"I haven't come across a minefield yet that I couldn't get through."

King flashed his confident grin.

"Your job is to sit back and let everybody else look for the mines.

Tomorrow, for instance, we let Marge take the lead on this negotiation angle.

If it works, we're all one big happy family. If it doesn't, she takes the fall all on her own."

"What if we have to storm the place and we lose thirty… forty… hell, maybe all of the hostages?" Baxter pointed at himself.

"I'm the only one who can order that.

You said it yourself. The American people will never vote for a president who has the slaughter of that many hostages hanging around his neck." Baxter shook his head.

"Shit, I just thought of something else. What if I order the assault and it doesn't work? What if the nation sits down for dinner and they're treated to footage of FBI agents getting killed while trying to storm the White House? My career would be over, and yours too." Baxter's defeatist head-shaking continued, and with gritted teeth, he added,

"We're screwed almost any way you look at this thing."

"Not true," replied King.

"If we pull this off, you'll be a hero." King pointed at his boss.

"You'll be the next president of the United States of America. We just need to play our cards very carefully, and we need to start with Director Tracy.

We miscalculated how he would handle your public reprimand.

We can't have him holding a press conference tomorrow.

If he reads the comments you made when you were campaigning, it would make us look like shit. I think I should go see him. Offer him the olive branch and tell him we want him to stay in charge of the Secret Service and help the FBI.

I'll tell him it was Tutwiler's idea to can him, and you went along with it because you were so upset about the attack. I'll tell him you weren't thinking clearly, and that you're grateful for the service he has given this country… yada… yada… yada. You know the gig. I'll stroke him."

Baxter thought about it for a second and with a tired sigh said, "Go ahead. Do whatever it takes to keep him quiet."

THE WHITE HOUSE was silent as the clock approached midnight. Aziz left the Situation Room and walked down the hall to Horsepower. The door was open, and Aziz entered without knocking. Sitting in a swivel chair, Bengazi was keeping an eye on a bank of black-and-white security monitors. The monitors showed different areas of the grounds around the White House and shots of all the main entrances. Normally the system also kept an eye on areas within the White House, but Bengazi had disabled the cameras for fear that the FBI might find some way to pirate the images and spy on them.

Aziz placed his hand on the back of the chair and asked, "How does everything look?"

"Nice and quiet."

"Good. Have you been getting sleep?"

"Yes."

"How about the men?"

"They are doing fine."

"And the hostages?"

"Asleep."

As Aziz looked at the monitors, the walkie-talkie on his hip squawked and his name barked forth.

Bringing it to his mouth, he said, "Yes."

"Rafique, I have made progress. I think you should come see."

"I'll be right down." Aziz had been not-so-padendy waiting for this update. Having succeeded beyond all of his people's wildest dreams, he was still not content, and would not be until he wrestled the cowardly president from his bunker. He held the White House hostage and the entire government of the United States had come to a grinding halt, but that wasn't enough.

Aziz reached the third basement and headed for the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he found his man sitting on a toolbox, drenched in sweat, and smoking a cigarette.

The short, fat man looked up with a large grin, his nicotine stained teeth topped by a pointy nose and a graying mustache.

Goggles hung from his neck and a pair of orange ear protectors were perched atop his head, giving him the appearance of a plump rodent.

The man placed his large and thick horn-rimmed glasses back on his face and waved toward the outer door to the bunker with a smile.

"Open sesame."

Aziz stepped forward and pushed on the steel door. It swung inward, revealing a room and a shiny vaultlike door at the other end. A rush of emotion swept over him as he thought of the president and his bodyguards sitting on the other side of the door, thinking they were safe. Aziz walked slowly across the concrete floor and stopped just in front of the vault door. Extending his hand, he placed his palm flat on the smooth surface. Clenching his fist, Aziz hammered on the door twice. No sound reverberated. Spinning away from the door, Aziz looked at the last minute addition to his cause.

The frumpy man before him was a gift from Aziz's newest benefactor. A man who had a very personal stake in how Aziz's mission turned out. The slovenly safecracker standing in the doorway had come complete with his own look and unique talent. As it was explained to Aziz, the door that was installed on the president's bunker was of the same type that the U.S. military used for all of their command-and-control bunkers, and was designed to withstand large blasts, not drills and acetylene blowtorches.

Aziz looked at the man and asked, "How long will this door take?"

The safecracker exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, "If I push it and risk burning out one of the drills, I could probably have it open in thirty hours."

"What happens if you lose one of the drills?"

"Then we are in trouble." The little thief shrugged.

"It could end up taking three to four days."

"And if you play it safe?"

"I can have it open in forty-eight hours."

Aziz put his hands in a prayerful grip and bounced them off his chin twice.

"Forty-eight hours will suffice." And with a wave of his finger, he cautioned, "But no longer than that."

Aziz walked past him and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, Mustafa." Aziz left the room, leaving his little thief to retrieve the crown jewel. As he walked down the hallway, he thought. All I have to do is keep them at bay for two more days.

THE LIGHTS WERE off in the bunker, and everyone was trying to get some sleep. Warch was lying on the bunk closest to the door. The Secret Service agent was wide-awake. He could hear President Hayes snoring at the far end of the room, and every minute or so squeaking springs could be heard as someone turned on the narrow beds.

Warch wondered how his wife and children were doing.

His family would be afraid, but that couldn't be helped. Being married to someone who was trained to throw himself in front of an oncoming bullet was a little nerve-racking, but Sara was strong. She would have the kids to keep her busy, and her parents were in Baltimore. The Service would tell her and the kids that he was all right. Warch's thoughts turned to the other wives and husbands that weren't as fortunate. Over and over again, Wirch had replayed the frantic radio traffic that had barked out over his earpiece while they rushed the president to the bunker.

"Agents down! Agents down!

"And then there was the explosion and the machine gun fire. And now, over twelve hours later—nothing.

Everything added up to one conclusion: Aziz and his terrorists were in control of the White House. Warch ran down a list of the faces and names of his agents who were on the day shift. He couldn't help but wonder which ones had made it out alive and which ones were dead.

Still, despite what was undoubtedly the worst day in the history of the Secret Service, they had at least saved the president from the talons of Aziz. Warch savored that one accomplishment as he felt sleep coming on.

He rolled toward the wall and let out a yawn When most of the air was expelled from his lungs, he froze.