“Well, John, that’s the thing. Party analysts are clear that I have a really good shot at winning and taking with me a lot of politicians riding on my coattails. But—”

London leaned forward, too, face a little perplexed. “But?”

Blake sighed. He’d done some deepwater fishing and at least the fish fought back. London was like a farm fish, way too easy to reel in. He pulled a long, sad face.

“But—I find myself unable to get past the Massacre. Alex was my best friend. We’d been best friends since childhood. The Delvauxes were like family to me. And, to tell the truth, I’m still a little shell-shocked by that night. I should have died along with the others. It is a miracle I’m still alive. I’m having a lot of trouble processing the attack. I’m having stress flashbacks.”

Blake put a little tremolo in his voice.

London placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, no doubt mind spinning to know where Blake was going with this. “I’m so sorry, Blake. Anything I can do—anything at all. All you have to do is ask.”

Blake managed not to smile. London wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.

He briefly touched London’s hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t know how much I appreciate this, John. And, as a matter of fact, there is something you can do for me. Something big.”

Surprise flared in London’s eyes. His expression of help had been purely rote. But he knew how the game was played and gave a faint smile, meant to be encouraging. “You name it, Hector, and it’s yours.”

Starting to reel in the fish...

Blake took in a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something portentous. He looked London straight in the eye and saw him repress a flinch.

“I haven’t spoken with anyone about this yet, John. I wanted to sound you out first. I’ve thought about this long and hard and prayed on it, too. You know better than anyone my sense of duty and love of this country, so the decision has been very painful. But the fact of the matter is, John...at this moment, I am unable to face a primary campaign. I lost too many people in the Massacre and I haven’t finished grieving. The loss has simply been too great.” He leaned over and clasped London’s knee. “So that is why I am asking you to make the sacrifice for me. With your permission, I’d like to go back to the party and throw my weight behind your candidacy.”

Hand on knee, Blake could feel the jolt of excitement run through London. He’d just been handed the keys to the kingdom and it was Christmas and a thousand birthdays all rolled into one. This election was special. The Massacre was fresh on everyone’s mind. The country was still traumatized and longed for a leader to rally round. The mantle of the Delvauxes was supposed to be Blake’s, but he was passing it on to London.

More a coronation than an election.

London was trying to repress his emotions, but the skin around his nostrils grew pale. A pulse beat in a vein along his throat. He laid a hand over his heart and Blake had no doubt that it was a genuine gesture, not a studied one. His heart was probably jackhammering.

London’s fondest dream, handed to him on a plate. Something he would never have been able to gain on his own, and it was going to be given to him.

“There’s more.” Blake gazed deep into London’s eyes. “I have some very powerful and wealthy people behind me, John beyond the party itself. You have no idea the resources that we will make available to you. If you don’t sleep with an underage punk rocker or get caught with cocaine up your nose or strangle a staffer, the job is yours. The position will be yours.” He bowed his head, keeping all irony at bay. “Mr. President.”

London huffed out an excited breath. “Oh my God. Believe me, Hector, when I say I will do my utmost to be worthy—”

Blake cut him off before he started sounding like a campaign ad. “However,” he said sternly. “There are a few promises you’ll have to make to me. To us. To the people who will be backing you.”

“Anything,” London promised fervently. And Blake had no doubt he was telling the truth. He’d do anything, anything at all. Good.

“The people behind me have incredible resources which they will place at your disposal. But they are going to want certain things. Certain favors. Nothing that could harm the country, of course. Just things that will ease their business dealings. You need to make a commitment to me that on the rare occasions I ask, you will follow my suggestions.”

“Absolutely. Anything you want.” London’s head was bobbing enthusiastically. He’d sell his firstborn to sex traffickers to be president. He thought he was agreeing to getting a few trade treaties passed or moving legislation that would cut business taxes. He had no idea.

Because phase two was not becoming president. Phase two was controlling the president. And Blake had just secured that.

Blake couldn’t move if he was kept under 24/7 surveillance by the Secret Service. But he certainly could as a private citizen with untold wealth. Because beyond phase two were phases three, four and five.

After which America as he knew it would be gone.

Excellent.

Chapter Four

Portland

Isabel Delvaux?

Well, fuck.

The Delvauxes were American aristocracy. Joe knew about them but not enough to know individual members. He knew that the family was political, with many members involved in environmentalism. Another couple of kids were involved in movies. The older generation was powerful. Alex Delvaux—Isabel’s father—had been talked about as the next president of the United States.

“Fuck me,” he said. “She’s rich and powerful.”

“No,” Felicity said. “Not anymore. Not the woman I saw. She’s been reduced to rubble.”

Felicity walked back into the kitchen to the big pan she’d set on the counter. Some amazing smells were coming from it. Joe lifted the aluminum and took a deep breath. “Wow. Big spaghetti.”

“Baked ziti, you barbarian,” Metal answered affectionately. “Are we going to get to eat this, too? I mean, after the boeuf bourguignon this seems almost too much.” He closed his eyes and took in the amazing aroma, too. “Ah, a woman who cooks.” Felicity shot an elbow to his ribs. “What? This is amazing stuff.”

“I cook,” Felicity protested.

Wisely, Metal kept his mouth shut. His fiancée was beautiful and super smart and scary good with IT. Her few stabs at cooking had practically landed them in the hospital. The only thing she cooked well was takeout.

“Isabel said to put this in the freezer, take it out an hour before you want to serve it and put it in the oven at 375 degrees for forty minutes and let it set for about a quarter of an hour before your guests arrive. I can’t believe you get to eat like this.”

“Hey.” Metal cocked his head. “I cook.”

She smiled smugly. “Not like this you don’t.” She turned to look at Joe. He probably still looked stunned.

Isabel, a Delvaux.

He’d been thinking that when she got better they could go out. Well, actually he’d been thinking more along the lines of when she got better they could have sex. A lot.

That seemed pretty foolish now. What would a Delvaux want with a beat-up former soldier?

“She’s rich and famous,” he said again. No use beating around the bush with Metal and Felicity. Metal knew him way too well and Felicity...well, she’d become one of the guys.

“No,” Felicity said crisply. “She’s not. I told you that. She’s a woman alone. Sit down.”

Joe raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve learned to just obey her,” Metal said. “Makes things easier.”

Joe sat down.

“So, Joe, what do you know about the Washington Massacre?” Felicity asked. “It happened while you were in the hospital between your third and fourth surgery so I imagine you read about it after the fact.”