Stansfield stopped just long enough to make it seem as though he was giving them a chance to reply and then said, "We've made a mistake with you two." He pointed to Campbell and Kennedy. "I don't want you attending any more meetings.

I want you right here monitoring Rapp and his progress.

There are too many meddlesome issues that General Flood and I can handle. I want you two focused on Mitch and how best to aid him. He is our eyes." The elderly spymaster looked from Campbell to Kennedy and back.

"The way I see it… he's doing exactly what we sent him in there to do.

Now, General Campbell, if you want to go in there, and get Mitch on the radio, and read him the riot act, that's fine. That is undoubtedly your prerogative, and I'm not going to stand in your way. But, it won't do us a bit of good, because he won't listen."

Stansfield could see that his words were getting to Campbell. The ranger's demeanor had calmed ever so slightly.

"What I would propose is that I have a talk with him and explain how important it is that he communicate his every action so we can deal with something if it comes up."

Before Stansfield could start his next sentence, the large phone on his desk started to ring. Stansfield looked down to see where the call was coming from. On the small screen were a string of letters that caused his brow to knot into a frown. The light on the secure phone continued to blink and Stansfield debated whether he should answer it. After two more rings his frail hand moved slowly toward the receiver.

THE AMBULANCE FOUGHT its way through the late morning traffic. Downtown D.C. was a quagmire. The security perimeter around the White House had been expanded from two to three blocks to the north, east, and west. To the south, Constitution Avenue had been blocked off, and the section of the National Mall between Seventeenth and Fourteenth was also closed.

The normally congested downtown was unbearable.

The driver of the ambulance inched forward on Pennsylvania Avenue. In his side mirror he could see the large dome of the Capitol, and in front of him, a sea of cars locked in gridlock trying to make their way into the heart of the business district and around the White House. Salim Rusan was surprisingly calm. Part of this was due to his faith in Aziz's plan, and part of it was due to the fact that he would much rather be stuck in traffic than stuck in the White House.

The ambulance was the last car to make it through the stoplight at Ninth Street. The monolithic Hoover Building appeared on his right—the famed FBI headquarters. Rusan did not smile. It was not in his personality. He was more like Bengazi than Aziz. He was a worrier, and that was why Aziz had chosen him for this crucial mission. R-usan was both the backup plan and the surprise. Depending on how things went, he was to do one of three things. The first was easy and harmless, and despite what Aziz had told the men, Rusan seriously doubted that option would ever present itself. It would be either the second or the third plan that would have to be executed, and both of those would lead to death. Rusan was sure of it. Not just the death of his comrades, but the hostages, the American FBI agents, and hopefully hundreds of others.

Rusan's only hope was that in the chaos that would erupt when the Americans tried to retake their White House, he could further add to the confusion and buy some of his friends the time to get away. Rusan thought he had a chance to survive.

The plan for his escape was good, well thought out, and just might work.

It was unnerving, nonetheless, to be heading back into the center of the crisis, to the spot where, just three days earlier, he had fired from the roof of the Washington Hotel and killed a dozen-plus Americans. The boldness of the plan was what gave success a chance. Practically every law-enforcement officer in the world was looking for him. The old him, he corrected himself. They would never make the connection between Salim Rusan, the dark-haired Islamic militant terrorist, and Steve Hernandez, the openly gay paramedic from Miami. No, he would continue to inch his way toward the White House, taking his time. When he reached the first roadblock, he would hit the lights on the roof, roll down the window, and tell the D.C. police that he had been told to come down in case they needed him. Aziz had told him it was standard procedure for this type of crisis. He would be one of dozens of ambulances waiting to rush people to the hospital if the need arose.

Rusan had time. The American assassins did not show their faces when the sun was out. They would wait until it was dark, and ifaziz's timetable was right, they would come either tonight or tomorrow. As long as he had everything in position within an hour or two after the sunset, he would be fine. DEEP IN THOUGHT, Anna Rielly sat, feet pulled close, arms wrapped around her shins, and her chin resting in the valley between her knees. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back in its ponytail again. The long sleeves of President Hayes's black sweatshirt were rolled up several times. She was comfortable, warm, and had a little bit of food in her stomach along with two Tylenol 3s, which helped dull her aching jaw and ribs. All things considered, she was doing pretty darn well.

How strange life could be, she thought to herself. One week ago she was in Chicago working at the station, living in her apartment in Lincoln Park. She was ready for a change, in both her career and her personal life. Since the rape, things had been jumbled. There had been the boyfriend who couldn't handle what she had been through. He was a pharmaceutical rep, and when offered a promotion and transfer to Phoenix, he jumped at the chance and told Anna he couldn't love someone who couldn't love him back. She'd blamed herself for that one until she was healthy enough to realize that if he had really loved her, he would have given her more than seven months to recover.

It had actually turned out to be a blessing. Spending the last several years alone had allowed her to grow in strength.

Independence and self-reliance were great things. The best part about them was that the only person who could let you down was yourself. The down side, which she was now experiencing, was that you woke up one day and realized you had either pushed everybody away or not allowed anyone to get close enough. Either way, you were left with a lonely existence.

Rielly thought fate had to figure into the equation somewhere.

It always did for those large and defining moments in life. What kind of twisted fate had led her to this strange moment, this crossroad? If she hadn't gotten the job as the new White House correspondent, if she had missed her flight to D.C." if her alarm had failed to wake her up three days ago, if she had been released with that first group of hostages, if that pig hadn't dragged her up to the president's bedroom? Rielly's eyes got big. If Mitch Kruse, or whatever his real name was, hadn't stepped in when he did? Wow, Rielly thought as a shiver ran up her spine. The thought of Kruse not showing up when he did was horrifying. She owed him a lot. More than she could probably ever express.

Rielly stared blankly at the wall opposite her. Her thoughts settled in on the man named Kruse, and on the odds of him appearing exactly when he did and all of the possible outcomes in between. It was staggering. Call it fate, call it a guardian angel, call it what you like, but someone or something had stepped in and put him there at that exact moment in time.

A smile fell across Rielly's face, and she looked upward to say a little prayer of thanks.

BEFORE PICKING UP the phone, Stansfield told Kennedy to listen in on a second phone located on the other side of the room. He then asked Generals Flood and Campbell to stay silent. Stansfield's hand reached down and picked up the handset.