Tate stood quietly in her black sheath dress as she watched the clergyman bless Joel’s casket. No one from either Joel’s or Sheila’s family was there. The police ruled the official cause of death a murder-suicide and closed the case. Joel’s son was now being raised by Sheila’s parents and would grow up believing his father was the worst sort of villain unless Tate could prove otherwise.

Three of Joel’s coworkers, two classmates from journalism school, and one person from his church were at the funeral. In total, six people, including Tate.

“This is so sad,” Brenda whispered as the ceremony concluded. “Thanks for coming. I still don’t believe it.”

“Me neither,” Tate said with a sigh.

“Want to have a drink to Joel?” Brenda asked.

“Sorry, I have to get back to work. But it was really great seeing you again.” Tate smiled at her old friend. So many nights they had stayed up to the wee hours studying or writing articles for school—Brenda, Joel, herself—and now Joel was gone. It was surreal.

“I understand. I still can’t believe you’re press secretary to the president!” Brenda lowered her voice. “Is he as hot as I think he is up close?”

Tate closed her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh out loud.

“Come on, spill,” Brenda said, opening her car door but waiting to get in.

“More than you can imagine,” Tate whispered conspiratorially before her friend gave her one last hug and headed out.

Tate looked back at the casket being lowered into the ground. If it hadn’t been for a burial policy Joel had gotten before he headed to Iraq a couple of years ago, he’d be in the paupers’ section of the public cemetery. Sheila’s parents had refused to lay their daughter to rest next to the man who had allegedly killed her, so Joel was alone with no one wanting to claim association with him.

“Tate Carlisle?”

Tate looked up for the casket to see a frazzled-looking man in his early fifties walking toward her. His shirt was wrinkled with a mustard stain on it.

“Yes?”

“I’m Jeff Sargent. I’m, um, I was Joel’s senior editor at The Washington Leader. Can I have a word in private?” Jeff ran a hand through his tousled hair and looked around.

“Of course. Would you like to meet at my office or would you like to talk here?”

Jeff shook his head. “I can’t be seen at the White House. Let’s take a short walk.”

Suddenly nervous, Tate looked around. There were only the two men working on burying Joel. Everyone else had left, and the cemetery appeared empty.

“I’m not going to hurt you. We’ll stay in sight of those men if it will make you feel better,” Jeff said, picking up on her nervousness.

“How about that bench by the pond?” Tate asked. Jeff looked around once again and gave a slight nod before starting off in that direction. “What can I do for you, Mr. Sargent?”

“Jeff, please. Joel talked about you quite often. He was really proud of your accomplishments. He said you were one of the smartest people he’d ever known. He was working on something big,” Jeff told her, suddenly dropping his voice. “He was collecting more evidence, and then he was going to take it to you after we ran the story.”

“To me? Why?” Tate asked in a hushed voice.

“Because it was about FBI Agent Phylicia Claymore. You may think I’m crazy, but I don’t think Joel killed himself or Sheila. He’d received a threat the day he died to drop the story he was working on. He didn’t tell me much. Only that he was meeting a witness to gather evidence that night. He said everyone was focused on Africa, but it was what happened before Africa that was the big news.”

“Do you know who he was meeting?” Tate asked, trying to hide the urgency from her voice.

Jeff nodded and reached into his inside coat pocket. “Joel kept everything backed up to the company cloud. I swore I would never look at it, but curiosity got the better of me after he left the office. See, corporate sent down an assignment he was supposed to be working on, an assignment about your boss helping a coup in Zambia. Joel took one look at the assignment and deemed it false news and trashed it. He said he was working on something bigger than a fake story. Well, after he left that night to meet his source, I got a call from corporate demanding the piece. I got chewed out for not publishing it. I was told it was the story or my job. So I swore the piece would be in the paper the next day.”

Jeff took a deep breath and looked around again before handing her the papers from inside his coat pocket. “I admit I didn’t want to stay late so I logged onto Joel’s cloud account to find his research on the coup assignment. Joel isn’t anything if not predictable. You could probably guess his password.”

“Sheila,” Tate said softly.

Jeff nodded. “Then I admit, curiosity got to me and I printed off what Joel had been secretly working on. I was going to read it at home that night. Instead, I fell asleep and forgot about it. We heard about Joel at work the next morning. I had left the story at home so I logged on to print the story off again only to find it gone. Someone had permanently deleted it from the cloud last night after seven o’clock, which was when I printed it off.”

Tate nervously opened the folded papers and scanned them. She felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh shit,” she cursed.

“There’s something big going on, Miss Carlisle, and I think it got Joel killed,” Jeff said solemnly.

Not think. It did. Tate folded the papers and slid them into her purse. “Tell no one about this or your life will be in danger.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Jeff asked.

Tate wanted to say yes. She wanted to say she knew who was behind this. She wanted to tell him she would get revenge for her friend’s death. Instead, all she could say was, “I don’t know, but I do know this is dangerous. Let the authorities handle it.” Jeff nodded, and she could tell he was fighting his reporter instincts. “Give me your card, and I’ll let you know the second anything happens but only if you promise to not say a word about it. Deal?”

“Deal,” Jeff said, handing her his card.

Tate put the card in her purse and headed to her car. Her team needed to meet tonight, the sooner the better.

Lizzy smiled at Coco, the exquisite young twenty-something who curated the lobby of SA Tech. “Hiya, Coco. How are you today?” Lizzy asked as she breezed through the lobby.

“I am amaze. Totally obsessing the boots, Miss James,” Coco said in her own youthful way.

“Thanks, Coco. Is Judith in today? I’m hoping I can slip by to see Mr. Abel without her yelling at me for not having an appointment.”

Coco cringed. “She’s a B. Sadly, she’s the first one here every morning.”

“Then I’ll just have to surprise her.” Lizzy grinned, knowing it would drive Sebastian’s stick-up-her-ass secretary crazy. She had a thing for appointments.

Lizzy rode the elevator up to the penthouse. Judith and her tight silver hair bun met her as the elevator doors opened. “You don’t have an appointment.”

Lizzy smiled and reached into her bag. “I brought you a bran muffin.” Lizzy handed it to Judith and wondered whether Valeria’s magic little formula worked if it was eaten as opposed to injected. Guess she’d find out soon enough if Judith ate the muffin.

“You can’t bribe your way into Mr. Abel’s office. Go home and make an appointment, Miss James.”

“Bite me, Judith.” Lizzy snickered before pushing her way past the secretary who she guessed was in her sixties. “Sebastian, I need to see you now!” Lizzy yelled out as she stalked down the hall toward the large, thick double doors of Sebastian’s office.

The doors opened and Sebastian, in all his handsomeness, stood glaring at her. “Miss James, back so soon?”

“Men always think they can last longer than they really can.” Lizzy smirked as she walked by him and into his office as Judith hurried as fast as her chunky heels could go.

“I told her she had to make an appointment,” Judith huffed.

“It’s okay this time,” Sebastian said before closing the doors. “Can I take your coat, Lizzy?”

“Sure.” Lizzy shrugged out of the overcoat and watched as all six feet two inches of Sebastian Abel, one of the richest and most powerful men in the country, suddenly went rigid. His black hair was gelled back, and his gray eyes were focused on her body taking in her outfit. “You told me you didn’t care how I got the information.”

Sebastian’s eyes snapped up to hers. “And I don’t. I have ten minutes if you’re in the mood for a real man instead of some man-child.”

“Sorry, not interested.”

“I know, and that’s what makes you very desirable,” his deep voice rumbled as he made his way to his desk.

Lizzy took a seat and waited for Sebastian to sit behind his massive desk. It was his power position. “Vivian is pregnant with Trip’s baby, and Bertie is planning something that will put you out of business. Trip didn’t know the specifics.”

“Didn’t know or isn’t saying?” Sebastian asked, and the only sign of how he took that news was the way his fist clenched on the desk.

“Doesn’t know. I did my job and did it well. Trip doesn’t know what Bertie has planned. I don’t think Vivian does either, for what it’s worth. She just seems set on her pregnancy securing her share in Bertie’s future estate.”

Sebastian relaxed his hand and leaned back. “What does he expect when he’s seventy and marries a twenty-year-old bimbo? Serves him right.” Sebastian took a deep breath. “Thank you for finding out something is in the works. I’ll handle it from here. How is Birch doing?”

Lizzy didn’t know what to make of Sebastian. He was ruthless, he was cunning, and he fought dirty. There was a war brewing, and it wasn’t the one she was trying to fight. It was a war of two industry titans determined to obliterate all competition. It was only now that she realized what a strain Birch put on his friend by asking him to provide funding for this secret group of theirs. Sebastian was fighting his own war.

“He’s well enough. Unfortunately, we have a new coincidence that may not be a coincidence and needs to be looked into. But, I think you have enough to worry about,” Lizzy said as she realized being Sebastian Abel wasn’t necessarily a good thing. The man was a walking contradiction. He gave money to fund their group, yet he bugged their computers and demanded to know what was happening and then bullied her into being a corporate spy for him. Right now she couldn’t get a read on Sebastian, but she was pretty sure he was about to become too busy trying to fend off Bertie’s attack to care what their little group was up to.

“Yes, I do. I’ll be in touch.” It sounded more like a threat than an offer to help.

Tate waited patiently outside the Oval Office. The phones rang constantly. Preparations for the Fourth of July celebration were in full swing. All the while, there were assistants filing papers, stacking documents to be reviewed, and making coffee with the skill of a barista. At least the drink one of the new girls had handed her was a work of art. It didn’t matter it was hot outside, Tate needed the coffee to warm her insides after reading the papers Jeff had given her.

The phone of President Stratton’s chief assistant rang and a second later the man stood to escort Tate through the thick door and into the Oval Office as members of the president’s inner circle stood to leave.

Humphrey Orville stood behind the president, so small he almost disappeared, but behind those little glasses was a man who never missed a thing. Secretary of State Sandra Cummings stood and pressed a wrinkle from her skirt with one hand and picked up her briefcase with the other. Her short, dirty-blonde hair was styled reminiscent of Doris Day, though the hard lines on her face proved she wasn’t America’s sweetheart. Instead, Sandra had the reputation of a bulldog. She wasn’t President Stratton’s pick. Actually, no one in the room except Tate and Humphrey Orville were President Stratton’s picks. They were still carry-overs from President Mitchell’s administration—something Tate personally thought needed to be rectified.

“Mr. President, I’ll let you know as soon as we have verifiable evidence,” FBI Director Conrad Kirby said.

“And then the CIA will work with State to offer any assistance,” CIA Director Kevin Milward added as he and Sandra shared a brief nod. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we have something.”

The rest of the men and women filed out the room, except Humphrey and Sandra, who looked impatiently between the president and Tate.

President Stratton waved Tate to have a seat on the couch and then turned to Sandra. “Go ahead. Miss Carlisle has all necessary clearances, and if this is what I think it is about, she may be able to help.”

Sandra didn’t look convinced but nodded anyway. “Senator Epps is creating problems on the foreign affairs front.” Sandra turned to Tate. “We are gathering evidence that China is overstepping in the South Sea. It’s thought they have been blowing up fishermen’s ships from countries that don’t support their claim to the waters. Anyway,” Sandra said, turning back to the president, “Senator Epps agrees with China’s claim. You know he’s going to run against you in two years, and he’s setting up the differences now. He’s working with our allies while you are working against him. He’s even threatened that China could call in all their loans if you don’t handle the situation to China’s liking.”

“The stock market took a hit right after Epps said it, too,” Humphrey added.

Tate let all the scenarios run through her head on how to handle Epps. “We need more time to look into him and his actions these past couple of months before we address his comments. I’ll have my office start investigating immediately.”

President Stratton drummed his fingers on his knee as he sat quietly for another moment. “Thank you for bringing this to me, Sandra. Epps certainly isn’t making your job any easier. Set up an appointment with the Chinese ambassador for next week. I’ll have a plan of action by then.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sandra said, standing.

“And I’ll get you anything I think will help from the research I do,” Tate offered.

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch. I’ll see you both for the July Fourth celebration as well.”

Tate stood and shook Sandra’s hand as Humphrey escorted her from the office. A moment later, the door closed and Humphrey took a seat across from Tate. “Ironic that we killed the bastard who is responsible for the South China Sea troubles, and he’s still causing problems.”

“That’s not our only problem,” Tate said, pulling copies of Joel’s notes from her bag. “There’s a chemical weapon missing, and Director Kirby has covered it up.”

“What?” President Stratton asked, quickly reading the notes. “Who wrote this? We need to talk to him.”

“The person who wrote this died in an apparent murder-suicide the same night his potential source died in a single-car accident driving back to Quantico. We are investigating that coincidence now. However, the senior editor of The Washington Leader gave this to me at the journalist’s funeral this morning,” Tate explained. “Mr. President—”

“Birch,” Birch Stratton said as he rubbed his hand over his face in frustration.

“Birch, this is a lot deeper than Dan March and some assassins. We’re talking a major threat to the public.”

“Does Elizabeth know?” Birch asked.

“Not the full scope. We are worried there may be a connection between the deaths.”

“Humphrey, call a meeting for tonight for the entire group. Tate, I know we looked into Epps, but dig deeper. Shit, I can’t even go to Kirby to have him investigate the bomb. Maybe the team will have an idea tonight.”

“I’ll get to work on Epps and Kirby, right away,” Tate said as she stood.

“Thank you. I’ll see you tonight at our usual time.”

President Bircham Stratton watched his press secretary hurry from the room. She was on a mission, and he hoped her investigative instincts could ferret out not only who had the bomb, but also who on the Hill was manipulating things against him.

His old professor closed the door behind Tate and let out a long breath. “We have to expand our group.”

Birch shook his head. He was already operating so far over the line that he’d be impeached if anyone found out about his shadow group of agents working without Congress’s knowledge and approval. Not to mention they were funded solely with private money.

“I can’t risk it. It’s already a group of five and now my Marine One pilot knows who the group is, along with Jason Wolski,” Birch said, sitting back in the chair, watching Humphrey walk toward him.

“Then bring them into the loop. You need protection. We don’t know if we can even trust the Secret Service.”

Shit. Humphrey had a point. “Not Jason. He’s already lost his wife to this cause. Order Crew Dixon to join our meeting tonight. Blindfold him, though.”

Humphrey’s bald little head bobbed as he left Birch alone. Alone is what he felt, but he wasn’t. Birch had allies, and tonight he would add one more. The feeling of being held underwater washed over him. One wouldn’t be enough. Humphrey was right. He needed someone on his detail whom he could trust with his life. Because if Birch died, his whole team would be left unprotected. He had promised Lizzy she’d have her life back at the FBI, Valeria would be back at the DEA, and Dalton would return to the PJs. What they didn’t know was that Birch didn’t want them to go back. They were the only people he could trust.