They found nothing except more chaos, more soldiers, pulling Tony and the chef from the pantry, a medic tending them.

Callan rushed into the room, knelt at Tony’s side as they worked on him.

“Will he make it?” Mike heard the awful deadening fear in her voice. She knew too well what Damari was capable of. She wondered idly why Damari hadn’t simply killed them.

“We’re doing our best, ma’am,” the medic said, not looking up. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s still with us. Chef’s gonna be okay, he’s knocked out is all. Medevac is on the way, we’ll get them to the hospital, get them patched up.” He finally looked up at the vice president’s face. “The president, ma’am, will he live?”

Callan swallowed. “I don’t know.”

She looked over at Mike and Nicholas leaning against the counter, the cut on Nicholas’s forehead still trickling blood down the side of his face and onto the collar of his shirt from his collision with the fireplace. Callan walked to them, ignored the blood and embraced them both. They felt her shaking. Then she raised her head and smiled at them.

“Now I owe you my life, too.” She grabbed a towel from the kitchen counter and wiped the blood from Nicholas’s face. “The president will pull through this. He will.” And she raised her head at the sound of the Medevac helicopter landing on the back lawn. “And Tony will live.”

Friday

8 a.m.

82

ROOK TO C2 CHECKMATE

The White House Pressroom

Chief of staff to the vice president of the United States Quinn Costello gave her boss one last hair fluff, handed her a ChapStick, waited for her to smooth it on, then, “Are you ready, Madam Vice President?”

Callan was dressed to kill in a cream suit, heels. She was ready, more than ready. She handed the ChapStick back to Quinn. “I am. Let’s do it.”

The pressroom was packed full, easy to do considering how small it was. Callan had been shocked the first time she saw it—the iconic views were angled beautifully, didn’t show the foreshortened wall in the back of the room, the angle of the seats, the slope of the eastern and western walls. Everyone was smashed in like sardines, every D.C. reporter in their seats already, the room humming, all anxiously awaiting her.

There was no announcement. Callan simply walked in and stepped in front of the lectern. There was a brief moment of shuffling, as every person facing her leaned forward slightly.

She took a breath and said without preamble, “At five o’clock this morning, coalition forces launched air strikes against Iran’s key nuclear sites Arak, Isfahan, Qom, Natanz, and Bushehr, as well as research reactors in Bonab, Ramsar, Tehran, and Parchin. Simultaneously, military sites and identified hideouts of known Hezbollah leaders in Iran, Syria, and Lebanon were struck as well.

“These coordinated strikes are in direct retaliation for Iran’s attempted assassination of President Jefferson Bradley and myself at Camp David.

“I am proud to say our Middle Eastern partners in this action come from all sectors of the region. As you know, President Bradley was in talks in Geneva this past week with representatives of all the countries in the Middle East, trying to find a way to address Iran’s nuclear efforts and to bring peace to this long war-torn region. It was his greatest wish to find a path to the future for those living in the past.”

She looked at the cameras in the back of the room, and away from the reporters, who sat in various states of shock.

And now she spoke directly to those who’d paid Zahir Damari to kill both her and the president, assuming, she thought, any of them had survived the attacks.

“All of you out there who wish us ill, who wish to kill us, make no mistake. We will no longer sit idly by while you plot against us. The strikes this morning are simply a first step toward eradicating the hatred and destruction you spawn throughout the region.

“There will be no more negotiations, no more concessions, no more compromises that are always from our side. We have sent you our first message. If need be, there will be more. You cannot hide. You cannot run. We are coming for you. We are doing all we can to minimize collateral damage in these attacks, unlike you, our enemies.”

She took a sip of water, looked from face to face. You could hear a pin drop in the room.

“Iran’s movement against us was an open declaration of war. To that end, I say, yes, this is a war. It will be swift, and it will be just, and at its conclusion, perhaps, then, we can make peace.

“As you have already heard, President Bradley was gravely injured in the assassination attempt. He continues to be treated in an undisclosed location, for his safety. He is in a medically induced coma while the doctors endeavor to save his life. I am happy to report he is showing signs of improvement this morning, and I have no reason to feel he will not make a full recovery.

“For the moment, though, he is unable to discharge the duties of his office. I am following the steps set forth in our Constitution under the twenty-fifth amendment to lead this country in its time of need. When the president is capable of returning to active duty, I will return to my role as vice president.

“In the meantime, I will execute the duties of the office, and continue to punish those who dared attack us on our own soil.

“May God watch over our coalition forces in this endeavor. Thank you, God bless you, and God bless America.”

The room exploded with shouted questions as Callan stepped away from the lectern. Quinn gave her a smile and a thumbs-up, and the press secretary took the stand to handle the questions.

Nicholas and Mike were waiting outside the pressroom, watching Callan on the monitors in the small hallway. They heard a reporter yell after Callan, “Madam Vice President, what happened to the person who tried to kill you?”

They watched her turn, raise her hand, and instantly there was silence. She said in a loud, clear voice, “He was shot and killed.” And then she came out of the room and was walking quickly toward them. “Walk with me,” she said, not pausing, and they followed her to the Cabinet Room. The long table was full. Discreet brass placards with the names of the president’s cabinet identified those Mike didn’t recognize.

The room erupted into applause as they entered. Every cabinet member got to their feet.

Callan brought Mike and Nicholas to the head of the table, a hand on each back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce you to the people who saved the life of President Bradley—not once, but twice—and saved me, as well. Special Agents Nicholas Drummond and Michaela Caine are shining examples of the heroes this country is honored to employ in our law enforcement services. We owe them both a debt of gratitude, and when the president is back on his feet, I will be recommending them for the Medal of Honor for their intelligence and their incredible bravery.”

More applause, shouts, and whistles, decorum completely lost after Callan’s words.

Callan raised her hand. “Let me add that Agent Caine was the one who shot the assassin, Zahir Damari, while he was trying to escape.”

More applause.

Callan again raised a hand. “I want to assure all of you that I wasn’t spinning a tale for the media. The president is doing better. The poison Damari used in the champagne was midazolam—you might know it as Versed, a drug they give you before surgery. It was a fatal dose. Without Agent Drummond moving so fast, without the medic really knowing his stuff well enough, the president would be dead. Now he will live.”