14

CORNER OF SEVENTEENTH STREET AND PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Marcus climbed into the passenger side of a black Chevy Impala.

“Where to, chief?” Kailea asked from behind the wheel of the government sedan.

“DSS headquarters.”

Kailea nodded. They pulled away from the curb and drove in silence for a few minutes, weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic, until she asked, “How’d it go in there?”

“POTUS still wants to go to Jerusalem.”

“And you think that’s crazy.”

“He’s the president, not me.”

“So we’re still heading out tomorrow night with Evans?”

“Apparently.”

“And yet we missed all of yesterday’s briefings.”

It was true. They had an enormous amount of material to absorb and internalize, and barely thirty-six hours to do it in. They had spent most of the previous day at the crime scene, interviewing witnesses and being interviewed themselves, not just by D.C. detectives but by the FBI and the investigators from DSS’s department of internal affairs. Only well after nightfall had they had time to get a quick bite to eat, then head to George Washington University Hospital to see how Maya Emerson was doing. But Carter’s widow had just gotten out of surgery and had still been in recovery. There was no way they were going to be able to see or talk with her that night. So Marcus had insisted that they visit everyone who had been wounded at the church and taken to G.W. Some were still in surgery themselves or under heavy sedation. One patient they were able to see was nine-year-old Marcy, grieving her grandfather and waiting for word on Maya. Marcus held the sobbing girl for more than an hour before returning her to the care of Carter’s secretary.

Then there were those who had succumbed to their injuries. Marcus and Kailea had sat with their husbands and wives, children and grandchildren, cousins and friends and neighbors. They’d apologized for not being able to do more. It was nearly two in the morning when Marcus, drained and exhausted, had gotten back to his apartment.

When they arrived at DSS headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, Kailea parked in a reserved space. The two cleared security and found a glum-looking Pete Hwang waiting for them in the lobby. Pete was not flying with them to Israel the following night. Instead, he was scheduled for another surgery on his wounded arm. After that, he’d be assigned to the DSS operations center, he said. In the meantime, he was supposed to get up to speed with the rest of them.

“Haven’t spent this much time in hospitals since I left medicine,” he said without humor as he led them to a conference room where they joined the rest of the detail. The three of them sat together. Marcus and Kailea were singled out by the director, who praised their heroism and led the team in a standing ovation. Then the briefing got started.

“Hey, will you do me a favor? Take good notes,” Marcus whispered to his best friend as the group took a deep dive into logistics for the London leg of the trip. “I need a moment.”

Marcus excused himself and found a men’s room down the hall. He washed his hands thoroughly and splashed warm water on his forehead, cheeks, and neck, then dried himself off with several paper towels and looked at himself in the mirror. Though he was tired, his eyes were no longer bloodshot, as they’d been the night he’d jumped out of the G4 over St. Petersburg. He was sleeping well these days, eating better, working out, and overall feeling far healthier than he had in years. He ran his hand through his sandy-blond hair. It was short again, the way he liked it, though not nearly as short as the buzz cut he’d gotten at boot camp on Parris Island.

His rugged, chiseled face —the gift of his father’s Dutch DNA —was freshly shaved, though the scars he’d acquired over the past several weeks were clearly visible, reminders of his violent reentry into the service of the U.S. government. One ran just above his right eyebrow. Another ran down the left side of his face, near his jawline. Two more crossed his neck. There were days he wondered if he should grow a beard. That would cover all but the scar over his eye. Elena had always hated beards. So had his mother and his then-mother-in-law. He’d never been sure he’d look good with one anyway, so there had been no percentage in offending the three most important women in his life. On the other hand, he hadn’t had these scars when Elena was still alive. But he had no idea if DSS agents were allowed to grow beards, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking around. All the men back in that conference room were clean-shaven. Why rock the boat so soon after climbing aboard?

As he stood alone in the men’s room, he couldn’t help but wonder if all this was a mistake. Maybe everything was moving too fast. Maybe he wasn’t ready to head back into the field. Besides Pete, he didn’t know a single person on the detail —not even Agent Curtis, though he’d been impressed with her skills so far. The truth was, Marcus had been out of the protection business for too long. He wasn’t familiar with DSS culture or protocols. And the stakes could not be higher. Whoever had just taken out the deputy secretary of state wasn’t finished. They were coming back for more, and in this game, there was no margin for error.