I'm Like The Fbi Quotes

First Pallas and now you,” the gray-haired man said, shaking his head at Nick. “It’s like I’m running a goddamn dating service around here.

Boyfriend huh? I didn't realize we had taken things to that level." "Oh, I'm sorry--this is my first undercover operation," Jordan said. "I'm a little unclear about the rules. Are we seeing other people in this fake relationship?

He gripped her shoulders determinedly. 'I should’ve told you this earlier, Jordan. Now that I’ve got my chance, you’re going to hear it whether you like it or not. You came into my life and messed the whole thing up and now I’m screwed. Because I’m in love with you. As in balls-out, head-over-heels, watching-Dancing-with-the-Stars-on-Monday-nights, wine-and-bubble-bath kind of love. Hell, I think I’d even wear a scarf indoors for you.

So, Angel?" I said, looking over at her. She was gliding through the night, her eight-foot wings looking like a dove's. "Have you picked up anything from Anne, about anything? Anything off?" Not really." Angel thought. "From what I can tell, she does work for the FBI. She does care about us and wants us to be happy. She thinks the boys are slobs. I'm blind," Iggy said irritably. "How am I supposed to make everything all tidy?" Yeah, because you're so handicapped," I said sarcastically. "Like- you can't build bombs or cook or win at Monopoly. You can't tell us apart by the feel of our skin or feathers.

Don't get me wrong. I love a Denver omelette as much as the next girl. But I'm curious whether that’s your thing, or if you try to change up the routine depending on the specific woman. You know… like, green pepper because I have green eyes, ham because I’m so funny, and onions for all the tears you’ll shed after I leave.

I told you not to take off work for this." “And miss your big finale? No way.I’m all atwitter to see how things turn out.” “That’s cute, Jordo.” Then he frowned as Nick McCall was suddenly there, in their lives, and Kyle was therefore being a little…cautious before welcoming him into the family. “Be nice, Kyle,” Jordan warned. “What?” he asked innocently. “When have I ever not been nice to Tall, Dark, and You Can’t Be Serious About This Guy?” “I like him. Get used to it.

If you think it means I'm asking you to move in with me, you'd be right." Her expression turned more serious. "If you also think it means that I wake up every morning wondering what I did to deserve having you back in my life, well, you'd be right about that, too." Jack just sat there for a moment, just... stunned. No one had ever said anything like that to him. "Come here," he said huskily. He grabbed her chair and pulled it toward his. He kissed her, softly at first, then his hand moved to her back and pushed her close as his emotions got the better of him. He pulled back to hold her gaze. "I love you, Cameron. You know that, right?" She kissed him back, whispering the words in his ear. "I love you, too.

Jack leaned over. “Ever get the impression that these women are way out of our league?” “I shot the last guy who said that to me.” “And people say I’m cranky.” Nick chuckled as his eyes turned back to the television screen. As it turned out, he didn’t care whose league Jordan was in. All that mattered was that she was his.

You will find out that I'm not like them. I won't punish your for having an accident, and I won't punish you when you do something wrong, or something I don't like. I don't hit, darlin'.

First Pallas and now you,” the gray-haired man said, shaking his head at Nick. “It’s like I’m running a goddamn dating service around here.” He spun around. “Wilkins! Huxley!” he barked. “Next case that involves a single woman—you’re up.” Standing at the sidewalk, Agent Wilkins pumped his fist excitedly. “Yes.” Huxley adjusted his glasses with a grin, looking decidedly pleased. “That was supposed to be sarcastic. I’m getting too old for this shit,

Then his look turned more familiar. “You look incredible tonight.” She felt herself go warm at the compliment. “Thanks. We had a spa day earlier that included hair and makeup. I’m not sure about the lipstick, though. Too red?” Belatedly, she realized that this question brought his attention to her mouth. His eyes lingered as he gazed down at her lips. “I like the red.

Sidney gestured to the chair he’d just helped himself to. “What are you doing?” He looked at her as if this was obvious. “Starting a conversation.” “But I don’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m starting a conversation. Let’s begin with the basics. Like your name.” Ah, right. Sidney knew exactly what was happening here. This guy had seen her on her failed date, had obviously deduced that she was single, and now thought she was easy pickings. “I’m not giving you my name,” she said. “All right, then. ‘Ms. Doe,’ it is,” he said, undeterred. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Ms. Doe?

You told me men don’t do this.” “Do what?” She walked around the counter, speaking animatedly. “Two years ago. We were at Firelight, having drinks. Cade and I had split up and you said that men don’t mope around after a breakup. You said that men avoid issues, get drunk, and pick up a new girl to forget the old one—but that you don’t brood.” Ford held out his hands in disbelief. “How do you remember that? And I’m not brooding.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked at him. “I know you’re my friend,” he said. “But please, for once, can you just act like you have a penis? Because I don’t want to talk about this.” She shrugged. “Fine. We’ll just sit here and listen to music.” She reached for his phone again. “Have you heard Taylor Swift’s new song?” “No.” “Well, you’re going to—on endless repeat until you start talking.

Let’s just call it an adjustment of priorities.” Nick saw no reason to beat around the bush about this next part. Pallas was a good guy, and an excellent agent. “There’s more. You and I both know that Davis has been thinking about retiring. I told him today that when that happens, I’d like to be considered for the special agent in charge position. I wanted you to hear it from me first. Thought you might be eying the job, too.” Jack considered this. “I’ve given it some thought,” he admitted. “But politically, I doubt it would go over well if the special agent in charge of Chicago and the U.S. attorney of the same district were involved in a personal relationship.” His expression was one of pride. “And since Cameron got there first, it looks like I’m adjusting my priorities, too.” He paused. “Plus, I hear that people think I’m cranky.” He rubbed his jaw, musing. “Not sure why that is.” “Maybe it’s all the brooding and glowering.” “No one complains when you break out the don’t-fuck-with-me face.

Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to look at me this way?” She assumed he was teasing her. “What are you talking about? You didn’t even like me for most of the time we’ve known each other.” He bent his head before turning to go, his voice low and confident in her ear. “Or maybe I’m just that good of an undercover agent.

Sometimes I think rage is like a furnace, and I’ve been angry for so many years now, I’m perpetually heated from the inside out.

I wonder if that’s how I look to others; like I’m normal and functional, too, when in fact, I feel completely emptied out.

What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked. She looked nervously down at the papers in her hand even though I knew for a fact she had memorized every word. “When I was eleven I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when the recruiters came to see me. They showed me brochures and told me they were impressed by my test scores and asked if I was ready to be challenged. And I said yes. Because that was what a Gallagher Girl was to me then, a student at the toughest school in the world.” She took a deep breath and talked on. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked again. “When I was thirteen I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when Dr. Fibs allowed me to start doing my own experiments in the lab. I could go anywhere—make anything. Do anything my mind could dream up. Because I was a Gallagher Girl. And, to me, that meant I was the future.” Liz took another deep breath. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” This time, when Liz asked it, her voice cracked. “When I was seventeen I stood on a dark street in Washington, D.C., and watched one Gallagher Girl literally jump in front of a bullet to save the life of another. I saw a group of women gather around a girl whom they had never met, telling the world that if any harm was to come to their sister, it had to go through them first.” Liz straightened. She no longer had to look down at her paper as she said, “What is a Gallagher Girl? I’m eighteen now, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t really know the answer to that question. Maybe she is destined to be our first international graduate and take her rightful place among Her Majesty’s Secret Service with MI6.” I glanced to my right and, call me crazy, but I could have sworn Rebecca Baxter was crying. “Maybe she is someone who chooses to give back, to serve her life protecting others just as someone once protected her.” Macey smirked but didn’t cry. I got the feeling that Macey McHenry might never cry again. “Who knows?” Liz asked. “Maybe she’s an undercover journalist.” I glanced at Tina Walters. “An FBI agent.” Eva Alvarez beamed. “A code breaker.” Kim Lee smiled. “A queen.” I thought of little Amirah and knew somehow that she’d be okay. “Maybe she’s even a college student.” Liz looked right at me. “Or maybe she’s so much more.” Then Liz went quiet for a moment. She too looked up at the place where the mansion used to stand. “You know, there was a time when I thought that the Gallagher Academy was made of stone and wood, Grand Halls and high-tech labs. When I thought it was bulletproof, hack-proof, and…yes…fireproof. And I stand before you today happy for the reminder that none of those things are true. Yes, I really am. Because I know now that a Gallagher Girl is not someone who draws her power from that building. I know now with scientific certainty that it is the other way around.” A hushed awe descended over the already quiet crowd as she said this. Maybe it was the gravity of her words and what they meant, but for me personally, I like to think it was Gilly looking down, smiling at us all. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked one final time. “She’s a genius, a scientist, a heroine, a spy. And now we are at the end of our time at school, and the one thing I know for certain is this: A Gallagher Girl is whatever she wants to be.” Thunderous, raucous applause filled the student section. Liz smiled and wiped her eyes. She leaned close to the microphone. “And, most of all, she is my sister.

That’s the second time you called me ‘honey.’ I can’t decide if I like it or if I’m starting to feel objectified,” he teased. She sighed. “I seriously don’t think I can walk down an aisle with you.” His voice dipped lower, a slow drawl. “Careful, Sinclair. Those are very heady words to a guy like me.” She left him standing there, by himself, at the base of the steps. With a grin, he turned and watched her go. Yep, still cantankerous. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the view from behind.

Deep Throat stamped his foot. “A conspiracy like this . . . a conspiracy investigation . . . the rope has to tighten slowly around everyone’s neck. You build convincingly from the outer edges in, you get ten times the evidence you need against the Hunts and Liddys. They feel hopelessly finished—they may not talk right away, but the grip is on them. Then you move up and do the same thing at the next level. If you shoot too high and miss, then everybody feels more secure. Lawyers work this way. I’m sure smart reporters must, too. You’ve put the investigation back months. It puts everyone on the defensive—editors, FBI agents, everybody has to go into a crouch after this.” Woodward swallowed hard. He deserved the lecture.

Deep Throat stamped his foot. 'A conspiracy like this...a conspiracy investigation...the rope has to tighten slowly around everyone's neck. You build convincingly from the outer edges in, you get ten times the evidence you need against the Hunts and the Liddys. They feel hopelessly finished - they may not talk right away, but the grip is on them. Then you move up and do the same thing at the next level. If you shoot too high and miss, the everyone feels more secure. Lawyers work this way. I'm sure smart reporters must, too. You've put the investigation back months. It puts everyone on the defensive - editors, FBI agents, everybody has to go into a crouch after this.' Woodward swallowed hard. He deserved the lecture. -- Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward

He’d set down his drink and leaned in. “Fine. You want me to elaborate, I will. Here’s the deal: I’m a guy. Generally speaking, we’re pretty simple folk. I know women always want to think we have these deep, romantic, and emotionally angsty thoughts going on in our heads, but in reality? Not so much. You women have layers and you’re complicated and mysterious and you say one thing, but you really mean another, and it’s this whole tricky package that intrigues us and scares us and challenges us all at the same time. But men aren’t like that. You talk about me not letting you in, but maybe what you don’t realize is this: there is no in.” He pointed to himself. “It’s all right here on the surface, Jessica. What you see is what you get.

One more second and he would’ve hit you with the gun. And who knows what else. When I think about what could’ve happened . . .” He gripped her shoulders determinedly. “I should’ve told you this earlier, Jordan. Now that I’ve got my chance, you’re going to hear it whether you like it or not. You came into my life and messed the whole thing up and now I’m screwed. Because I’m in love with you. As in balls-out, head-over-heels, watching-Dancing-with-the-Stars -on-Monday-nights, wine-and-bubble-bath kind of love. Hell, I think I’d even wear a scarf indoors for you.” Jordan smiled, her eyes misty, as she touched his cheek. “That’s the best kind of love.

Energy? What energy? Ha ha, the only energy I know is energy drinks. I’m totally like everyone else.

So how’s the wine business these days?” he asked, breaking the silence. Jordan turned her head away from the window and met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “You don’t need to make small talk with me, Agent McCall. I realize this isn’t a social call.” He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not much for uncomfortable silences.” “What’s your position on uncomfortable conversation?

If you’re asking the schools to be the answer, you’re also asking a lot. If you take a kid from a bad background and expect the overburdened teachers to turn him around in seven hours a day, it might or might not happen. What about the other seventeen hours in a day? People often ask us if, through our research and experience, we can now predict which children are likely to become dangerous in later life. Roy Hazelwood’s answer is, “Sure. But so can any good elementary school teacher.” And if we can get them treatment early enough and intensively enough, it might make a difference. A significant role-model adult during the formative years can make a world of difference. Bill Tafoya, the special agent who served as our “futurist” at Quantico, advocated a minimum of a ten-year commitment of money and resources on the magnitude of what we sent into the Persian Gulf. He calls for a wide-scale reinstatement of Project Head Start, one of the most effective long-term, anticrime programs in history. He doesn’t think more police are the answer, but he would bring in “an army of social workers” to provide assistance for battered women, homeless families with children, to find good foster homes. And he would back it all up with tax incentive programs. I’m not sure this is the total answer, but it would certainly be an important start. Because the sad fact is, the shrinks can battle all they want, and my people and I can use psychology and behavioral science to help catch the criminals, but by the time we get to use our stuff, the severe damage has already been done.

FRIDAY MORNING, CADE met with Cameron and Nick McCall, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Chicago office, to get him up to speed on the status of all open FBI investigations. It was the last agency they needed to cover—after this, Cade would be fully briefed and ready to take over as acting U.S. attorney. They’d been going for over an hour when Cameron stood up from her desk. She took a deep breath and put her hands on her lower back, which parted her suit jacket over her very pregnant stomach. Cade and Nick exchanged looks, speaking in silent man-code, as was necessary in such circumstances. You’ve got this, right, if she goes into labor here? You’re asking me? No, I don’t have this. “You boys can stop staring at me like I’m a ticking bomb about to explode.” Busted. “I just need to stand for a few minutes

Who were the men in the Bronco?” “If I had to guess, FBI.” “Are they following you?” “Apparently.” “But you made it sound like they couldn’t arrest you.” “Which is exactly why they’re only following me.” “What do they want?” “Information. Names. Dates. Locations. The measurements of my dick.” “Nine and three quarters.” “Excuse me?” “Nine and three quarters.” “My dick is not ten inches long.” “No, I said nine and three quarters.” “Even I’m not that self-inflated.” “Have you ever measured it?” For fear of setting off Morgan’s bullshit o-meter, I had to fess up. “Just under eight and a half.” “When?” “What does that have to do with anything?” “Well, if you did it before the age of twenty, you probably gained an inch.” “My dick is not… okay, even if it was, when did you measure it?” “I had it in my ass. I think I would know.” “Is this where you tell me everyone has a built in ruler and all I need to do is bend over so you can show me how to use mine?” Morgan snorted. “No, but we can test that theory if you want.” If I said anything but hell yeah, it would have been a five-alarm bullshit fire. “My dick is not that big.” And as soon as I got the chance, I was whipping out the tape measure to prove it.

So can I ask you a question?” She wraps a strand of hair around her finger and examines the end of it before dropping it to look at me. “Sure.” I pass a slow-moving BMW and get comfortable, glancing at her to continue. “Does the FBI monitor Google searches? Like, um, randomly? For normal people?” “Normal people?” “Non-criminal people.” “What kind of a question is that?” “It’s a real question!” “But why are you asking it?” “Because I Google some weird shit,” she says, blowing out a breath and shaking her head. “I keep expecting someone to show up on my doorstep and ask what the heck I’m doing, but I’m just a really curious person and all the answers are right there, you know? Just click, click and there’s your answer.” “I think you’ll be okay,” I assure her.

Sometime in the fifties I remember seeing On the Waterfront in the movies with Mary and thinking that I’m at least as bad as that Marlon Brando character and that some day I’d like to get in union work. The Teamsters gave me good job security at Food Fair. They could only fire you if they caught you stealing. Let me put it another way, they could only fire you if they caught you stealing and they could prove it. • chapter eight • Russell Bufalino In 1957 the mob came out of the closet. It came out unwillingly, but out it came. Before 1957 reasonable men could differ over whether an organized network of gangsters existed in America. For years FBI director J. Edgar Hoover had assured America that no such organization existed, and he deployed the FBI’s greatest resources to investigate suspected Communists. But as a result of the publicity foisted on the mob in 1957, even Hoover came on board. The organization was dubbed “La Cosa Nostra,” meaning “this thing of ours,” a term heard on government wiretaps. Ironically,

But now Max wanted Gina to look out the window. “The cavalry had arrived,” he told her. Someone was standing directly in front of the tank. Whoever he was—a boy, dressed like a surfer, on crutches—was holding one hand out in front of him like a traffic cop signaling halt. The tank, of course, had rolled to a stop. And Gina realized this was no ordinary surfer, this was Jules Cassidy. Jules was alive! And here she’d thought she was all cried out. Max laughed as he peered out through the slit that passed as a windshield for the tank. “He has no idea that we’re in here,” he said. Damn, Jules looked like he’d been hit by a bus. “Jesus, he has some balls.” Jules turned to the interpreter, who still didn’t quite believe that they weren’t going to kill him. “Open the hatch.” “Yes, sir.” He poked his head out. “Do you speak English?” Max could hear Jules through the opening. “Yes, sir.” “Tell your commanding officer to back up. In fact, tell him to leave the area. I’m in charge of this situation now. My name is Jules Cassidy and I’m an American, with the FBI. There are Marine gunships on their way, they’ll be here any minute. They have armor-penetrating artillery—they’ll blow you to hell, so back off.” “Tell him Jones wants to know if the gunships are really coming, or if that’s just something he learned in FBI Bullshitting 101.” The interpreter passed the message along. As Max watched, surprise and relief crossed Jules’s face. “Is Max in there, too?” Jules asked. “Yes, sir,” the interpreter said. “Well, shit.” Jules grinned. “I should’ve stayed in the hospital.” “I hear helicopters!” Gina’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “I can see them, too! They’re definitely American!” Max took a deep breath, keyed the talk button. And sang. “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go . . .

Some days it seems like every lowlife in town has Tail ’Em and Nail ’Em on their grease-stained Rolodex. A number of phone messages have piled up on the answering machine, breathers, telemarketers, even a few calls to do with tickets currently active. After some triage on the playback, Maxine returns an anxious call from a whistle-blower at a snack-food company over in Jersey which has been secretly negotiating with ex-employees of Krispy Kreme for the illegal purchase of top-secret temperature and humidity settings on the donut purveyor’s “proof box,” along with equally classified photos of the donut extruder, which however now seem to be Polaroids of auto parts taken years ago in Queens, Photoshopped and whimsically at that. “I’m beginning to think something’s funny about this deal,” her contact’s voice trembling a little, “maybe not even legit.” “Maybe, Trevor, because it’s a criminal act under Title 18?” “It’s an FBI sting operation!” Trevor screams. “Why would the FBI—” “Duh-uh? Krispy Kreme? On behalf of their brothers in law enforcement at all levels?” “All right. I’ll talk to them at the Bergen County DA, maybe they’ve heard something—” “Wait, wait, somebody’s coming, now they saw me, oh! maybe I better—” The line goes dead. Always happens.

One night, when Violet’s parents had gone out, he teased her about it, whispering against her throat, “I should probably be dating girls my own age now that you’ll be over-the-hill.” Jay was stretched out on Violet’s bed as she curled against him. Violet laughed, rising to the bait. “Fine,” she challenged, pulling away and leaning up on her elbow. “I’m sure there are plenty of men my own age who would be willing to finish what you’ve started.” Jay stiffened, and Violet realized that she’d struck a nerve. “What is it?” He shook his head, and Violet thought he might say, “Nothing,” so when he answered, his words caught her off guard. “Is there someone else, Vi?” Violet frowned, baffled by the unfamiliar jealousy she saw on his face. She wondered what in the world he meant as she reached down and smoothed a strand of hair from his forehead. “What are you talking about, Jay?” His eyes met hers. “I saw you with that guy at the movies, Vi. Who was he?” Violet closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready yet. She didn’t want to tell him about the FBI, about Sara and Rafe or what she’d learned about Mike’s mother. She wondered briefly if he knew about Mike’s mom-if his friend had ever confided in him. But somehow she doubted it. Jay wasn’t like her; he didn’t keep secrets. “It’s not like that,” she explained, hoping that would be enough. Jay got up and went to the window, pushing the curtain aside. Every muscle in his body was rigid. “Like what, Vi? What’s going on? Something’s been bothering you lately. Why can’t you tell me?” He was right. She owed it to him to at least try. “I don’t know how to explain, but I just feel like everything’s changed between us-“ “Of course it’s changed, Violet, what’d you expect?” Violet tried to ignore the bitterness in his voice, telling herself she had no right to be hurt. “It used to be that I would never keep secrets from you. You were my best friend. But now that we’re dating, it’s just…different. I feel like I have to watc what I say, or you get all worried. Sometimes I just want you to be the old Jay again, so I can talk to you.” Violet crept up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back.

Getting comfortable, he slipped off his suit jacket and made one last call for the night. “So? Is Jordan on board?” Davis asked. “Of course. Eckhart’s not going to slip away that easily. But there’s a catch.” Nick eased onto the bed. “I’m calling in that favor you owe me. The one that just tripled in magnitude because of this mess you roped me into.” Davis sounded surprised. And a little suspicious. “What kind of favor?” “Do we still have Agent Griegs in play?” Nick asked. “Yes. Why?” “This will involve him, too.” Davis sighed. “I’m not going to like this favor, am I?” “Probably not,” Nick said. “But I debated between this and having you call my mother to explain that it’s your fault I can’t make it to her sixtieth birthday party. You pick. But I should warn you: my mother is Italian. New York Italian, which is like being five hundred percent Italian.” Davis swore under his breath. “The hell with that. I’ll get ahold of Griegs.

That’s what the FBI can never understand—that what Paulie and the organization offer is protection for the kinds of guys who can’t go to the cops. They’re like the police department for wiseguys. For instance, say I’ve got a fifty-thousand-dollar hijack load, and when I go to make my delivery, instead of getting paid, I get stuck up. What am I supposed to do? Go to the cops? Not likely. Shoot it out? I’m a hijacker, not a cowboy. No. The only way to guarantee that I’m not going to get ripped off by anybody is to be established with a member, like Paulie. Somebody who is a made man. A member of a crime family. A soldier. Then, if somebody fucks with you, they fuck with him, and that’s the end of the ball game. Goodbye. They’re dead, with the hijacked stuff rammed down their throats, as well as a lot of other things. Of course problems can arise when the guys sticking you up are associated with wiseguys too. Then there has to be a sit-down between your wiseguys and their wiseguys. What usually happens then is that the wiseguys divide whatever you stole for their own pockets and send you and the guy who robbed you home with nothing. And if you complain, you’re dead.

You said she works at an ice-cream shop around here, right?” He made a big show of wiping the sweat off his brow. “Come to think of it, a nice double cone would really hit the spot in this heat.” Zach’s expression was one of pure teenage mortification. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what will help my inability to talk to her—my older brother watching and critiquing all my moves.” “I thought we’d already established that you don’t have any moves.” “Now that’s funny. Picking on someone half your age. Hey, here’s an idea: I’ll introduce you to Paige as soon as I meet this so-called smart, witty, and hot woman you’re supposedly seeing. Sounds a lot like one of those made-up girlfriends who live in Niagara Falls.” “She’s real. I’m seeing her tonight, in fact.” They hadn’t decided their specific plans yet, but Brooke had texted him last night, asking if he was free. “Wow. You actually, like, beamed when you said that.” “Get out of here,” Cade scoffed. “I did not.” “What’s her name?” Cade opened his mouth to answer, then paused. Zach grinned. “Worried you can’t say it without beaming again?” Ridiculous. “Her name is Brooke.” He deliberately maintained a straight face Zach made a big show of studying him, presumably looking for any sign of this alleged “beaming.” He stepped closer and then, with a comically scrutinizing face, slowly looked at one side of Cade’s face, and then the other. Cade never cracked once. Finally, Zach gave up. “Dude, I’m impressed. You need to show me that trick.

Kyle eased back in his chair, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “This is an interesting situation, Jordo . . . What’s it worth to you to keep this information under wraps? Because I’m going to need some income when I get out of this place, and I hear that wine business of yours is really taking off.” “Get real. You owe me.” Kyle sat up, indignant at that. “For what?” Jordan folded her arms on the table. “Sophomore year. You took Mom’s car out of the garage in the middle of the night—without a license—to drive over to Amanda Carroll’s. Dad thought he heard a noise when you tried to sneak back in, so I distracted him by saying that I’d seen a strange person in the backyard. While he was looking out my bedroom window, you crept by and mouthed, ‘I owe you.’ Well, now I want to collect.” “That was seventeen years ago,” Kyle said. “I’m pretty sure there’s a statute of limitations on IOUs.” “I don’t recall hearing any disclaimers, expirations, or caveats at the time.” “I was a minor. The contract’s not valid.” “If you want to weasel your way out of this, I suppose that’s true.” Jordan waited, knowing she had him. Despite the impression one might get from the orange jumpsuit, her brother was quite honorable. And he always kept his word. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I finally get some dirt on you, Ms. Perfect, for the first time in thirty-three years, and it’s wasted.” He grinned. “Good thing that trip to Amanda Carroll’s was worth it, or I’d be pretty pissed about this.” Jordan made a face. Way too much information. “I’m hardly perfect. I’m just a lot better at not getting caught than you.” She took in their surroundings. “Maybe I should’ve given you a few pointers.” Kyle nodded approvingly. “Nice one.

You see Matt and Anthony every week. You see everyone every week.” “Not everyone, Nick,” his mother said pointedly. Then her voice changed and turned warmer. “Well, except for this upcoming weekend.” Nick paused at this. It could’ve been a trap. Perhaps his mother suspected something was up with her birthday and was fishing for information. Although it was surprising that she’d come to him—she usually went after Anthony, who had the secret-keeping skills of a four-year-old. “Why? What’s happening this weekend?” he asked nonchalantly. “Oh, nothing much. I just heard something about a sixtieth birthday party your father and you boys are planning for me.” Fucking Anthony. “And don’t go blaming Anthony,” his mother said, quick to protect her youngest. “I’d already heard about it from your aunt Donna before he slipped.” Nick knew what her next question would be before the words left her mouth. “So? Are you bringing a date?” she asked. “Sorry, Ma. It’ll just be me.” “There’s a surprise.” He pulled into the driveway that led to the parking garage of his condo building. “Just a warning, I’m about to pull into the garage—I might lose you.” “How convenient,” his mother said. “Because I had a really nice lecture planned for you.” “Let me guess the highlights: it involved me needing to focus on something other than work, and you dying heartbroken and miserable without grandchildren. Am I close?” “Not bad. But I’ll save the rest of the lecture for Sunday. There’s going to be a lot of gesturing on my part, and the phone doesn’t quite capture the spirit.” Nick smiled. “Shockingly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you Sunday, Ma.” Her voice softened. “I know how busy you are, Nick. It means a lot to me that you’re coming home.” He knew it did. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

I’m pretty sure Brooke is moving to Charlotte.” Vaughn’s expression turned serious. “Charlotte? What brought that on?” “One of Sterling’s competitors offered her some big executive VP position. It sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” “Wow. What did you say when she told you about it?” “I said, ‘Congratulations’ and told her to knock ’em dead in Charlotte.” He saw Vaughn frown. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Don’t go?’ You’ve seen her in action; you know how good she is. If she wants this, she should take it.” Vaughn nodded. “You’re right. She should.” Cade pulled back. That was . . . it? Granted, he was no pro at the heart-to-hearts, but he’d expected maybe a little bit more. “Glad we’re on the same page.” “Absolutely. You and I—we are in total agreement.” Vaughn leaned back in the bar stool. “Now if Huxley were here, he, on the other hand, would probably have an entirely different take on the matter.” When Vaughn said nothing further, Cade took the bait. “And what would Huxley’s take on the matter be?” “Probably something about how you should tell Brooke how you feel, regardless of whether she’s moving to Charlotte. You know how Huxley’s all into being honest and open like that.” Then Vaughn met Cade’s gaze straight on. “And after that, he’d probably tell you that if he ever finds a girl who fits him as perfectly as Brooke fits you, that he hopes you’re a good enough friend to say, ‘Dude, get over your shit, get off your ass, and go talk to her.” Cade blinked. This. . . from Vaughn. “Huxley sure has a lot to say.” “Yeah, he’s always been a know-it-all like that.” That, at least, got a grin out of Cade. “Well, I will take Huxley’s advice into consideration.” A comfortable silence fell between them. “And, Vaughn?” Cade looked at his friend, speaking in all earnestness. “Thanks.” Vaughn tipped his glass in acknowledgement. “Anytime, Morgan

We could hide,” she said. “They’d find us,” Harry told her. “Well, we could find a place—I don’t know, a cave or something—where we could hold them off with your gun.” “And hope that the FBI finds us before they go back to their car and get a grenade thrower out of the trunk?” Allie was silent for a moment, just pushing forward, using both hands to scramble up the ever-steepening hill. “So what exactly are our options?” “We keep moving." “That’s it?” Her anger wasn’t far from the surface, and it bubbled up again. “Do you screw up all your cases this way, or is there just something about me that brings out this incompetent side of you?” “I didn’t set this up,” he told her for the four thousandth time. “If I did, there would have been backup. Believe me.” “I’m done believing you. I believed you twice—and you know that old saying? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’ I’m making up a third part to that saying. Fool me three times, just shoot me now.” Harry laughed. It was the wrong thing to do. “You think this is funny? We’re probably going to die, and you think this is funny?” She was furious. “You said I’d be safe here, and I trusted you. I did more than trust you, I slept with you, over and over again! Oh, God, the whole time you were probably laughing and—” “Allie, you gotta believe me—I didn’t set this up. George did. George knew about that letter I got from the lawyers. He probably figured out there were court records with Shaun and Em’s names and address on it. And this snafu stinks of Nicole Fenster, too. But I swear to you, I didn’t know. There’s no way in hell I would’ve set you up. And I didn’t mean to sleep with you. I mean, it wasn’t something I planned and . . .” Yeah, and that wasn’t exactly helping. Making it sound as if the lovemaking they’d shared had been some kind of an accident, like Whoops, golly, how’d my penis get in there?

Though Hoover conceded that some might deem him a “fanatic,” he reacted with fury to any violations of the rules. In the spring of 1925, when White was still based in Houston, Hoover expressed outrage to him that several agents in the San Francisco field office were drinking liquor. He immediately fired these agents and ordered White—who, unlike his brother Doc and many of the other Cowboys, wasn’t much of a drinker—to inform all of his personnel that they would meet a similar fate if caught using intoxicants. He told White, “I believe that when a man becomes a part of the forces of this Bureau he must so conduct himself as to remove the slightest possibility of causing criticism or attack upon the Bureau.” The new policies, which were collected into a thick manual, the bible of Hoover’s bureau, went beyond codes of conduct. They dictated how agents gathered and processed information. In the past, agents had filed reports by phone or telegram, or by briefing a superior in person. As a result, critical information, including entire case files, was often lost. Before joining the Justice Department, Hoover had been a clerk at the Library of Congress—“ I’m sure he would be the Chief Librarian if he’d stayed with us,” a co-worker said—and Hoover had mastered how to classify reams of data using its Dewey decimal–like system. Hoover adopted a similar model, with its classifications and numbered subdivisions, to organize the bureau’s Central Files and General Indices. (Hoover’s “Personal File,” which included information that could be used to blackmail politicians, would be stored separately, in his secretary’s office.) Agents were now expected to standardize the way they filed their case reports, on single sheets of paper. This cut down not only on paperwork—another statistical measurement of efficiency—but also on the time it took for a prosecutor to assess whether a case should be pursued.

Finally, he looked sideways at Vaughn. “So. I guess this is probably a good time to mention that Isabelle is pregnant.” That got a small chuckle out of Vaughn. “I kind of figured that already. I’ve had my suspicions for a few weeks.” Simon nodded. “Isabelle wondered if you knew.” “You could’ve told me, Simon,” Vaughn said, not unkindly. “I get why you might not want Mom to know yet, but why not talk to me about it?” Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I guess I didn’t think you’d understand.” “I wouldn’t understand that you want to marry the woman who’s pregnant with your child? I think that’s a concept I can grasp.” “See, that’s just it.” Simon gestured emphatically. “I knew that’s how you would see it. That I’m marrying Isabelle because I got her pregnant. And I don’t want you, or Mom, or anyone else to think about Isabelle that way—that she’s the woman I had to marry, because it was the right thing to do. Because the truth is, I knew I wanted to marry Isabelle on our second date. She invited me up to her apartment that night, and I saw that she had the entire James Bond collection on Blu-ray. Naturally, being the Bond aficionado that I am, I threw out a little test question for her: ‘Who’s the best Bond?’” Vaughn scoffed. “Like there’s more than one possible answer to that.” “Exactly. Sean Connery’s a no-brainer, right? But get this—she says Daniel Craig.” Simon caught Vaughn’s horrified expression. “I know, right? So I’m thinking the date is over because clearly she’s either crazy or has seriously questionable taste, but then she starts going on and on about how Casino Royale is the first movie where Bond is touchable and human, and then we get into this big debate that lasts for nearly an hour. And as I’m sitting there on her couch, I keep thinking that I don’t know a single other person who would relentlessly argue, for an hour, that Daniel Craig is a better Bond than Sean Connery. She pulled out the DVDs and showed me movie clips and everything.” He smiled, as if remembering the moment. “And somewhere in there, it hit me. I thought to myself, I’m going to marry this woman.

What about you? I know you’re not married. Are you seeing anyone or anything?” An image of Brooke sleeping in his bed popped into Cade’s head. Then a second image came to mind, of her giving him the “text me” speech at his front door. “Nothing serious.” “Really? ’Cuz you paused there.” If one more person commented on these damn alleged pauses . . . “Just eat your lunch,” Cade said. With a grin, Zach threw Cade’s words back at him. “If you’re having trouble talking to some girl, maybe you need to find another way to tell her how you feel.” “I know how to talk to her just fine.” “Maybe you’re not saying the right things, then.” “Can we change the subject?” Cade ran his hand through his hair. “You’re sixteen years old. Trust me, relationships get a lot more complicated when you’re an adult.” “Is this a friends-with-benefits situation?” “Aren’t you a little young to know about friends-with-benefits situations?” “I didn’t say I was partaking in them myself,” Zach said. “But shockingly, yes, I have heard of scenarios in which adults engage in intercourse without riding off into the sunset together.” Cade tried to decide how best to sum up the situation with Brooke. “There is a woman. We are friendly. There have been benefits.” “Do you like her?” Cade gestured with his burger. “Of course I like her. She’s, like, the smartest, wittiest, woman I’ve ever met. And hot, too.” “Yeah, I can see why you’d be confused about that,” Zach said. “Smart, witty, and hot. Sounds like a real complicated situation to me.” Okay, fine. To youthful, unjaded ears, it probably did sound odd. Cade tried a different way to explain. “She and I are on the same page. We’re just keeping it casual.” “Hey, you’re an intelligent guy, you obviously know what you’re doing,” Zach said. “But casual or not, if this girl’s that great you probably need to follow your own advice.” “What advice is that?” “Up your game.” That said, Zach took a big bite of his cheeseburger. Cade thought about that. Up his game? Pfft. If he had been thinking he might want to try to change Brooke’s mind about their just-having-fun situation—which obviously he did not, since no man of sound mind and body ever messed with a just-having-fun situation—maybe then he’d worry about upping his game. He scoffed. “You’re a teenager. What do you know?” “I’m wise beyond my years,” Zach said, his mouth full of burger

Sidney, is that what you girls go for these days?” Kathleen asked, pointing toward her oldest son. “All this scruffy whatnot?” Well, nothing like putting her on the spot here. Personally, Sidney thought that the dark hint of scruff along Vaughn’s angular jaw looked fine. Better than fine, actually. She would, however, rather be trapped for the next thirty-six hours in a car with the crazy pregnant lady before admitting that in front of him. “I generally prefer clean-shaven men.” She shrugged—sorry—when Vaughn gave her the side-eye as he began setting the table. “See? If you don’t believe me, at least listen to her,” Kathleen said, while peeling a carrot over a bowl at the island. “If you want to find a woman of quality, you can’t be running around looking like you just rolled out of bed.” “I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, the ‘scruffy whatnot’ stays. I need it for an undercover role,” Vaughn said. Surprised to hear that, Sidney looked over as she dumped the tomatoes into a large salad bowl filled with lettuce. “You’re working undercover now?” “Well, I’m not in the other identity right this second,” Vaughn said. “I’m kind of guessing my mother would be able to ID me.” Thank you, yes, she got that. “I meant, how does that work?” Sidney asked him. “You just walk around like normal, being yourself, when you’re not . . . the other you?” “That’s exactly how it works. At least, when we’re talking about a case that involves only part-time undercover work.” “But what if I were to run into the other you somewhere? Say . . . at a coffee shop.” A little inside reference there. “If I called you ‘Vaughn’ without realizing that you were working, wouldn’t that blow your cover?” “First of all, like all agents who regularly do undercover work, I tell my friends and family not to approach me if they happen to run into me somewhere—for that very reason. Second of all, in this case, the ‘other me’ doesn’t hang out at coffee shops.” “Where does the other you hang out?” Sidney asked. Not to contribute to his already healthy ego, but this was pretty interesting stuff. “In dark, sketchy alleys doing dark, sketchy things,” Vaughn said as he set the table with salad bowls. “So the other you is a bad guy, then.” Sidney paused, realizing something. “Is what you’re doing dangerous?” “The joke around my office is that the agents on the white-collar crime squad never do anything dangerous.” Sidney noticed that wasn’t an actual answer to her question

told my people that I wanted only the best, whatever it took, wherever they came from, whatever it cost. We assembled thirty people, the brightest cybersecurity minds we have. A few are on loan, pursuant to strict confidentiality agreements, from the private sector—software companies, telecommunications giants, cybersecurity firms, military contractors. Two are former hackers themselves, one of them currently serving a thirteen-year sentence in a federal penitentiary. Most are from various agencies of the federal government—Homeland Security, CIA, FBI, NSA. Half our team is devoted to threat mitigation—how to limit the damage to our systems and infrastructure after the virus hits. But right now, I’m concerned with the other half, the threat-response team that Devin and Casey are running. They’re devoted to stopping the virus, something they’ve been unable to do for the last two weeks. “Good morning, Mr. President,” says Devin Wittmer. He comes from NSA. After graduating from Berkeley, he started designing cyberdefense software for clients like Apple before the NSA recruited him away. He has developed federal cybersecurity assessment tools to help industries and governments understand their preparedness against cyberattacks. When the major health-care systems in France were hit with a ransomware virus three years ago, we lent them Devin, who was able to locate and disable it. Nobody in America, I’ve been assured, is better at finding holes in cyberdefense systems or at plugging them. “Mr. President,” says Casey Alvarez. Casey is the daughter of Mexican immigrants who settled in Arizona to start a family and built up a fleet of grocery stores in the Southwest along the way. Casey showed no interest in the business, taking quickly to computers and wanting to join law enforcement. When she was a grad student at Penn, she got turned down for a position at the Department of Justice. So Casey got on her computer and managed to do what state and federal authorities had been unable to do for years—she hacked into an underground child-pornography website and disclosed the identities of all the website’s patrons, basically gift-wrapping a federal prosecution for Justice and shutting down an operation that was believed to be the largest purveyor of kiddie porn in the country. DOJ hired her on the spot, and she stayed there until she went to work for the CIA. She’s been most recently deployed in the Middle East with US Central Command, where she intercepts, decodes, and disrupts cybercommunications among terrorist groups. I’ve been assured that these two are, by far, the best we have. And they are about to meet the person who, so far, has been better. There is a hint of reverence in their expressions as I introduce them to Augie. The Sons of Jihad is the all-star team of cyberterrorists, mythical figures in that world. But I sense some competitive fire, too, which will be a good thing.

He had a rough idea where he was going, since Rylann had previously mentioned that she lived in Roscoe Village. At the stoplight at Belmont Avenue, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. The beauty of text messaging, he realized, was in its simplicity. He didn’t have to try to explain things, nor did he have to attempt to parse through all the banter in an attempt to figure out what she might be thinking. Instead, he could keep things short and sweet. I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU. He hit send. To kill time while he waited for her response, he drove in the direction of his sister’s wine shop, figuring he could always drop in and harass Jordan about something. This time, however, she beat him to the punch. “So who’s the brunette bombshell?” Jordan asked as soon as he walked into the shop and took a seat at the main bar. Damn. He’d forgotten about the stupid Scene and Heard column. Kyle helped himself to a cracker and some Brie cheese sitting on the bar. “I’m going to say…Angelina Jolie. Actually, no—Megan Fox.” “Megan Fox is, like, twenty-five.” “And this is a problem why, exactly?” Jordan slapped his hand as he reached for more crackers. “Those are for customers.” She put her hand on her hip. “You know, after reading the Scene and Heard column, I’d kind of hoped it was Rylann they were talking about. And that maybe, just maybe, my ne’er-do-well twin had decided to stop playing around and finally pursue a woman of quality.” He stole another cracker. “Now, that would be something.” She shook her head. “Why do I bother? You know, one day you’re going to wake up and…” Kyle’s cell phone buzzed, and he tuned out the rest of Jordan’s lecture—he could probably repeat the whole thing word for word by now—as he checked the incoming message. It was from Rylann, her response as short and sweet as his original text. 3418 CORNELIA, #3. He had her address. With a smile, he looked up and interrupted his sister. “That’s great, Jordo. Hey, by any chance do you have any bottles of that India Ink cabernet lying around?” She stopped midrant and stared at him. “I’m sure I do. Why, what made you think of that?” Then her face broke into a wide grin. “Wait a second…that was the wine Rylann talked about when she was here. She said it was one of her favorites.” “Did she? Funny coincidence.” Jordan put her hand over her heart. “Oh my God, you’re trying to impress her. That is so cute.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kyle scoffed. “I just thought, since I’ve heard such good things about the wine, that I would give it a shot.” Jordan gave him a look, cutting through all the bullshit. “Kyle. She’s going to love it.” Okay, whatever. Maybe he was trying to impress Rylann a little. “You don’t think it’s too much? Like I’m trying too hard?” Jordan put her hand over her heart again. “Oh. It’s like watching Bambi take his first steps.” “Jordo…” he growled warningly. With a smile, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “It’s perfect. Trust me.

The phone was snatched from her grasp. She let out a screech, her fingers clasping at air. “Hey! Give that back.” Gracie slipped it down the V of her tank and into her ample cleavage. “Come and get it.” Billy plopped down on a vacant stool, eyes bugging out of his head. Maddie stared at Gracie’s chest and contemplated. She could stick her hand down a woman’s top. It was no big deal—just skin, for God’s sake. She jumped off the stool and straightened to her full five-foot-three inches. “What is wrong with calling him?” “It’s a girlfriend’s responsibility to stop her friend from the dreaded drunk dial.” Maddie scowled. She was not drunk dialing! “Telling him where I am isn’t a crime.” Gracie planted her hands on her hips. “Sorry, honey. I’m doing this for your own good.” “You don’t understand.” Maddie picked up her drink and took a slow sip. Her gaze was fixed on the stretch of fabric across Gracie’s ample chest. She wanted that phone, and with way too many margaritas in her system, she wasn’t above groping another woman to get it. “I’m getting that phone.” Billy’s mouth dropped open, and Maddie was surprised no drool hung down his chin like a rabid dog’s. “You’ll thank me later.” Gracie didn’t appear the least bit threatened. If anything, she thrust her breasts out farther, as though daring Maddie to come and get it. “Give it to me!” Maddie stomped her foot. “Like I said, come and get it.” Gracie batted her thick lashes, cornflower-blue eyes sparkling. She tucked her hand into her top and shoved it lower into her bra. “All right, but remember, I know how to fight.” Gracie laughed and Billy whooped like he’d hit the jackpot. Maddie charged. Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she let out a holler, crossing her arms over her chest for protection. Maddie refused to be thwarted. She squeezed her lids together so she wouldn’t have to look and flung her hands out, praying she’d get hold of something. When her palm brushed against soft, pillowy cotton, she squealed. Pay dirt. “Maddie!” Gracie grabbed her hand, twisting her body to block Maddie’s progress. “That’s my boob!” Maddie reached again and this time her hand curled around the cotton neckline. She pulled, squirming down the deep V of the top. Her fingers brushed the phone and a surge of adrenaline pounded through her. “Now, why doesn’t this surprise me?” Mitch’s voice made her knees go weak. Before she could swing around, she was hauled against his warm, strong body. She sagged in relief. He’d come for her after all. “You girls are giving everyone quite a show.” Charlie stood next to Mitch, looking lethal in all black. Maddie could picture him with an FBI armband over his bicep. Wait . . . was that the FBI? Or was it SWAT? “With all these disappointed faces, I’m sorry we broke them up.” Mitch’s tone rang with amusement, and Maddie realized it had been too long since she’d heard him sound like that. “I wanted to call you, but she wouldn’t let me.” Her pulse raced from her girl fight and the buzz of tequila. His palm spread wide over the expanse of her stomach, his thumb brushing the bottom of her breast. “Well, here I am.” “See!” Gracie pointed and shook her hips in a little booty dance. “I told you so!” Yes,

Isn’t this the weekend of Xander Eckhart’s party?” “Yes.” Jordan held her breath in a silent plea. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. “So are you bringing anyone?” Melinda asked. Foiled. Having realized there was a distinct possibility the subject would come up, Jordan had spent some time running through potential answers to this very question. She had decided that being casual was the best approach. “Oh, there’s this guy I met a few days ago, and I was thinking about asking him.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll just go by myself, who knows.” Melinda put down her forkful of gnocchi, zoning in on this like a heat-seeking missile to its target. “What guy you met a few days ago? And why is this the first we’re hearing of him?” “Because I just met him a few days ago.” Corinne rubbed her hands together, eager for the details. “So? Tell us. How’d you meet him?” “What does he do?” Melinda asked. “Nice, Melinda. You’re so shallow.” Corinne turned back to Jordan. “Is he hot?” Of course, Jordan had known there would be questions. The three of them had been friends since college and still saw each other regularly despite busy schedules, and this was what they did. Before Corinne had gotten married, they talked about her now-husband, Charles. The same was true of Melinda and her soon-to-be-fiancé, Pete. So Jordan knew that she, in turn, was expected to give up the goods in similar circumstances. But she also knew that she really didn’t want to lie to her friends. With that in mind, she’d come up with a backup plan in the event the conversation went this way. Having no choice, she resorted to the strategy she had used in sticky situations ever since she was five years old, when she’d set her Western Barbie’s hair on fire while trying to give her a suntan on the family-room lamp. Blame it on Kyle. I’d like to thank the Academy . . . “Sure, I’ll tell you all about this new guy. We met the other day and he’s . . . um . . .” She paused, then ran her hands through her hair and exhaled dramatically. “Sorry. Do you mind if we talk about this later? After seeing Kyle today with the bruise on his face, I feel guilty rattling on about Xander’s party. Like I’m not taking my brother’s incarceration seriously enough.” She bit her lip, feeling guilty about the lie. So sorry, girls. But this has to stay my secret for now. Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation. Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. “No one has stood by Kyle’s side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry—Kyle can handle himself. He’s a big boy.” “Oh, he definitely is that,” Melinda said with a gleam in her eye. Jordan smiled. “Thanks, Corinne.” She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. “And, eww—Kyle?” Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. “To you, he’s your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I’ll leave it at that.” “He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a ‘Jacuzzi.’ How’s that for appeal?” “Ah . . . the lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Corinne said with a grin. “And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes,” Melinda said. “I second that,” Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement

THE EXCITEMENT IN the boardroom was only overshadowed by the anticipation. They didn’t have long to wait. Sam yelled for everyone to get down. Jack pushed her from behind and shoved her to the floor, covering her with his body. Shots rang out. Someone cried out in pain. Jack cursed, snapping her out of her haze. She tried to look up, but Jack kept her head down. Two more shots rang out before everything went eerily quiet. “Jenna, are you okay?” Sam called to her from the doorway. “Fine,” she answered automatically, unsure about anything at the moment. “Everyone else okay?” Sam asked. All the men indicated they were fine, but she didn’t hear Jack among them. Jack eased his weight off her and slid aside. Cameron helped her to her feet and the two bodyguards flanking her made room for her to pass. Jack leaned against the wall, blood running down his left arm, a gun in his right. She flung herself against his chest and held on to him, unable to look through the doorway where the first shots originated. Sam was excellent at his job. In his background check on David, he’d discovered David’s gun permit. Using some of his less-than-reputable contacts from the FBI, they’d had someone break into David’s house and office to locate the weapon. David actually owned quite a few guns, only one registered, which he kept in his office, locked in his desk drawer. They assumed David would be in a rage before he left the boardroom, and his rage would make him pick up the gun and come after Jenna. Provoking him was risky, but it was also the only way to end David’s terrorism. Knowing David would be volatile, she and Sam had sat in the office at the ranch planning what they’d do to prevent the inevitable. They figured David would probably try to get to her before she got back on the plane. She never thought David would come after her before she’d even left the boardroom. “What the hell were you thinking? You weren’t supposed to have a gun. I’m going to kill Sam,” she said and grabbed his lapels and shook him. “Later, give me a kiss.” She pressed her lips to his. Warm, alive, she thanked God he was alive. She helped him off with his suit jacket, revealing the deep furrow on the outside of his arm. “Looks like this time you get the stitches. Maybe if you need a pokey shot, Lily will give you a lollipop.” She gave him her most sugary sweet smile, even though they both knew she wasn’t happy about the situation. A tear slid down her cheek. “I could have lost you.” “Now you know exactly how I felt when he took you.” The relief overcame her fear. She pressed her forehead to his and took a moment to savor the closeness and the fact that they were both alive. She took a calming breath before addressing Sam. “Is David dead?” “Yes, just outside the door. Jack got him.” “I told you I’d kill that bastard.” -Sam, Jenna, & Jack

Jim said she would go to prison for sure because of the amount she had stolen, and there was probably more. “I can bring over dinner if you want.” “I’m just going to pack and go to bed. I hate that early flight,” Tallie said, smiling back at her. And every time she did now, it felt false. She was used to getting up early to be on the set, so even that was a lie. Everything was now. Everything Tallie said to her felt wrong, and everything Brigitte had done had been worse. Brigitte gave her a hug as they left each other, and Tallie hugged her back, feeling her insides cringe when she did. “Give Max my love.” “Have fun in Mexico!” Tallie called out as she left. Brigitte had said she was going to Palmilla, but she hadn’t said with whom, and Tallie didn’t care. It made Tallie wonder, as she walked to her car, when and how she was going to fire her. She called Greg Thomas from the car. She wanted to discuss it with him, and she told him everything that had been happening, and that the FBI were going to make the arrest in the next week. “I’ve been waiting to fire her until they told me I could. The special agent in charge of the case called me today and told me. He’s coming by tonight. So what do I do about her?” “I’d like to notify her by letter and e-mail,” Greg said quietly. “I don’t want you doing it face-to-face. This could get nasty, or even dangerous for you. Do you think she could get violent?” He was worried about Tallie, especially since she was alone at the house now that Hunt was gone. “I don’t think so. I hope not.” Tallie hadn’t really thought about it. They had been so busy getting evidence

Nolan slapped his palms down on the table. “Ya know, Claire, you should really start answering my questions.” “Why?” “Because I’m with the FBI. My side always wins.” “You keep saying that, but I do not think those words mean what you think they mean.” He nodded appreciatively. “Rockin’ a little Inigo Montoya. I like it.

I couldn’t get on the phone and say, “Bim, I’m going to White Plains. Follow me.” Instead, I hoped that he would notice us heading away in my H2 and discreetly follow us. I drove slowly, as usual, so I wouldn’t lose my tail. My torpor behind the wheel always drove Greg crazy. “You drive like an old lady!” he complained. “Hurry up, Jackie boy! It takes you a fucking hour to drive what it takes me half an hour!” “I always go slow,” I told him. “I get flashbacks from an accident I had when I was a kid.” If Greg had been in a hurry, he would have told me, “We gotta get there fast. You’re not fucking driving.” I’d follow him and pretend to get lost, just to zing him. But that wasn’t happening this time. We were all in one car, my car, and I still had no idea what we were doing. On the way, Greg finally explained the nature of our mission. “We’re going to Bloomingdale’s,” he said. “We’re going to find that cocksucker Petey Chops.” Okay, so today’s not my day to get killed. That’s a positive. But why would we look for a recalcitrant Mafia soldier in a department store? Greg volunteered no more information, and as a member of his crew, I was in no position to inquire.

I dreamed of becoming an elite White House Secret Service officer, a member of its Uniformed Division. Nothing more—and certainly nothing less. My dream came true. I stood guard, a pistol at my hip, outside the Oval Office, the last barrier before anyone saw Bill Clinton. The last barrier before Monica Lewinsky saw Bill Clinton. Yes, I’m that Secret Service officer. I saw Monica, and I saw a lot more. I saw Hillary, too. I witnessed her obscenity-laced tirades, her shifting of blame, how she berated Vince Foster until he could stand no more, how minor incidents involving blue gloves and botched invitations sent her into a tizzy. It was like watching Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny obsessing about a quart of missing strawberries—and losing sight of the world war raging about him. I saw Hillary scheming with Dick Morris to undermine White House Chief of Staff Leon Panetta. FBI agents confided in me about her emerging Filegate scandal; they were just as frustrated with Hillary’s methods as we were. Life at the Clinton White House careened from crisis (manufactured or not) to even greater crisis, the participants often unable to catch their breath and certainly incapable of learning from them. The Clinton White House atmosphere alternated from hilarity to bitter anger, lurching from nerves-on-end tension to sheer boredom, its most important residents painfully trapped between illusion and reality.

He leaned over to grasp my hand. “I don’t want to hurt you, Anna.” “Then don’t.” I loved how much bigger his hand was than mine. “Tell me the truth. Are you an undercover FBI agent?” “No.” He snorted. “God, no. Why would you ask that?” “Because I don’t want you to be the bad guy,” I whispered. “You’re too good to be the bad guy.” I straightened. “In fact, you told me that you weren’t the bad guy. Remember?” “Yeah,” he said softly. “When I’m with you, I don’t feel like the bad guy.

I did it over lunch. I'm not that fast, but the computers I use are, and the databases they have access to are truly immense." "Can the FBI borrow you for like the rest of your life?" interjected Blum.

And for all of Martin’s actions of peace and love, he was targeted with violence, harassed, arrested, blackmailed, followed by the FBI, and eventually murdered. For all of the pedestals MLK is now put on, far above the reach of ordinary black Americans, Martin was in his life viewed as the most dangerous man in America. Martin was the black man who asked for too much, too loudly. Martin was why white America couldn’t support equality. Because no matter what we ask for, if it threatens the system of White Supremacy, it will always be seen as too much. When we were slaves nursing their babies, we were not nice enough. When we were maids cleaning their homes we were not nice enough. When we were porters shining their shoes we were not nice enough. And when we danced and sang for their entertainment we were not nice enough. For hundreds of years we have been told that the path to freedom from racial oppression lies in our virtue, that our humanity must be earned. We simply don’t deserve equality yet. So when people say that they don’t like my tone, or when they say they can’t support the “militancy” of Black Lives Matter, or when they say that it would be easier if we just didn’t talk about race all the time—I ask one question: Do you believe in justice and equality? Because if you believe in justice and equality you believe in it all of the time, for all people. You believe in it for newborn babies, you believe in it for single mothers, you believe in it for kids in the street, you believe in justice and equality for people you like and people you don’t. You believe in it for people who don’t say please. And if there was anything I could say or do that would convince someone that I or people like me don’t deserve justice or equality, then they never believed in justice and equality in the first place. Yes, I am a Malcolm. And Martin, and Angela, Marcus, Rosa, Biko, Baldwin, Assata, Harriet, and Nina. I’m fighting for liberation. I’m filled with righteous anger and love. I’m shouting, as all before me have in their way. And I’m a human being who was born deserving justice and equality, and that is all you should need to know in order to stand by my side.

The joke I liked best was the one about some Mexican policemen who made a hippopotamus confess it was a rabbit. It wasn’t a Liberian pygmy hippopotamus, just a normal hippopotamus. The joke was about a competition between the policemen in the FBI from the country of the United States, the KGB from the country of Russia, and the Mexican police, to see who would be the first to find a pink rabbit in the forest. In the end the Mexican policemen turned up with a hippopotamus painted pink saying: “I’m a rabbit, I’m a rabbit.” This was funny, but it was also a little bit true. That’s why I liked this joke so much: because it wasn’t really a joke. Everyone knows pink rabbits don’t really exist.

Mr. President—are you asking me, a member of the executive branch, to ‘talk to’”— Parley hand-signed quotation marks—“a sitting judge about a case he’s currently adjudicating, in an effort to sway his view of the case?” “I’m suggesting a simple conversation, Parley. ‘Hi, Judge. Parley here. How’s it going?’ What’s wrong with that? It’s not like I’m interfering with an FBI investigation or something.” “Nothing is wrong with that, the way you phrased it, sir,” Parley conceded. “Sometimes though, it is the appearance of impropriety that gets one in trouble, sir.

Saudi ambassador in 2011. Is this payback? I don’t know. So they can’t be ruled out. But the National Counterterrorism Center is working on the problem as we speak.” “Look, I’m meeting with the Director of National Intelligence. He’ll want some details. He’ll also want to know how this was possible. How could this happen?” “That’s what I intend to find out.” “Then again,” O’Donoghue said, shaking his head, “is it possible there’s a problem in our ranks?” Meyerstein saw where this was going. “I hear what you’re saying.” O’Donoghue shrugged. “Just playing devil’s advocate.” “I agree we can’t discount such a possibility.” The Director leaned back in his seat and stared at her. “I’m intrigued you think a foreign government might be behind this. What’s your rationale?” “Luntz’s area of expertise makes him valuable to any government. But the fact that he specifically asked to speak to the FBI so urgently makes me think something else is afoot—and that’s why they want to silence him.” O’Donoghue nodded. “Taken from right under our noses. Very audacious. And dangerous.” Meyerstein nodded. “Tell me more about Connelly. Was he new?” “Just a few months with us, sir. Was based in Seattle for a couple of years before being posted here.” “Married?” “Young wife, two kids.” O’Donoghue turned and stared out of his window over the Washington skyline. “I want the bastards who did this, Martha. You have whatever resources you want.” “Sir, my team will also be alive to the possibility another story is playing out. I’m of course talking about national security. We can’t rule that out.” Meyerstein got up out of her seat. “Oh, Martha?” he said. “Yes, sir?” “Let’s do this right. And let’s nail those responsible.” “Count on it, sir.” Meyerstein walked out of the office and took the elevator down two floors to where Roy Stamper was standing waiting for her, unsmiling. He was wearing his customary navy suit, white shirt, navy silk tie, and highly polished black leather shoes. He had been with the FBI since he was headhunted after graduating from Duke, coming top of his class at law school. They had both started training at the FBI’s academy at Quantico at the same time. He wasn’t a great mixer. Never had been. He was quiet, but unlike her errant husband, he was a great family man. Her own father, despite being a workaholic like her, was the same, trying to take time out of his punishing schedule to meet her mother for lunch or supper. Her father was devoted to her mother. He liked being with her. He liked being around her. They looked relaxed in each other’s company. Martha could see that. She’d never felt that with her own husband. He’d never wanted to share a glass of wine with her when

I got sewn up again, didn’t I? I’m going to look like a quilt by Christmas at this rate.” “I’m going to keep you all in one piece from here on out.” His lips landed on her forehead lightly, and he kissed her. Lingered.

If you hadn’t been there, I’m not entirely sure I would’ve been able to stop myself from hurting the guy worse. That’s why I need to get to the lake house and be alone.” She sniffed. There was so much in that one little derisive sound that he had to look her way. “What?” Her expression went deadpan. “You realize that is a completely ridiculous plan, right?” He frowned. “Come on, Finn.” She pursed those red-glossed lips like she could barely tolerate his foolishness. “That is such a man plan.” “A man plan.” “Yes. You don’t know how to be among the living anymore so you’re going to…go live alone in a cave. Right. Good thinking. That will pop your how-to-be-human skills right back into place.” He made a frustrated sound and pulled into the lot of the hotel to park so he could face her, make her understand. “You saw what happened today. I’m not fit to be around other people right now. I beat a guy down for taking a picture. And I was…aggressive with you last night.” “Aggressive?” Her mouth flattened, and she put a finger to her chest. “I kissed you. I was the aggressor. You were just…complicit in the aggressiveness. And you’re lucky I haven’t gone two years’ celibate, because had I been in your shoes, I would’ve convinced you to go up to my room and used you eight ways to Sunday and back again by now. You’d be limping.” His libido gave a hard kick and knocked the logical thoughts out of his head for a moment. “I—” “You need to be around people.” That snapped his attention back to where it needed to be—mostly. “No.” “You promised your boss you’d be around friends. You made me promise your boss that I’d make sure you did that. You made me lie to the FBI. That’s got to be a federal offense or something.” “Made is a strong word.” “Finn.” He groaned. “What would you have me do? You want to babysit me, Livvy? Come stay at my lake house and make sure I don’t turn into a deviant?” She stared at him, her gaze way too sharp, and then tipped her chin up in challenge. “Is that an invitation? Because you know you shouldn’t test me. I could babysit the hell out of you, Finn Dorsey. I know who you used to be. You don’t get to become a bad guy. I will make you do slumber-party things like play charades or watch crappy nineties movies or incessant reruns of Friends. You won’t be able to fight your old goofy side. It will emerge like a freaking butterfly and smother scary Finn.” He blinked and stared, and then he couldn’t help it—he laughed. “A freaking butterfly?” She smiled triumphantly. “A goofy freaking butterfly.” He let out a long breath, some of the tension from the morning draining out of him. “You’re weird.” “So are you.

The investigation into Donald Trump and his conspiring with Russia and all the other crimes I’m sure he’ll be indicted for made me realize what real men look like. They look like Bob Mueller. A seventy-four-year-old with a six-pack (possibly an eight-pack) underneath that suit. You can see it through his shirt when he walks—he’s ripped. “Keeping your shit together” is what that’s called. A prosecutor, a Marine, and the director of the FBI? How on earth is any woman worth her salt meant to control herself around him and not sit directly on his face? And then, that hair-part? Very few seventy-year-old men have a head of hair like that, and if anyone knows their way around seventy-year-old men, it’s me—they’re my core demographic. The thickness…the salt and pepper…it’s one thing after another with this patriot.

But here’s the thing: Martin Luther King was not the “MLK” of his time, not the “MLK” of legend. Martin Luther King was public enemy number one. Seen as an even greater threat by our government, and a large portion of society, than Malcolm X was. Because what Martin Luther King Jr and Malcolm X fought for was the same: freedom from oppression. At times they used different words and different tactics, but it was their goal that was the threat. Their goal of freedom from racial oppression was and is a direct threat to the system of White Supremacy. And for all of Martin’s actions of peace and love, he was targeted with violence, harassed, arrested, blackmailed, followed by the FBI, and eventually murdered. For all of the pedestals MLK is now put on, far above the reach of ordinary black Americans, Martin was in his life viewed as the most dangerous man in America. Martin was the black man who asked for too much, too loudly. Martin was why white America couldn’t support equality. Because no matter what we ask for, if it threatens the system of White Supremacy, it will always be seen as too much. When we were slaves nursing their babies, we were not nice enough. When we were maids cleaning their homes we were not nice enough. When we were porters shining their shoes we were not nice enough. And when we danced and sang for their entertainment we were not nice enough. For hundreds of years we have been told that the path to freedom from racial oppression lies in our virtue, that our humanity must be earned. We simply don’t deserve equality yet. So when people say that they don’t like my tone, or when they say they can’t support the “militancy” of Black Lives Matter, or when they say that it would be easier if we just didn’t talk about race all the time—I ask one question: Do you believe in justice and equality? Because if you believe in justice and equality you believe in it all of the time, for all people. You believe in it for newborn babies, you believe in it for single mothers, you believe in it for kids in the street, you believe in justice and equality for people you like and people you don’t. You believe in it for people who don’t say please. And if there was anything I could say or do that would convince someone that I or people like me don’t deserve justice or equality, then they never believed in justice and equality in the first place. Yes, I am a Malcolm. And Martin, and Angela, Marcus, Rosa, Biko, Baldwin, Assata, Harriet, and Nina. I’m fighting for liberation. I’m filled with righteous anger and love. I’m shouting, as all before me have in their way. And I’m a human being who was born deserving justice and equality, and that is all you should need to know in order to stand by my side.

I feel that the government should uphold the concept that it is there for us, “We the People.” That it does what we alone cannot do. By standing unified and proud, we have strength because of our numbers and the power to do what is right. That we always remain on the right side of history and care for and respect our less fortunate. Now, you may think that I’m just spouting out a lot of patriotic nonsense, which you are entitled to do, however I did serve my country actively in both the Navy and Army for a total of forty years, six months and seven days as a reservist and feel that I have an equal vested interest in these United States. If we don’t like what is happening we have responsible ways and means to change things. We have Constitutional, “First Amendment Rights to Freedom of Speech.” There are many things I would like to see change and there are ways that we can do this. To start with we have to protect our First Amendment Rights and protect the media from government interference…. I also believe in protecting our individual freedom…. I believe in one person, one vote…. Corporations are not people, for one they have no human feelings…. That although our government may be misdirected it is not the enemy…. I want reasonable regulations to protect us from harm…. That we not privatize everything in sight such as prisons, schools, roads, social security, Medicare, libraries etc.….. Entitlements that have been earned should not be tampered with…. That college education should be free or at least reasonable…. That health care becomes free or very reasonable priced for all…. That lobbyist be limited in how they can manipulate our lawmakers…. That people, not corporations or political action committees (PAC’s), can only give limited amounts of money to candidates…. That our taxes be simplified, fair and on a graduated scale without loop holes….That government stays out of our personal lives, unless our actions affect others…. That our government stays out of women’s issues, other than to insure equal rights…. That the law (police) respects all people and treats them with the dignity they deserve…. That we no longer have a death penalty…. That our military observe the Geneva Conventions and never resort to any form of torture…. That the Police, FBI, CIA or other government entities be limited in their actions, and that they never bully or disrespect people that are in their charge or care…. That we never harbor prisoners overseas to avoid their protection by American law…. That everyone, without exception, is equal…. And, in a general way, that we constantly strive for a more perfect Union and consider ourselves members of a greater American family, or at the very least, as guests in our country. As Americans we are better than what we have witnessed lately. The idea that we will go beyond our rights is insane and should be discouraged and outlawed. As a country let us look forward to a bright and productive future, and let us find common ground, pulling in the same direction. We all deserve to feel safe from persecution and/or our enemies. We should also be open minded enough to see what works in other countries. If we are going to “Make America Great Again” we should start by being more civil and kinder to each other. Now this is all just a thought, but it’s a start…. “We’re Still Here!

Sara! Why aren’t you picking up? Is Amy a serial killer? I know what America’s like. If you’re lying in pieces somewhere, I’ll never forgive you. Unless you call us back right now, I’m ringing the CIA…” Her father mumbled something in the background. “FBI. Whatever.” When

Do you know my name?” “I do.” “Why don’t you ever use it?” He bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away from me as he thought about what to say. “I stole you away, I didn’t meet you. When you meet someone, if they want you to know their name, they give it to you. It’s like a privilege, and you didn’t give me that privilege.” “I named you,” I admitted softly. He jerked his head back to look at me again, and his brow scrunched together. “What?” “Uh, well, I named you. I was always thinking of you as him or he, and I eventually got tired of it.” When I didn’t offer anything more, he leaned forward and put a hand out, palm up. “Well . . . ? What’s the name you gave me?” “Taylor.” In my head, it’d been easy to think of him as Taylor, but now that it was out there, a blush was creeping up my neck and over my cheeks. He barked out a loud laugh and leaned back. “Oh God, not you too? That’s not the first time I’ve gotten that.” I’d been stunned by his laugh, but then joined in with him at his admission. “Well! You look just like him!” “Thanks . . . I guess?” “It’s a compliment, trust me.” His dark eyes met and held mine, and I looked away momentarily to break the connection. When I looked back at him, I cleared my throat and offered a small smile. “Um, my name’s Rachel.” “I know,” he whispered roughly. “And yours?” He seemed to think for a few seconds before flashing me a sad smile. “You can call me Taylor.” My first reaction was disappointment before I realized the danger for him in this situation. He was a criminal, and I could already give a very detailed description to an FBI sketch artist. Knowing his real name would just add to his likelihood of being caught when this was all over. If it was ever over. Biting back the disappointment, I smiled and offered him a hand. He took it carefully, making sure not to touch my nails. “I would say it’s nice, but that probably isn’t the right word. It’s . . . very interesting to meet you, Taylor.” “I’m glad you decided to ‘meet’ me, Rachel.” “Me too.

Such a shame that I didn’t get to say good-bye to my fellow inmates,” he said sarcastically. “Actually, Puchalski was the only guy I liked. I still can’t figure out what got into him.” As Jordan used her chopsticks to pick up a piece of hamachi, she decided it was best to get her brother off that topic as fast as possible. “Sounds like he just snapped.” “But why would he have a fork in his shoe?” Kyle mused. “That makes me think he was planning the attack, which doesn’t make sense.” Let it go, Kyle. She shrugged. “Maybe he always keeps a fork in his shoe. Who understands why any of these felon types do what they do?” “Hey. I am one of those felon types.” Grey tipped his glass of wine. “And who would’ve thought you would do what you did?” “It was Twitter,” Kyle mumbled under his breath. Maybe we should change the subject,” Jordan suggested, sensing the conversation could only spiral downward from there. “Okay. Let’s talk about you instead,” Grey said. “I never asked—how did Xander’s party go?” Now there was a potential land mine of a topic. “It went fine. Pretty much the same party as usual.” Except for a little domestic espionage. She threw Kyle a look, needing help. Change the subject. Fast. He stared back cluelessly. Why? She glared. Just do it. He made a face. All right, all right. “Speaking of wine, Jordo, how was your trip to Napa?” Great. Leave it to her genius of a brother to pick the other topic she wanted to avoid. “I visited that new winery I told you about. We should have a deal this week so that my store will be the first to carry their wine in the Chicago area.” Grey’s tone was casual. “Did you bring Tall, Dark, and Smoldering with you on the trip?” Jordan set down her chopsticks and looked over at her father. He smiled cheekily as he took a sip of his wine. “You read Scene and Heard, too?” she asked. Grey scoffed at that. “Of course not. I have people read it for me. Half the time, it’s the only way I know what’s going on with you two. And don’t avoid the question. Tell us about this new guy you’re seeing. I find it very odd that you’ve never mentioned him.” He fixed his gaze on her like the Eye of Sauron. Jordan took a deep breath, suddenly very tired of the lies and the secret-agent games. Besides, she had to face the truth at some point. “Well, Dad, I don’t know if you have to worry about Tall, Dark, and Smoldering anymore. He’s not talking to me right now.” Kyle’s face darkened. “Tall, Dark, and Smoldering sounds like a moron to me.” Grey nodded, his expression disapproving. “I agree. You can do a lot better than a moron, kiddo.” “Thanks. But it’s not that simple. His job presents some . . . challenges.” That was definitely the wrong thing to say. “Why? What kind of work does he do?” her father asked immediately. Jordan stalled. Maybe she’d overshot a little with the no more lies promise. She threw Kyle another desperate look. Do something. Again. Kyle nodded. I’m on it. He eased back in his chair and stretched out his intertwined hands, limbering up his fingers. “Who cares what this jerk does? Send me his e-mail address, Jordo—I’ll take care of it. I can wreak all sorts of havoc on Tall, Dark, and Smoldering’s life in less than two minutes.” With an evil grin, he mimed typing at a keyboard. Their father looked ready to blow a gasket. “Oh no—you do not get to make the jokes,” he told Kyle. “Jordan and I make the jokes. You’ve been out of prison for four days and I seriously hope you learned your lesson, young man . . .

She took a deep breath, ready to start by being honest with herself. “Kyle . . . I think I screwed up.” She held up a hand, qualifying this. “Partially. Tall, Dark, and Smoldering deserves a lot of the blame. At least half. Maybe two-thirds. Of course, he’s probably sulking right now, thinking that I’m the only one who’s wrong here. He’s kind of frustrating that way. He gets under your skin, like a tick, or a burr, or a thorn, or . . .” She looked to her brother for help. “What else gets under your skin?” “Scabies?” he suggested. “Scabies? This is what you come up with?” Kyle stared at her as if she was losing it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jordo. But I’ll say this, if you think you screwed up, there’s only one question—the same one you asked me five months ago: Can you fix it?” Jordan sighed. “I’m trying.” Her brother’s gaze was firm. “Try harder.” She glared at him. “Okay.” Then after a moment, she nodded in concession. “Okay.

Someone nudged her elbow, interrupting her reverie. “Hello? Anyone there?” The question came from Rylann’s roommate, Rae Mendoza, who was seated at her right. “I’m here. Just…picturing myself at the pool.” Rylann tried to hold on to the mirage for a few moments longer. “It’s sunny and seventy-five degrees. I’ve got some kind of tropical drink with one of those little umbrellas in it, and I’m reading a book—one I don’t have to highlight or outline in the margins.” “They make those kinds of books?” “If memory serves..." “I hate to burst the bubble on your daydream, but I’m pretty sure they don’t allow alcoholic drinks at IMPE,” Rae said, referring to the university’s Intramural Physical Education building, which housed said pool. Rylann waved off such pesky details. “I’ll throw a mai tai in my College of Law thermos and tell people that it’s iced tea. If campus security gives me any trouble, I’ll scare them off with my quasi-legal credentials and remind them of the Fourth Amendment’s prohibitions against illegal searches and seizures.” “Wow. Do you know how big of a law school geek you just sounded like?” Unfortunately, she did. “Do you think any of us will ever be normal again?” Rae considered this. “I’m told that somewhere around third year, we lose the urge to cite the Constitution in everyday conversation.” “That’s promising,” Rylann said. “But seeing how you’re more of a law geek than most, it might take you longer.” “Remember that conversation last night when I said I was going to miss you this summer? I take it back

On the bright side, I’ve got cupcakes.” Rylann pulled a dessert plate out of the box. “Ooh—nice. We can eat them on my very fancy and incomplete set of china.” She looked around. “Seriously, what am I going to do with five sets of dinnerware?” “You could…throw an elaborate dinner party for my imaginary boyfriend, your imaginary boyfriend, and their imaginary third-wheel friend who seemingly never has anything better to do?” Ouch. “Don’t laugh. After Jon and I broke up and he moved to Rome, I was that third-wheel friend,” Rylann said. Their closest friends in San Francisco had been “couple” friends, and after the breakup, she simply hadn’t fit in anymore. One of the many reasons she’d been looking for a fresh start in Chicago. “At least in this city, I’m a first wheel. A unicycle.” Rae laughed. “Very tricky business, unicycling. Particularly in your thirties.” “It’s not like I never dated before Jon. How different can it be?” “Oh, such naivete.” Rae sighed dramatically. “I remember when I, too, was once so hopeful and unjaded.

Seriously. What’s with the face?” Jordan asked. “You’re scaring my cabernets with that scowl.” “I’m just working through some stuff,” he said vaguely. Jordan raised an eyebrow, studying him. “Prison stuff?” “More like post-prison stuff. Nothing we need to talk about.” The last thing he needed his super-perfect twin sister with her super-perfect FBI boyfriend knowing was that he was in another dispute, of sorts, with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He was cranky enough about the situation without Jordan laying into him about it. He’d left prison several weeks ago and was supposed to be moving on with his life, yet the vestiges of the place still clung to him. Like bad BO. He picked up four of the wine bottles Jordan had unpacked. “Where do you want these?” She pointed. “In the empty bin over there, with the other cabernets.” She looked over when Kyle came back to the bar. “So what kind of post-prison stuff?” Now he was getting suspicious. “What’s with the twenty questions?” “Sue me for trying to open a dialogue here. Geez. I’ve just been a little worried about you, since I’ve heard that it can sometimes be difficult for ex-inmates to reenter normal life.” Kyle shot her a look as he grabbed more wine bottles. “Where, exactly, did you hear that? Siblings of Ex-Cons Anonymous?” Jordan glared. “Yes, we have weekly meetings at the YMCA,” she retorted. Then she waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know, it’s just…something I saw on TV this past weekend.” Ah. Kyle suddenly had a sneaking suspicion about the cause of his sister’s concern. “Jordo…by any chance were you watching The Shawshank Redemption again?” “Pfft. No.” She saw his knowing expression and caved. “Fine. I was flipping through the channels and it was on TNT. You try turning that movie off.” She looked at him matter-of-factly. “It’s very compelling.

Rae gave her a get-real look. “Please. You go to Italy? You have your plans, remember?” She held up her hands innocently. “Why are you looking at me like that? Come on—you know this about yourself.” “True. But when you say it, it makes me sound so…lame.” Suddenly concerned, she leaned in, lowering her voice. “I’m not lame, am I?” “Sweetie, you’re not lame.” Rylann grabbed her drink. “Look at this, I drink martinis on workdays—that can’t be lame, right? And this wasn’t even planned.

ON HER WAY home from the restaurant, Rylann’s cell phone rang. For a moment, as she dug around in her purse to find it, she wondered if it would be Kyle, calling her about the Scene and Heard column. She could practically hear his low, teasing voice already. Just calling to check up on my favorite brunette bombshell, counselor. Thought I’d see if you’d be up for round four tonight. Rylann finally found her phone. Oh. Just her mother. “Mom…hi,” she answered. “Looks like I was right to warn you about that Kyle Rhodes.” Rylann stopped at a four-way intersection, immediately on high alert. How could her mother, down in Florida, possibly know anything? So she played it cool. “Not sure what you mean, Mom.” “I was just reading the Trib online,” Helen said. “The Twitter Terrorist made the Scene and Heard column again.” “You read Scene and Heard?” Rylann asked. “Sure. How else am I supposed to keep up with all the local gossip while we’re down here for the winter?” And by winter, she meant early May. “I haven’t seen this morning’s column,” Rylann said. And technically, that was true—she’d only heard it. “I was busy this morning, then went to lunch with Rae. I’m just walking home now.” “Apparently, he was spotted at some hot new nightclub. Leaving with a mysterious brunette bombshell in a red dress. Probably some skank he met that night.” Then her mother changed the subject, cheerfully moving on. “Anyway, what’s new with you, sweetie? Did you do anything exciting last night?” Yes. Kyle Rhodes. “Um, nothing special. Rae and I went out for a few drinks.” Rylann figured it was best to gloss over the rest of the details, seeing how her mother had just called her a skank.

Cade rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone starry-eyed, too. What is it about this guy? The half-billion dollars? The hair? Do you know that I used to get death threats from crazed, angry women calling me the Antichrist and demanding Rhodes’s immediate release from prison?” He held up his hand. “Swear to God.” “Now, that’s definitely something the Antichrist wouldn’t do. She set the open bottle of India Ink between them, on top of the wooden bistro table she had purchased the previous weekend. She’d also picked up a few planters and some flowers, transforming the deck into an urban minigarden. “I like it out here,” Kyle said, sitting back in his chair with his glass of wine. “That’s the one downside of my apartment—no outdoor living space. Trust me, you notice that quickly when serving home detention for two straight weeks.” “I’ve seen the penthouse, Dimples. I’m not exactly crying a river.” “More tough love from Prosecutrix Pierce,” he said. “Shocking.” Rylann laughed. ” ‘Prosecutrix Pierce’? Is that what you call me?” “I find it has a certain authoritative ring that suits you.

She set the open bottle of India Ink between them, on top of the wooden bistro table she had purchased the previous weekend. She’d also picked up a few planters and some flowers, transforming the deck into an urban minigarden. “I like it out here,” Kyle said, sitting back in his chair with his glass of wine. “That’s the one downside of my apartment—no outdoor living space. Trust me, you notice that quickly when serving home detention for two straight weeks.” “I’ve seen the penthouse, Dimples. I’m not exactly crying a river.” “More tough love from Prosecutrix Pierce,” he said. “Shocking.” Rylann laughed. ” ‘Prosecutrix Pierce’? Is that what you call me?” “I find it has a certain authoritative ring that suits you.

ON THEIR WAY out, Nick held Huxley’s front door open for her. “Boyfriend, huh? I didn’t realize we had taken things to that level.” “Oh, I’m sorry—this is my first undercover operation,” Jordan said. “I’m a little unclear about the rules. Are we seeing other people in this fake relationship?” He followed her down the steps to the sidewalk. “You expect me to make this decision on the spot? I’m a man, Jordan; I can’t be pressured into these kinds of things.” She flashed him a sweet smile. “Lucky for you, it will all be over soon. Tomorrow you can have a fake freak-out over commitment issues that will lead to our fake breakup. After that, I think our characters will need some very real time apart.” She began walking toward the street.

Nick shrugged. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, princess.” Jordan’s eyes widened in surprise. She stepped over to him, pulling herself up to her full five foot five inches. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, but nobody’s calling anybody a princess around here.” “Brooklyn.” “Excuse me?” “I’m from Brooklyn.” The edges of Nick’s lips curled up in a grin. “Your majesty.

First things first. “What are you doing here?” she whispered after shutting the door behind them. Kyle folded his arms across his chest. “Are you kidding me? I find you in the kitchen, with your ex-boyfriend declaring his undying love for you, and you ask me what I’m doing?” “Well, I assumed your cross-examination was going to be quite lengthy, so I figured I’d get all my questions out of the way first.” He pointed. “Don’t try to be cute when I’m pissed like this. And for the record, I came back because I forgot my watch on your nightstand. I heard a guy’s voice inside your apartment, and the door was unlocked, so I walked in.” Did he now? “When you’re feeling a little less prickly, we should probably have a talk about boundaries and this whole possessive side of yours.” “Fair enough. The next time I hear a strange man inside your apartment and find your door mysteriously unlocked, I won’t check to make sure you’re not being robbed or held at gunpoint by some lunatic felon that you’ve prosecuted.” Rylann paused, thinking that over. “Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to take issue with the whole possessive thing.

Thanks, Dad.” They each took a sip of the scotch, and then there was a long pause between them. Grey leaned in. “You know this is the part of the father-son moment where I’m supposed to ask about this Rylann girl, right?” Kyle set his drink on the ledge and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Yep. And now this is the part where I say thank you but that I think I’ve said all I want to say about her tonight. Which will conveniently be followed by the part where a waitress walks up and asks if we’d like anything else to drink, eliminating all further discussion on that topic.” Just like that, there was a voice from behind them. “Excuse me, can I get either of you gentlemen something else to drink?” His father looked over his shoulder, saw the blond waitress standing behind them, and stared at Kyle in astonishment. Kyle smiled. “I paid her two hundred bucks to come over as soon as I put my hands in my pockets. I knew you and Jordan couldn’t stay out of my business for long.

I don’t know. I’m not sure what the statistical chances of something like this happening might be…but it appears that all three of these men spoke to the exact same operator.

She's receiving Dr. Sheldon Lord in audience just at the moment," Marshall said. "I don't see why you shouldn't go on to the Throne Room, though. He's giving her some psychological tests, but they ought to be finished in a minute or two." "Fine," Malone said. "How about court dress? Got anything here that might fit me?" Marshall nodded. "We've got a pretty complete line of court costume now," he said. "I should say it was the most complete in existence--except possibly for the TV historical companies. Down the hall, three doors farther on, you'll find the dressing room." * * * * * Malone thanked Dr. Marshall and went out slowly. He didn't really mind the court dress or the Elizabethan etiquette Her Majesty liked to preserve; as a matter of fact, he was rather fond of it. There had been some complaints about expense when the Throne Room and the costume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Government had finally decided that it was better and easier to humor Her Majesty. Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose and doublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumed hat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Room he felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had entered the world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway, and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowed to a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket, carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard of blond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costume managed to overpower it. "Dr. Lord?" Malone said. The bearded man peered at him. "Ah, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Yes, yes. Just been giving Her Majesty a few tests. Normal weekly check, you know." "I know," Malone said. "Any change?" "Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as well expect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--and will, in all probability, throughout the foreseeable future." "The same as ever?" Malone asked hopefully. "Exactly," Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'm flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's always a pleasure to talk with you." "Thanks," Malone said dully. "Barrow Street," Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase. "Number 69.

Hemingway took his hands off the wheel and spat out of the window. “We’re on a nice street here, ain’t we? Nice homes, nice gardens, nice climate. You hear a lot about crooked cops, or do you?” “Once in a while,” I said. “Okey, how many cops do you find living on a street even as good as this, with nice lawns and flowers? I’d know four or five, all vice squad boys. They get all the gravy. Cops like me live in itty-bitty frame houses on the wrong side of town. Want to see where I live?” “What would it prove?” “Listen, pally,” the big man said seriously. “You got me on a string, but it could break. Cops don’t go crooked for money. Not always, not even often. They get caught in the system. They get you where they have you do what is told them or else. And the guy that sits back there in the nice big corner office, with the nice suit and the nice liquor breath he thinks chewing on them seeds makes smell like violets, only it don’t—he ain’t giving the orders either. You get me?” “What kind of a man is the Mayor?” “What kind of guy is a mayor anywhere? A politician. You think he gives the orders? Nuts. You know what’s the matter with this country, baby?” “Too much frozen capital, I heard.” “A guy can’t stay honest if he wants to,” Hemingway said. “That’s what’s the matter with this country. He gets chiseled out of his pants if he does. You gotta play the game dirty or you don’t eat. A lot of bastards think all we need is ninety thousand FBI men in clean collars and brief cases. Nuts. The percentage would get them just the way it does the rest of us. You know what I think? I think we gotta make this little world all over again. Now take Moral Rearmament. There you’ve got something. M.R.A. There you’ve got something, baby.” “If Bay City is a sample of how it works, I’ll take aspirin,“ I said. “You could get too smart,” Hemingway said softly. “You might not think it, but it could be. You could get so smart you couldn’t think about anything but bein’ smart. Me, I’m just a dumb cop. I take orders. I got a wife and two kids and I do what the big shots say. Blane could tell you things. Me, I’m ignorant.

Ah, well, she’s new to law enforcement and didn’t check she had backup before chasing a suspect.” Galen shot Vance a look. “Rather like someone I know.” The two men had been partners in the FBI before Galen quit and started a business. Vance smiled. “She’ll be more careful, I’m sure.” “Next time, I’ll shoot first,” the irrepressible brat muttered under her breath.

Wesley Wong: I was down in the command center at the World Trade Center lobby, and John O’Neill saw me and he came up to me. John always had his cell phone to his ear—no matter when you saw him, he was always on his cell phone. Just like that morning, the morning of 9/11, he had his cell phone. He saw me and said, “Wes. What can you tell me?” He had just retired from the FBI and he was on his second day as director of security for the World Trade Center. I said to John, “You’re no longer with the FBI. You don’t have a clearance. I can’t tell you what’s going on.” Even under times of stress and crisis, I can be a smart aleck. He said, “Wes, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to wring your scrawny little neck.” I told him what I knew, and he asked, “I’ve heard that the Pentagon has been hit?” I said, “We’re hearing that. Let me confirm,” and I called headquarters. They confirmed that the Pentagon had been hit. I relayed this back to John. He said, “Well, I need to go check on my people in the South Tower.” As he walked away I said to him, “Hey John. I owe you lunch. I missed your going-away lunch. When this is all over, let’s have lunch.” He said something that’s music to every agent’s ear. He said, “Wes, I’m on an expense account now—lunch will be on me.” John O’Neill was last seen in the stairwell of the 48th floor of the South Tower. Jackie Maguire: We heard the rumble of the first tower starting to fall.

Briggs has a case.” Michael liked to make an entrance. “He just got the call.” “But his team just got back.” Sloane loaded her catapult again. “The FBI has fifty-six field offices, and the DC field office is the second-largest in the country. There are dozens of teams who could take this case. Why assign it to Briggs?” “Because I’m the most qualified for the job,” Briggs said, coming into the room. “And,” he added under his breath, “because somewhere along the way, the universe decided I needed to suffer.

Claire would have felt like prey. As it was, she already felt like the woman already knew everything Claire was thinking. She exuded intelligence, like perfume wafting across the table. Claire reached up and tugged at an unruly curl, reminding herself that she wasn’t an idiot. She was, after all, a college graduate now. She’d gotten into veterinary school, which was harder to get into than medical school. A smile fought its way onto Claire’s face. “I’m not sure what I can offer you, Agent Bishop.” “Call me Kassidy. In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve read your file.” “My file? Oh, right.” Claire had nearly forgotten that she had an FBI file. Of course Kassidy had read it. “You’re quite exceptional,” Kassidy said. “Because I survived?” “You must know that while stranger abduction is rare, the survival rate among victims is very low.” “Yes, I’m aware.” “We’re seeing more cases of children recovered alive after stranger abductions, but it is extremely uncommon.

Stop or you’ll invite the wrath of the islands. And each letter ended with The Menehune are coming for you. “Whoever it is has excellent spelling and punctuation,” she said, glancing at Marco. “No dyslexia. Can you believe it?” He gave a careless shrug. “It’s a burden some of us have to carry.” She laughed and searched through the letters again. “You checked for trace DNA? Hair? Fingerprints?” she asked Willis. “I did. Nothing but the cigarette ash.” “Right,” she said, considering. “But why blame the Menehune?” “What do you mean?” asked Kahele, taking a seat. “I mean, that’s just a little out there, isn’t it? Blaming a fictional people for a revenge crime. If it is a revenge crime.” “I’m not following. The Menehune are the protectors of the island.” “Right. Just like Manny Wong tries to be. Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. Maybe we’re too focused on Meridew and we should be looking at Wong.” “You mean you think he’s our top suspect?” “He is because we were guided to him.” “You mean he could be a red herring?” said Marco. She held up a hand. “Why

Everything you’re saying is the worst thing I have ever heard,” I told him. “Like, I’m on the verge of stealing your DNA and sending it to the FBI. What the fuck is actually wrong with you?

after giving him a swift kick in the junk.” It is not difficult at all to picture Astra doing just that. And given that she was a soccer star back in college, I’m pretty sure the guy wasn’t walking right for a few days afterward. “I’m not sure that’s what’s going on here. He spends too many nights at my place for him to be married,” I say. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a side piece,” she offers. “No, I know. Maybe,” I reply. “But as I’ve sat here thinking about it –” “Brooding.” I cock my head as I look at her. “What?” “Brooding. The technical name for what you were doing is called brooding.” I laugh. “Fine. While I was sitting here brooding, I just kind of got the idea that it has nothing to do with another woman at all. There’s something….else.” “Something like what?” I shake my head. “That much, I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, I don’t know anything. This could just be my brain jumping at shadows that aren’t

every time I’m close to opening up to Charles, it’s like alarms start going off in my head and my body

Is she now? I didn’t know the FBI investigated murders,” Mama Z said. “I thought such things were matters for local authorities.” “There might be some civil rights violations involved,” Hind said. “Whose civil rights?” “I don’t know yet.” “I ask because you have to have civil rights in order for the them to be violated.” Mama Z let that hang in the air. “I’m sorry. Forgive my manners. We can sit in here. Gertie, be a dear and make us some tea and bring some cookies. Make sure the cat doesn’t come in here and bother us.” Gertrude nodded. “I actually like cats,” Hind said. “This one sheds like crazy,” Mama Z said. “Your suit would be a mess before you could say, ‘Mississippi goddamn.’” She didn’t quite sing the words. “What is your last name, Mama Z?” Hind asked. “Everybody just calls me Mama Z.” “But for my notes.” “Lynch. My name is Adelaide Lynch.” To Gertrude, “Go get that tea, baby.” Gertrude left. “Where does the Z come in?” “I don’t quite remember,” the old woman said. “It’s easier to spell than Omega.” Mama Z looked Hind in the eye. “How old are you?” “One hundred and five.” “You look great. Moving around like this. Do you live alone?” “Yes.” “That’s amazing. What’s your secret?” “Venom.” “What?” Hind asked. “It’s what I call my nightly tea,” Mama Z said, then, conspiratorially, she added, “I mix it with bourbon.” “I see.

He doesn’t make mistakes. I’m so worried the police and FBI will never figure it out. He seems like a nice, normal, middle-aged, friendly guy. He doesn’t look crazy.

Is everything okay?” Joe asks. “Yes!” I agree quickly. “I was just checking out the light fixtures,” I say, nodding to the Starbucks decor. “They’re nice, don’t you think?” Not a total lie. I’ve always appreciated the ambiance here. “They must have them custom-made,” I muse. Brilliant conversational skills, Chloe. “I guess.” Joe shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like you can buy them just anywhere,” I add, because I never quit when I should. “I imagine not,” he agrees. “They don’t want just anyone to get their hands on their exclusive light fixtures.” He says it kindly, like he’s not bothered by my inane light fixture observations. “Right.” I nod. Joe is really so nice. And he’s really good-looking. He’s got beautiful thick dark hair. “Are you Italian?” “No.” He shakes his head. “Well, I don’t think so. I’m adopted so I’ve got no idea. My parents are of Scottish and German descent.” Oh. “I love Italian food,” I respond. Because that’s an appropriate response to sticking your foot in your mouth. “I hate Italian.” Joe frowns and shakes his head, then laughs. “Just kidding. Who doesn’t love Italian food?” Why is Boyd watching? Is this some sort of payback for pretending not to know him the other day at the hospital? I’m sure I can’t be the only girl questioned by the FBI who didn’t want her friends to know about it. Sheesh. Oh, my God. Is he on a stakeout? Is he investigating this date too? No. I mentally shake my head. Not possible. “Have you ever been to Serafina? On 18th? My friend went into labor there last week.” “Um, wow. Okay.” He pauses. “Congratulations to your friend,” he adds slowly, because he’s probably unsure what the correct response is to that tidbit of information.

Okay. Allow me to explain. We are very interested in you. In your talent." "Talent?" "Talent is not exactly the right word. Ability." "Wait. Who, exactly, is this 'we'? You and your pimp friends?" "Pimp ...? No. We, in this case, are a government intelligence-gathering agency." "Ha! Right. Like what, the CIA?" "No, we are not the CIA. And I'm not joking." "Ah, so you're FBI." "Actually, no." "Okay, well, I don't really believe you, so you might as well tell me who you are - or, in this case, who you are pretending to be." "RAITH." "Excuse me?" "An operational intelligence organization. Reconnaissance and Intelligence AuTHority. R.A.I.T.H." "That acronym totally makes no sense." He shrugs. "I wasn't in charge of branding." "RAITH. So I suppose its mission is to travel through the fires of Mordor and retrieve a magical yet corrupting ring?" "Come again?" "RAITH. That is a Lord of the Rings reference." "Never saw it." "Now I know you're a psycho. And the correct answer is never read it. As in, I have never read the entire J. R. R. Tolkien Lord of the Rings series and then avidly gone to see the films with initial excitement and then, through the years, a bit of disappointment." "Okay, I have neither read the Lord of the Rings books nor seen the films." "One more question." "Yes." "Are you a robot?" "Very amusing.

awkward televised hug from the new president of the United States. My curtain call worked. Until it didn’t. Still speaking in his usual stream-of-consciousness and free-association cadence, the president moved his eyes again, sweeping from left to right, toward me and my protective curtain. This time, I was not so lucky. The small eyes with the white shadows stopped on me. “Jim!” Trump exclaimed. The president called me forward. “He’s more famous than me.” Awesome. My wife Patrice has known me since I was nineteen. In the endless TV coverage of what felt to me like a thousand-yard walk across the Blue Room, back at our home she was watching TV and pointing at the screen: “That’s Jim’s ‘oh shit’ face.” Yes, it was. My inner voice was screaming: “How could he think this is a good idea? Isn’t he supposed to be the master of television? This is a complete disaster. And there is no fricking way I’m going to hug him.” The FBI and its director are not on anyone’s political team. The entire nightmare of the Clinton email investigation had been about protecting the integrity and independence of the FBI and the Department of Justice, about safeguarding the reservoir of trust and credibility. That Trump would appear to publicly thank me on his second day in office was a threat to the reservoir. Near the end of my thousand-yard walk, I extended my right hand to President Trump. This was going to be a handshake, nothing more. The president gripped my hand. Then he pulled it forward and down. There it was. He was going for the hug on national TV. I tightened the right side of my body, calling on years of side planks and dumbbell rows. He was not going to get a hug without being a whole lot stronger than he looked. He wasn’t. I thwarted the hug, but I got something worse in exchange. The president leaned in and put his mouth near my right ear. “I’m really looking forward to working with you,” he said. Unfortunately, because of the vantage point of the TV cameras, what many in the world, including my children, thought they saw was a kiss. The whole world “saw” Donald Trump kiss the man who some believed got him elected. Surely this couldn’t get any worse. President Trump made a motion as if to invite me to stand with him and the vice president and Joe Clancy. Backing away, I waved it off with a smile. “I’m not worthy,” my expression tried to say. “I’m not suicidal,” my inner voice said. Defeated and depressed, I retreated back to the far side of the room. The press was excused, and the police chiefs and directors started lining up for pictures with the president. They were very quiet. I made like I was getting in the back of the line and slipped out the side door, through the Green Room, into the hall, and down the stairs. On the way, I heard someone say the score from the Packers-Falcons game. Perfect. It is possible that I was reading too much into the usual Trump theatrics, but the episode left me worried. It was no surprise that President Trump behaved in a manner that was completely different from his predecessors—I couldn’t imagine Barack Obama or George W. Bush asking someone to come onstage like a contestant on The Price Is Right. What was distressing was what Trump symbolically seemed to be asking leaders of the law enforcement and national security agencies to do—to come forward and kiss the great man’s ring. To show their deference and loyalty. It was tremendously important that these leaders not do that—or be seen to even look like they were doing that. Trump either didn’t know that or didn’t care, though I’d spend the next several weeks quite memorably, and disastrously, trying to make this point to him and his staff.

I was always proud of him. Even when he had to leave in the middle of birthday parties or missed them altogether. His job sounded so larger-than-life to me. Like something a superhero would do. People got hurt. And my father went to save the day. I missed him, I'm sure I had tantrums, but mostly I remember feeling proud. My daddy was cool.

Shit, I'm being played like a fucking violin!" Rainie blinked. "Since when did you take up swearing?" "Yesterday. I'm finding it highly addictive. Like nicotine." "You're smoking, too?" "No, but I haven't lost my deep and abiding love for metaphors.

You have to have faith...I know it's hard, but at some point, you have to believe. Some people are evil, some people will hurt you, but not everyone will. And trying to stay safe by going at it alone doesn't work in the end. Isolation is not protection. I know. I thought it would be easier if I never opened up to my family, if I never got too close. Then I lost my dauther, and it hasn't been any easier at all. I am falling apart... But I am going to put myself back together...I am going to find the son of a bitch who did this. And if I have to be angry to do that, I'll be angry. And if I have to stop sleeping and start swearing and behave like an utter jerk, I'll do that, too. I'm coping, Rainie, and nobody ever said coping had to be pretty.

Before we left, I asked Sven to catch me up on the sixteen months of history that I’d overshot since November 2016. Big mistake. After twenty minutes, I made him stop playing me Internet clips. “David, you look kind of green,” worried Sven. I took a deep breath. “He pulled out of the Paris climate deal because climate change is a hoax. He threatened to start a nuclear war with North Korea. He gave away intel methods to the Russians. In the Oval Office. “He says the FBI and the CIA are conspiring against him. He admits he fired the head of the FBI because of the Russia probe. He tried to fire the Special Counsel investigating him. He called the press ‘enemies of the people.’ He calls everything that isn’t from Fox News or The National Enquirer ‘fake news.’ “He starts every day posting boasts and threats on Twitter like a disturbed ten-year-old. He insulted the widow of a dead war hero. He dictated a false statement for his son about why he met with Russians. He says there are good people marching with the KKK and the Nazis. Everyone in his inner circle is either being investigated or indicted for obstruction, perjury, wife beating, failure to register as a foreign agent, money laundering and/or breaking campaign finance laws. “He called Africa a shithole. He paid off a porn star he screwed right after his son was born. And told her she reminded him of his daughter. He’s being sued for rape. And the only person he hasn’t got a single bad thing to say about is the journalist-murdering Russian dictator he colluded with.” “’Fraid so,” said Sven. “All that happened in just sixteen months?” I exclaimed. “How is he still president?” Sven shrugged, sympathetic. “It’s not like we weren’t warned. Bottom line, some very rich, powerful people are going to get far richer, and that’s how America is run at the moment.” “I swear to God, Sven, I’m tempted to go back and save Lincoln all over again. That can’t turn out any worse than this.

We were hosting a holiday party for FSB contacts in the Pushkin café,” recalled Kolbe, referring to the Russian Federal Security Service, the successor to the feared Soviet KGB. “Had the whole place rented out. It was a liaison party, so we brought in the U.S. declared officers, the U.S. Special Services, the FBI. This would have been in 2004. “It was deep in the night, you know, human wreckage scattered around the place. And I’m standing talking with one of the senior liaison officers, this FSB general. He puts his arm around me, and he goes, ‘Oh, Mr. Kolbe’—and he’s standing there with his, like, aide-de-camp—and he says, ‘Oh, Mr. Kolbe, I’m FSB, you’re CIA. We used to be enemies, but the Cold War is over. Now we’re friends and allies.’ And he’s sort of grinning and teetering. “And the young officer standing with him looks up at him—and he’s boring his eyes into him, just glaring—and he says, ‘General, that’s why my generation hates your generation. Because you lost the Cold War, and we’re going to win it back.’ And it was just awkward. The general goes beet red, and I just sort of snapped back and it was this absolute crystallizing sort of moment that the Russia that we expect, that generational change and exposure to the West is all going to make for something that looks more like Western Europe than what Russia really is—this is not where Russia is going.” It struck Kolbe hard because this wasn’t his first exposure to Russia.