Saturday, September 10, 4:20 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“And I’m calling for a top-down investigation into these events. Everyone needs to be examined. Why should Homeland Security Secretary Stanley Porter feel safe in his position when the American people don’t feel safe in their own homes?”

Khadi Faroughi did her best not to roll her eyes. Mr. Opportunity was the nickname given to Senator Clayson Andrews by all but his most senior staff members, because he never missed a chance to get his face on camera. Now he was calling out Stanley Porter, her old boss at the counterterrorism division—a man who had probably over the years had a hand in saving more lives than the number of votes this blowhard had received in his last election.

“Does this mean you’re calling for Secretary Porter’s resignation?” asked an MSNBC reporter who was known for being especially dim.

“Certainly not . . . yet,” Andrews answered, letting his trademark smile creep onto his face—the smile that had helped him win three terms in the Senate and bed somewhere around half the female lobbyists in town. “Seriously, I’m not calling for anyone’s head. All I’m doing is calling for an investigation. These attacks have to stop. And if this current crew at Homeland Security can’t do it, then we need to get some people in there who can. The lives of the American people are too valuable to worry about tramping on anyone’s feelings or whether or not somebody loses their job.

“Next, let’s go to . . .”

Tyson Bryson, Andrews’s chief of staff and a man whose parents had apparently hated him since birth, leaned forward and whispered something into the senator’s ear. Khadi immediately went on alert.

“Actually, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like my time is up. Thank you for your time, and may God bless America.”

As the senator backed away from the podium, Khadi stepped to his right side, while J.D. Little, the second member of the senator’s two-person security detail, flanked his left. They didn’t expect any trouble, but on a night like tonight, you never knew.

Khadi had argued vehemently against holding the press conference right next to where the thwarted attack had taken place. Not only was there the usual danger of the random wacko, but there was also the very real possibility of a secondary strike—a second gunman or an explosive device set to detonate on the first responders and the crowds that had gathered to watch. But the lure of the photo op was too great for Mr. Opportunity. So he went, putting himself, his staff, and his security detail at risk. All so he could get those pearly whites on the network news.

“Guess you were wrong, Faroughi,” Andrews said as they walked toward the waiting limo.

“We’re not to the car yet, sir,” Khadi replied, using the word sir to replace the one she really had in mind.

“You worry too much,” he said with a wink.

“And you worry too little. Besides, worrying is my job.”

“I’ve told you before, Khadi, if you want a job with a little less worry and a lot more fun, all you’ve got to do is—”

“Please duck your head, sir,” Little said to the senator as he opened the door for him.

“What? Oh, yes. Thanks, Little,” Andrews said as he climbed into the vehicle.

Thank you, Khadi mouthed to Little.

Little shook his head and rolled his eyes in response.

It had taken the senator exactly six hours from the time Khadi first began her position in his security detail to make a pass at her.

She had been sent to his house by Congressional Protection, Inc., a small, very specialized, and very solid security firm. She arrived at 5:00 p.m. for an overnight shift. All was quiet until 11:00 p.m. She was standing in front of a bank of television monitors when she heard someone enter the security office. She watched the senator’s approaching reflection in the glass of the screens. He was wearing magenta silk pajamas and he carried a drink. The smell of the alcohol arrived well before he did.

“Care for a little drinky-winky, my lovely Persian queen?” With one hand he held the glass in front of her, while his free hand slowly slid down her side from rib to thigh.

Never taking her eyes off the monitors, Khadi said, “I’ll give you three seconds to take your hand off me before I shoot you in the kneecap. Then I’ll go upstairs and tell your wife why you’re down here bleeding.”

“Oh, my . . . I guess I should have expected the infamous Khadijah Faroughi to be a fighter,” an undeterred Andrews said with a laugh and a squeeze to Khadi’s backside.

Before the senator had time to react, Khadi whipped her pistol out and pressed it to his forehead. His glass dropped to the ground and the front of his silk pajamas darkened.

Through gritted teeth, Khadi said, “Senator, I will watch over you and protect you. You can call me at all hours of the day or night, and I will come running. I will fight for you and I will die for you, because that is my job. But one thing I will not do is allow you to disrespect me. Do we have an understanding?”

The senator didn’t respond. He just stared with terrified eyes.

Realizing that holding a gun to a US senator’s head probably wasn’t a great career advancement move, she lowered her weapon and turned toward the monitors.

When she heard the door to the office latch closed, she dropped into a chair, put her head in her hands, and cried. What have you done? she thought. You left the one job you’ve ever had that you absolutely loved. You were born for SOG! Why would you do such a stupid thing?

But she knew why she had done it. There was never a real question. The fact was that Riley Covington’s ghost was all over that office. Everywhere she looked, she saw him—laughing with Scott, looking over Evie Cline’s shoulder, sharing a Gatorade with herself out in the courtyard.

She couldn’t do it. She had to move beyond Riley, and the only way to do that was to get away from the Special Operations Group.

Now here she was, crying in an office, the stench of urine and bourbon in the air, having been groped by a senator, and quite possibly facing charges for assault with a deadly weapon.

But surprisingly, the next morning the senator came down like nothing had ever happened. The incident was never mentioned then or since. He still made verbal passes at her almost daily, but he never again touched her.

After that initial horror, Khadi’s life had developed a routine. She found new friendships. She was even spending some time with a real up-and-comer in the FBI. Sweet guy, hardworking, great looking, treated her like a princess; he was everything a girl would want, but . . . but he’s not Riley Covington. There was still just something missing.

As she slid into the limo and sat across from Andrews, who was clearly only half listening to Bryson’s ramblings, she wondered what Riley was doing. She knew he was in Cleveland. But it’s not like I’m following his every move. Everyone knows the Warriors are playing an away game against the Bulldogs this weekend.

Poor guy’s got to be worried sick about Scott. Even with all the junk Scott put him through, Riley was always such a good friend to him. But that’s just the kind of guy Riley is.

“So, Khadi, about this other job,” the senator said with a wink.

Khadi shook her head, stared out the window, and dreamed of what her life could have been.