Tate watched in silence as the interview on BBN went from good to worse. She heard Lizzy gasp when Claudia called her reputation into question and as Birch lambasted Claudia for her behavior. An email came through. Larry had just been fired. She’d make sure he’d have a job by the end of the week.

“It’s time,” Tate said, her voice slightly worried. Brent Eller had once upon a time been a tough-as-nails reporter. But after years of trudging the trenches only to be told to write fluff pieces that ten other reporters were working on, he had quit and founded Tinselgossip.com. Did he pay for stories? Yes. Did he feel sleazy? Yes. Was he still a damn good reporter? Yes. And that was why Tate was nervous to see what he did with the videos she sent.

Birch turned down the volume on Claudia and turned up her competitor as Humphrey brought up Tinselgossip.com on one of the other screens in the office.

CLAUDIA HUGHES’S HYPOCRISY MAKES BIAS EVIDENT – WHAT’S HER AGENDA? was written in huge caps across the top of the webpage. The room let out a collective breath as they read a story written by Tinselgossip’s own Brent Eller. It would go down as one of the best pieces of journalism Tate had ever read about rogue reporters pushing their personal agendas and the need for true independent journalism. Ten minutes later, BBN’s competitor broke into the middle of a live interview to show the video. Within twenty minutes, every major news network was live with the breaking story. Larry emailed again—he had his job back, and Claudia Hughes was the one being thrown out.

“Dude!” Alex burst in as Humphrey finished reading Flint Scott’s journalistic masterpiece complete with screen shots and comparisons of one hundred politicians and celebrities from around the world, including a clip of Claudia Hughes saying the exact same thing, effectively cutting off Mollia Domini’s ability to influence the public. Flint’s story was already being picked up by the media as reporters flashed screen shots and wondered for the first time if President Stratton was being set up to fail. The reality of a conspiracy began to sink in on everyone.

“I know! It’s great and you did it!” Tate said, hugging Alex.

“Dude, not that. I mean, I am great. But I got a match to the partial print.”

“Who?” Dalton asked quickly.

“Sandra Cummings.”

“What?” Birch and Humphrey said at the same time, both standing up in surprise.

“It’s positive. It’s her.”

“I thought so,” Dalton said, smiling. “I can’t wait for some payback.”

“Payback?” Birch asked.

“I talked to Epps. He and Kirby are working together to try to find out what’s going on. They don’t know about Mollia Domini, but Epps has the skill of eavesdropping. He told me right before I arrived here that Sandra was the one who ordered the Blackhawk to Syria with a suitcase filled with five million dollars. And she’s the one who ordered my team to stand down.”

“Find her,” Birch snapped. Humphrey hurried to the phone and called.

“She’s not answering her cell,” he told them as he pulled up his phone and scrolled through the numbers before dialing again. “She’s not answering her home.”

“Call Thurmond,” Dalton suggested.

Humphrey located the number and dialed. “Thurmond, Orville here. I need Secretary Cummings immediately. I see. When? What for? Return date? Fine. I expect you in my office tomorrow morning at eight sharp.” Humphrey slammed the phone. “She’s in the wind.”

“What?” the group said in surprise.

“Her flight apparently just took off. Thurmond says it’s some kind of family emergency.”

Birch ground out between his teeth. “Lizzy, Dalton, find her and drag her back to me.”

“Thurmond didn’t make the travel plans, and as far as I know, Sandra doesn’t have much family besides a son in California.”

“Check all the flights. Do whatever it takes to find her.” Birch slammed his hand on the desk as reporter after reporter began tearing down every story Claudia had reported.

Humphrey and Tate’s phones were ringing nonstop. Tate shared a look with Humphrey and the two stepped out in the hall. “As much as I want to unravel the web more and find Sandra, we still need to do our jobs. I’m calling in my staff. We need to set things right with Birch’s image and his politics. I’m afraid we’re going to be too busy for the next couple of days to help them.”

“Ah, but we are helping them.” Humphrey smiled at her and shoved up his glasses with his finger. “I’ll call my staff in as well. Go tell Birch. We’ll gather in the Roosevelt Room.”

Humphrey was already calling his staff as he walked out of the residence and headed for the West Wing. Tate pulled up her contacts and sent a brief text to her staff before talking to Birch.

The room was full of activity as Tate closed the door. Alex was on his laptop. Birch and Brock stood by his desk in deep discussion. Dalton and Lizzy were talking animatedly in front of the bank of televisions.

“Birch, I have to go. Humphrey and I are pulling the staff together. We’re fielding so many calls. I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

Birch wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. “You were fantastic. You and Alex saved us. I’ll be down in a little bit.”

A knock sounded at the door and everyone froze. Birch tightened his grip on her as his eyes shot to Dalton, Lizzy, and Alex. He didn’t need to say anything. They were already slipping into hiding.

“Yes?” Birch called out.

Gene opened the door and Agent Abrams walked in. “My shift just started, sir. I didn’t know what the plan was after—” Abrams gestured to the television. “I can’t believe it.”

“Tate is on her way to the press offices. Humphrey is heading that way, too. I’ll be down in a bit. Can you walk Tate down and check with the Uniformed Division to see what’s happening outside after this breaking news? By then I should have a handle on this situation.”

“Yes, sir. Ma’am?” Abrams stepped back and Birch gave Tate one quick kiss before letting her go.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Tate left the room with Abrams trailing after her. She heard Gene asking if there was anything Birch needed and then closed the door when he’d been dismissed. Tate hadn’t even realized the butler had been there. However, as she looked around, she noticed there were a couple of staff members still on the floor. No wonder Birch had been so paranoid about keeping the door closed.

“Found something,” Alex said, drawing Birch’s attention from the door Tate had just exited. “The only flights that left this area around the time of our call to Thurmond are these.”

A list of twelve flights displayed on the screen. Paris, London, Los Angeles, New York City, Dallas, Rio, Mexico City, St. Thomas, Atlanta, Minneapolis, Jacksonville, and Salt Lake City.

“How can you narrow it down?” Dalton asked as he looked up at the list.

“I’m running the names of all the passengers who checked in on those flights right now,” Alex said, sitting back as his computer worked.

“Shouldn’t you have just searched her name first?” Lizzy asked.

Alex snorted. “Dude. You think I’m like an amateur or something? I already did that. There’s not a single Sandra Cummings in the entire country flying right now. She used a fake name. I’m pulling up all the tickets of Caucasian female passengers within eight years of Sandra’s age and matching her height and weight.”

His computer finished and a list of seven names appeared on the screen. “Wow,” Lizzy whistled. “We can work with that.”

“Dude.” Alex rolled his eyes as if Lizzy had just insulted him. Apparently she had because less than five minutes later they had pictures of all seven women. “Bingo. Number five, Sally Coleman. Destination: Bucharest, Romania, with a connecting flight in London. She arrives tomorrow afternoon.”

“Let’s go,” Dalton was already standing up. “We can take another of Sebastian’s planes.”

Birch shook his head. “No. Fly military. Do you still have your cover from when you were in the South China Sea?”

“Yes, but flying private—” Lizzy started to argue.

“Save what money we can. Something is off with Sebastian. Until I find out what it is, I want you off the grid as much as possible,” Birch instructed.

“Let’s get our uniforms,” Dalton sighed.

“You better hurry. You can leave from Andrews in two hours. I’m getting you all lined up. You’ll be about ten hours behind Sandra. Good luck,” Alex said as his fingers flew over the keyboard. He shoved his shaggy hair out of his eyes and redoubled his efforts.

Lizzy and Dalton nodded. “Be safe,” Birch called out as Brock checked the hall before slipping them out. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. It was hard sending people he’d begun to think of as his only friends into danger.

Brock returned just as Alex shut the laptop. “I got their travel all set up and just sent them their info. I have to get back to the bar. The two old geezers are watching it, and they’ve probably drunk half the beer themselves. This double life is exhausting.”

Tell him about it. Birch was tired of pretending he didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to look Mollia Domini in the eye and tell them he was coming for them. Birch let out a deep breath and closed his eyes as Brock made sure Alex left unseen. If Birch couldn’t challenge them, then what Jason was doing would have to do for now.

Birch let out a harsh breath and picked up the phone. Brock returned and at least now there was something Birch could control. “Brock, tomorrow I want to go on a date with Tate. A real, honest-to-goodness date someplace outside of the White House.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Birch called out as Brock shook his head. Gene walked in and stood quietly, waiting to speak.

“A date? Tomorrow? We need more time to plan,” Brock told him.

“No. I know every president before me has gone out for lunch on the spur of the moment. You’re lucky, I’m giving you a heads-up to plan a dinner date.” Birch smiled at Brock, who didn’t smile back before turning to Gene. “Gene, can you order enough pizza for the entire chief of staff’s and press secretary’s staff and have it sent to the West Wing? They’re going to be at it all night.”

“Sure thing. Maybe some caffeinated beverages as well?” Gene suggested.

“Perfect. Thanks, Gene,” Birch said before turning back to Brock. “How about Gimiagano’s?” Birch asked. Tate loved Italian and that was his favorite hole-in-the-wall place to eat.

The door closed as Gene left and Brock pulled up the restaurant on his phone. “This is good. It’s not a hot spot. And with it being slightly out of downtown, there’s less foot traffic we have to worry about. I’ll put a team together.”

“Let’s walk down to the West Wing and see how the team’s doing, and you can plan what you need for tomorrow.” As Birch headed to the West Wing, his mood was buoyed. Things were finally going their way.

It was almost early morning when Tate finally rested her head on Birch’s chest. They lay entwined in bed simply enjoying the quiet. There was something relaxing about feeling the person next to you in bed. Tate’s hand absently roamed the plains of his chest and abs as his hand stroked her back. That night had been successful beyond all belief. The team had prepared a statement that Tate had released after Birch signed off on it. Request for media interviews and passes to the next day’s press conference went through the roof. More and more stories were appearing that showed the press was slowly connecting the dots the team was laying out for them.

Flint had called her, stating he was gathering even more information now that other journalists were going public with stories they had wanted to follow but had been pressured to abandon. Journalists were tracking down each person Flint had outed. Tinselgossip.com ambushed Kerra Ruby coming out of dinner at a posh L.A. restaurant. She’d stammered about making a difference. Another Hollywood action hero was hiding behind his manager and had reportedly hired the top PR spin doctors in the world to help him out of the mess.

In hours, downloads for certain movies and music slowed so substantially for the artists named that some had already come out and begged for forgiveness. They placed the blame on their agent or their PR company, which reporters dug into, finding that the PR company in common with these stars was JES Public Relations in Hollywood and New York City. Jill E. Sage, the ex-wife of Fitz Houlihan, owned JES. Unlike most exes, Jill and Fitz were still partners in every way. Socially they were each other’s dates if need be and bed partners when they wanted. Professionally, JES Public Relations recommended Fitz as an agent for its clients and vice versa. By morning, Tate guessed JES would be closing its doors temporarily as they attempted to spin the story. But like all of Hollywood, you let the scandal die down and then reinvent yourself. No one truly disappears.

Birch stroked his hand down Tate’s bare back, and she snuggled in closer. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Hmm?” Tate murmured as she ran her fingers over his chest.

“Would you go on a date with me tomorrow? Say eight o’clock?” Birch asked.

“You mean, doing what we’re doing now?” Tate teased.

Birch shook his head as he looked down at her. “No. A real date. In public. You and me and a small team of Secret Service,” he said with a smirk and a little bit of nervousness.

Tate grinned against his chest before pushing up on her elbows and looking him in the eye. “I’d love to. But aren’t you worried about, well, everything?” The thoughts of what the media would say about a president dating his scandalous press secretary would give her nightmares.

Birch stroked his fingers lightly over her back. “I’m no longer afraid. I don’t want to live my life according to a poll. I love you, Tate. I know our situation won’t be easy, and it won’t be private, but I’ll do whatever it takes to make it as normal as possible so we can see where this goes.”

Tate pulled herself closer against him. In a time of darkness, what they shared was her light. “Then you have a date.”

Tate laughed as Birch pumped his hand into the air before rolling her over onto her back. The searing kiss he placed on her lips, however, was no laughing matter. They were each other’s salvation. And as their tongues caressed and his hand moved to cup her breast, Tate put aside all the worry of the future for just one moment.

“Mmm. You think I’ll get a goodnight kiss even if you have to pay for dinner?” Birch asked as he looked down at her. “I have no idea if my credit card still works.” His finger gently pushed back a lock of hair from her face.

“If I had a dime for every time a man tried to get out of paying for a date because he was president, I’d . . .” Tate paused and cracked up at the look in Birch’s eyes. “Well, I’d have a dime.”

Tate’s phone rang at the same time Birch’s did. They rolled their eyes as they answered. Her deputy was talking so fast Tate could hardly understand him. “Okay, I’ll look. Thanks. Now get some rest before the morning chaos.”

Tate hung up at the same time Birch did. “That was Humphrey. Something about Tinselgossip.com.”

“Me too,” Tate said, pulling up the site on her phone. She blinked when she saw it. Then tears began to form.

Birch smiled and squeezed her to him. “I could have already told them it was true love.”

Brent Eller had followed up on his piece about Claudia with an insider scoop on the love story of the president and the press secretary. The makeup artists had told him what had happened during the Claudia interview. There was a picture of Tate silently crying as her actions were called into question, and there was a picture of Birch hugging her as if she were the most important thing in the world. Then there was a picture of the gentle kiss they shared as well. She read that the witnesses said the president was brave and protective of his love. Tate was described as elegance and intelligence mixed in one beautiful package. References to Camelot were made and Tate stopped reading. She didn’t need a fairy tale. She had the real thing.

Valeria looked at the man across the table from her. There were more guns than people at the table. The house was a large stucco mansion. It was a bright and cheery yellow on the outside, but the inside was dark. Twelve men sat in the large, deep-brown leather chairs placed around the clunky, thick, wooden farm table. Twelve men and her.

She sat at one end of the table. The head of the house sat at the other. A young woman set down plates of food, but the man never took his eyes off her. And when he reached for his gun instead of his fork, Valeria knew she’d overstayed her welcome.