“Yes, ma’am.”

She’d met her husband early in her Marine career. He was a lieutenant in a line unit while she was the quartermaster officer assigned to the same headquarters. This was in the early days when women in the Marines were few and far between. She wanted to laugh every time she saw some woman in the papers claiming she’d been sexually harassed by some colleague making a comment. The harassment she had faced had been far beyond the scope of comments.

That was until she met Bill one night in the officer’s club. When another officer had committed “rodeo” on her-leaning over, biting her in the ass, and hanging on. She had grabbed a chair and smashed it over the man’s head. He’d come up swinging and Bill had stepped between and taken him out with one punch. After that there was no more rodeo in the O’Club-at least not when she and Bill were there.

He’d given up his career for hers, following her from assignment to assignment, and then here to Washington, where he saw her less than before. She felt she owed him at least a brief appearance before dealing with this strange man.

The limousine pulled into the long drive that led to her house. White fences bordered the drive on either side, and she felt a moment of contentment and not for the last time considered that maybe it was time to retire. The driver stopped in front of the double main door.

“Wait for me,” Callahan ordered as he opened the door for her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled as she saw the balloons tied to the lights on either side of the door. “Happy Anniversary” on the left and “I Love You” on the right. She felt a stab of guilt for not bringing a gift. There’d been no time on the trip. While others in her position would send aides to do a job like that, she felt it was wrong for two reasons: one professional, the other personal. Professionally, she felt it was abusing an aide to give them such a task. Personally, she doubted if anyone could pick out something that Bill would believe came from her. But as she turned the knob on the front door, she wondered whether perhaps she needed to relax her rules just the slightest bit.

She stepped in and was greeted with the sight of Bill hanging from the chandelier that dominated the large foyer just before the wide staircase. She didn’t even have a moment for the sight to impact her senses when a hand snaked over her mouth and a cloth was jammed in, choking off her cry of dismay.

Powerful arms pinned hers behind her back. She reacted instinctively, stomping down with her right heel where the attacker’s shin should be. She heard a grunt of pain but the arms didn’t lessen their grip. Instead they picked her up and carried her to a large armchair. Padded cuffs were snapped over her wrists, locking her in place.

In that moment when the hands released her and she realized she couldn’t get out of the chair, the reality of what she had seen when she stepped in the house hit her, a jagged razor of pain cutting through her stomach up into her heart. Tears poured and her head dropped onto her chest.

But not for long. A hand from behind gripped her chin between its powerful fingers and forced her head up. A man stood in front of her. He was well dressed in an expensive suit. His face was smooth and unblemished, with clear blue eyes under thick, wavy blond hair. His age was hard for her to determine; anywhere from thirty to fifty was her best guess.

“Mrs. Callahan.” The man went over to the window and with a finger making a small opening peeked through the blinds toward the drive. Through her grief she noted he was wearing thin leather gloves. “Nexus. Led us right to you. We knew they had a point of contact in the administration; they always do. We just didn’t know who.” He let the blind fall back in place. “And frankly, we really didn’t care who. But-” He shrugged. “Things change.”

She turned and looked toward the foyer. She could just see Bill’s feet, dangling four feet above the marble floor. It was real. For a moment she thought she’d been having a nightmare. Now she knew she was living one.

“We had to race to beat you home,” the man said. “We didn’t know who he would be picking up at Andrews.”

She shifted her gaze back to him.

“Ah, yes. I know the questions you have. Who am I? Why am I doing this? Why did I do that-” He inclined his head toward the foyer. He left the room and came back with a dining room chair and set it five feet in front of her. He sat down and turned the lapel of his coat. A pin sparkled. Diamonds and other precious stones on a silver background in the form of an elongated cross.

“You didn’t think we were real, did you?” he asked as he once more hid the pin. “Strange how that is. After all, you know for certain that Nexus is real. Hell, they must have come to your office and briefed you. Do you think Eisenhower had nothing better to do when he signed that executive order? Do you think there can be resistance without a force to resist against? Not that Nexus has been much resistance. But we can’t take any chances.”

He glanced at his watch. “Any time now.”

The driver checked his watch and looked at the front door once more. He was startled when someone rapped on the glass next to his head. He turned in surprise and saw a child, about twelve, on a bike. He powered down the window. “Yes?”

The child smiled. Then began to ride away.

The driver frowned and the bullet from the silenced sniper rifle hit right in the center of that frown, taking the back half of his head off. Gore splattered the glass divider and front seat. The child had already turned the corner and was gone. A car pulled up behind the limousine and a man got out. He reached in the open window and opened the door. He shoved the body aside, started the engine, and drove off.

The man checked his watch once more. “Well, that’s done.” He stood, the chair in his hands. “You came home and found that your husband killed himself.” He looked down at the chair. “This belongs there.”

He carried it to the foyer and lay it on its back below Bill’s feet. Then he returned. “The love of your life is dead. There’s only one thing for you to do. The question is-how would someone like you kill yourself? I spent the time waiting for you considering that. And the answer was in your closet.”

He reached behind him and pulled out a nickel-plated Beretta automatic pistol. The one her battalion had given her at the conclusion of her command. He pulled the slide back, chambering a round. Then he flipped off the safety.

He flipped it expertly in his hand, now holding it by the barrel. The man behind her reached out and took the gun. She began struggling as he unhooked her hands, then recuffed the left one to the chair. The man’s left arm went around her throat, applying pressure. She began to feel faint when the cold grip of the gun was placed in her right hand, the man’s hand over hers. She had no power to resist as the gun was swung up, the muzzle against her right temple. The man slid her finger through the trigger guard, his on top. Her eyes darted to the side, to see Bill’s feet and the chair, and she felt the pain once more.

She was content when the man exerted pressure on her finger.