Yet what they had not been exactly prepared for was a situation that might be materializing a few feet away right now. What if the danger the president was in was coming from his wife?

Could they use deadly force if necessary? Could they even kill her to save him? That was not really spelled out in the Secret Service manual, but each agent was thinking the answer to that was probably "yes."

This had happened once before if presidential lore was to be believed. Warren G. Harding had been president and he and his mistress had been found out by Mrs. Harding. They had taken refuge in a closet in the White House and the angry First Lady had attempted to chop down the door, allegedly with a fireman's ax. The Secret Service had to delicately relieve her of the weapon and Harding had survived. However, he had succumbed later in a San Francisco hotel room under mysterious circumstances while still president. Some thought the missus had finally gotten her revenge through a poisoned dish served to her husband. That had never been proved because Mrs. Harding had not allowed an autopsy, and had ordered her husband's body quickly embalmed. It was a fine example of a cheated-on wife's sheer will topping the desires of an entire nation.

Fire axes were no longer kept in the White House. And while there was a small kitchen in the private quarters, the First Lady never really did any of the cooking anymore. Or if she did, it was far from certain that any president who knew how Harding had died would actually eat it.

Larry Foster racked his brain, trying to remember if there were any letter openers in the personal quarters that could be used as a weapon. A heavy lamp that could crack a presidential skull? A poker from the fireplace that could end that supreme life on his watch? Foster thought he could feel the ulcer actually forming in his belly as he stood in the hall contemplating the end of his career. Though it was far from warm inside the White House, sweat stains appeared under Foster's armpits and trickles of the stuff rose on his forehead. He and his team inched closer as their collective heart rates spiked.

Each of the agents could envision the next day's headlines in six-inch-high letters:

SECRET SERVICE KILLS FIRST LADY TO SAVE PRESIDENT.

There were half a dozen heavily armed agents poised in the hallway to take action if necessary. And all six of their asses clenched with nearly this very same thought at nearly the very same time.

Twenty anxious minutes later Larry Foster's phone rang. It was the man.

"Yes sir?" he said quickly.

He listened intently, his features finally dissolving into confusion. But he was the president so Foster only had one thing to say.

"Right away, sir."

He clicked off and looked at his second in command. "Bruce, call Andrews and get a bird ready."

"You mean AF-One?"

"Any plane the president rides on is Air Force One."

"But I mean-"

"I know what you meant," snapped Foster. "No, we're not taking the 747. See if one of the support planes is available. The 757 maybe, no insignias."

"Wolfman is taking an unmarked 757 to New York?" Bruce said, looking astonished.

Foster said grimly, "We're heading somewhere, but I don't think it's New York."

"But we haven't sent an advance team anywhere else."

"We're going stealth, like we do to Iraq and Afghanistan."

"But we still advance-team it. It takes a week of logistics minimum for the man to make a trip."

"Tell me something I don't know, Bruce. Thing is, we don't have a week. We've got a few hours and I don't even know where the hell we're going. So call Andrews and get me a ride. And I'm going to get on the horn to the director and see how the hell I'm supposed to handle this. Because let me tell you, I've seen a lot over the years, but this is new territory for me."

CHAPTER 74

QUARRY CHECKED the machinery and oxygen levels that were keeping Tippi alive. It was all working fine off the fully charged generator. It was still dark outside; the sun would not be up for hours yet.

As he touched his daughter's face, he thought about his phone call with Jane Cox. He had never talked to a First Lady before; folks like him never had that opportunity. He had read about her for years, of course, followed her husband's career. He had expected more from her on the phone, educated, refined, but battle-tested person that she was. But she had disappointed him. She'd sounded human on the phone. Meaning scared. So safe in her high tower all this time; never saw the shit going on down below. Well, she had seen it now. And she would see it even closer soon enough.

He took a long breath. This was really it. At any point up to this Quarry could have called it off. And he almost had until the walls in the basement had brought him back. He pulled Pride and Prejudice from his pocket. By the light of his daddy's old flashlight he read the last chapter of the novel. And this really would be the last chapter he would ever read to her.

He closed the book and laid it gently on her chest. Quarry took one of her hands and squeezed. He had done this for years, always hoping that she would squeeze back, but she never had. He had long since given up the thought that he ever would feel Tippi's fingers curl around his own; they didn't this time either. He put her hand back down, slid it under the covers.

He slipped the small tape recorder out of his pocket, set it on the bed and turned it on. For the next several minutes he and his daughter listened to Cameron Quarry saying her last words on earth. As always, Quarry spoke the last line along with his dead wife.

"I love you, Tippi, darling. Momma loves you with all my heart. I can't wait to hold you again, baby girl. When we're both healthy and fine in the arms of Jesus."

He switched the recorder off and pocketed it.

The memories washed over him, coming in long, undulating waves. It could've turned out so differently. It should've turned out so differently.

"Your momma will be real happy to see you, Tippi. I wish I could be there too."

He leaned down and kissed his daughter for the final time.

He left the door open, and then turned and looked back in the room. Even in the dark he could make out Tippi's form under the illumination of the machines that had been the only thing keeping her from the grave all these years.

They had tried to get the Quarrys to pull the plug many times.

Persistent vegetative state. No brain activity. Brain dead in fact, they had told the couple, throwing in big medical jargon that Quarry felt certain was meant to both intimidate and confuse. After listening to them wax eloquent over the ultimate fate of his daughter, Quarry had asked each of them one simple question. "If she was your child would you let her die?"

The blank faces and still tongues he had gotten were all the answer he needed.

A part of him was unwilling to leave his child now, but he really had no choice. He stepped off the porch and looked toward the treeline. In the little bunker that Quarry had dug out and reinforced with wood sat Carlos, remote in hand, with one cable line hooked into a port on the device, and the other end embedded in the wall of the little house. The bunker was covered with dirt and grass, and underneath all that was lead sheathing that would block X-rays and other electronic imaging. Knowing that the Feds would be bringing specialized equipment, Quarry had fashioned the lead covering from old X-ray blankets he'd gotten from a dentist's office.

No one looking at it from even a few feet away would be able to determine that a man was in there watching, and the lead covers would block most anything the Feds would have with them. The other cable line Quarry had run down the tree and then underground and into the bunker where it was hooked into the small TV monitor that Carlos was now no doubt staring at right now. It gave him the live feed from the camera in the tree. Carlos was supposed to stay in the bunker for as long as he needed for things to clear out. The bunker was ventilated and he had plenty of food and water. The plan was for him to escape to Mexico and from there to keep heading south. Quarry hoped he made it.