surprised as he was, but he reacted quicker. The hand across her cheek sent her falling back onto the bed. The shock robbed her breath for a moment as the prickles of pain throbbed.

“What do you know about her being part of the DEA?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tate said as tears began to fall. She tried to catch her breath but couldn’t. She was failing the lessons Val had taught her, but she would never fail Valeria. She’d protect her until this man killed her.

“Does she still work for them?” he asked, fisting his hand in Tate’s hair and pulling her upright.

Tate sobbed harder. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about. At the bar, she always says mean things about the DEA trainees. I . . . I don’t understand,” she stuttered. “Why are you asking me? I hardly know her. She just works at a bar I go to.”“What does she say?”

Tate folded in on herself, but he yanked her head up. “I don’t know. She says it in Spanish.”

“Then how do you know it’s mean?”

“She narrows her eyes and it’s . . . I don’t know, but it’s just not nice. Um, it’s something like chinga tu cabra,” Tate pronounced very poorly.

The man chuckled softly, the meaning coming through in translation. “Has she ever sold you drugs?” the man asked as he resumed his gentle stroking of her cheek.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t do drugs.” Tate flinched, expecting to be hit. Instead, the man smiled and raised the gun inches from her head.

“You’ve been very helpful.”

“Why did you ask me?”

“Because she told us to. Now, close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes tight. At least she didn’t give Valeria up.

“Tate? It’s okay to come out now,” Brock called as he walked through the front door.

Tate screamed. If she were going to die, then hopefully Brock could catch the man. She waited for the bullet to tear through her skull, but instead she heard her door crash open. Tate opened her eyes.

“What is it?” Brock asked.

Tate blinked. Where was he? Tate’s head spun as she took in her room. There was no evidence the man had ever been there except for the slight flutter of the curtains covering the French doors leading to the patio.