Unless Seamus did something to stop him.

Seamus removed the glass flask from his pocket and pitched it with his best Nolan Ryan speed at the man on the floor. The alcohol drenched his lower body.

Seamus had maybe two seconds before the man reached the gun. In that time, he pulled out the Bic, ignited it, used the rubber band to pin down the click switch, keeping it ignited, and threw it at the man crawling across the floor.

An instant later, he was engulfed in flames.

He beat desperately at the fire, but there was nothing he could do. The inferno spread with alarming speed. Five seconds later, his entire body was immolated. The cries sizzled down to whimpers and soon after that were gone altogether, lost in a hideous sea of flame and flesh. His body fell to the floor, motionless.

At that point, Seamus stopped looking. He knew where this was going. He didn’t need to witness it.

He lowered himself off the balcony and dropped back down to the floor. The man he had used the hair spray on was still writhing on the ground.

But the first man he had attacked, the man with the hideous scar, was gone.

And he still had not found the silver suitcase.

He crouched down beside Hair Spray Man. The flames had burned out, but he was in shock, shaking and immobilized by pain.

Seamus didn’t care. He grabbed him by his hair-very hot-and jerked his head backward.

The terrorist’s eyes flew open. He made a gurgling noise. Seamus knew that in his condition, he could suffocate easily.

He whispered into the man’s ear, “I’ll give you one chance to answer. If you don’t, you’re dead. If you lie to me, you’ll die and I’ll make you hurt even worse than you do now.” He leaned in closer. “Where’s the suitcase?”

The man was trembling so badly he could barely speak. “G-g-gone.”

He pointed in the general direction where the man with the scar had been. Damn! “What were you planning to do here?”

“S-s-s-” For a moment Seamus doubted he would ever get it out, but he finally managed. “Send your president… a message.”

By blowing up the Washington Monument and irradiating everyone in the nation’s capital? Yeah, that would probably screw up the president’s plans in the Middle East. “Where is your friend going with the suitcase?”

“I don’t know. R-r-really.” Given the circumstances, Seamus didn’t doubt him. He couldn’t lie, not now, and his eyes showed just how desperate he was to comply, to be believed.

“What are you planning now? What are you going to do next?”

Seamus couldn’t be sure, but despite the man’s pain, despite his almost certain knowledge that death would soon be forthcoming-or perhaps because of it-the corners of his lips turned upward. He was smiling.

“You’re too late,” he said as his eyelids fluttered closed. “No matter what you do to me. Or anyone else. You’re too late.”

(TWO HOURS BEFORE)

Ben Kincaid stood rigid and still as his wife, Christina McCall, adjusted his tie, smoothed the lie of his shirt, and ran a lint brush over the shoulders of his navy blue suit coat.

“There,” she said, taking a step back to survey the view. “Now you look like someone who’s ready to advise the leader of the free world.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Remember to smile and say something nice about his wife. And don’t remind him about-” She stopped in midsentence. “Wait just a minute.” She hiked up the leg of his blue slacks. “Are you seriously wearing red socks?”

Ben’s eyes moved downward. “They’re my lucky socks.”

“No.”

“But I need all the luck-”

“No.” She pointed toward the clothes closet. “Change.” Ben obeyed without further protest. Of course, he always made a great show of being put out when Christina made these sartorial demands, but in truth, he didn’t mind a bit. Given that he had no sense of fashion and was partially color-blind, he needed all the help he could get and was capable of accepting it without feeling his manhood was threatened. For years his mother had picked out and paired up all his clothes. Now she had passed the torch to his wife. All this meant, he reminded himself as he changed into a pair of blue socks, was that he was a very fortunate man.

The irony was that, once upon a time, Christina had been known for her dubious fashion sense, for dressing more like a member of the Sex Pistols than a practicing attorney. All that had changed last year when Ben made his run for a Senate seat. In addition to the five thousand other consultants they’d consulted, they’d hired a fashion consultant to tell them how to dress for formal functions, casual events, and television appearances. For Christina, it was a road-to-Damascus experience. Now she had the reputation of being one of the sharpest dressers in Washington. Ben had been asked more than once if she had acquired a fashion degree at some point in her past. With her gorgeous red hair styled in a fetching shoulder-length coif, Ben found her absolutely stunning. Not that he was prejudiced or anything.

“That’s more like it,” she said when he reemerged. “And just for the record, you’re not wearing those Superman boxer shorts, are you?”

“I’m not planning to strip at the White House.”

“Yes, and nothing unplanned ever happens to you, does it?”

“Good point. No, I’m clean.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, and the smile made his spirits soar. Such a beautiful woman. Her face seemed to absolutely glow. Was it all his imagination? She even seemed taller these days. Although he supposed that could have something to do with the heels. “Anything else you need, mon cher amour?”

“No. I’d better go. Traffic is terrible this time of day. And it still takes half an hour to get cleared to enter the White House.”

“Still?”

“Yup.” Ben had been working for almost two months now as a member of the president’s legal team. Robert Griswold was the official special counsel to the president, but he had a staff of four lawyers. After his Senate defeat Ben had been appointed to fill a temporary vacancy on that staff. Despite the loss-not exactly unusual for a Democrat in Oklahoma-Ben’s rankings in popularity polls remained high nationwide as a result of his work during his brief time in the Senate, particularly his work on the controversial Emergency Council bill, which garnered nationwide daily coverage. His oration on the floor of the Senate was widely credited with being the cause of the bill’s ultimate defeat, which endeared him to many, especially in the Democratic party. Still, he’d been flabbergasted when the newly elected president, Roland Kyler, invited him into the White House. “I want the president to have a chance to read my brief. So I’m out of here.”

“Did you have Jones proofread it?”

“I’m an adult, Christina.”

“And you’re the worst speller on earth. Spell-check is not enough for you. Email it to Jones now. He’ll have it proofed by the time you get to the White House.”

He raised his chin a bit. “If you insist. Parting is such sweet sorrow, but-”

“Wait.” She took both of Ben’s hands and snuggled close to him. “Can you believe that sometime today you’re going to see the POTUS?” Christina had always loved hip slang and catchphrases. She’d picked up on the Beltway acronyms in no time at all. “You work hard and try to help him. He’s a good man.”

“You just say that because he did you a favor.”

“No, I say it because it’s true.”