She fished her coffee cup out of a precariously stacked pile on the drain board and filled it. She heard voices coming from the conference room as she walked down the hall cautiously sipping her coffee. It was fresh and strong. She was willing to bet the commander had made it. It didn’t matter what time Renee arrived for work, Cam was always there first. So too, it seemed, was Valerie. Cam and Valerie sat at one end of a long conference table, cups of coffee and open file folders in front of them. Cam tapped her pen on a tabletop as they talked.

“Morning,” Renee said as she sat down opposite Cam.

Both women returned her greeting, then Cam said to her, “We’ll wait for the others to brief formally, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to be out of pocket a fair amount for the next week or so, and you’ll be in charge here.”

“Yes ma’am,” Renee said. Six weeks ago she had thought her career was over. She’d taken a bullet in the knee during the raid on Matheson’s mountain compound, and the injury was the kind to put her out of the running for any kind of field duty in the FBI despite the fact that she’d made almost a total recovery. Then Cam had offered her something better. Not just a place on her newly formed OHS team, but responsibility for the antiterrorism arm of their operation.

“You and the rest of the team need to focus on finding Matheson,” Cam went on, “while I…” She grinned ruefully and shook her head. “While I am busy doing the marriage stuff.”

“Wedding planning,” Valerie said in her low, husky voice. “It’s called wedding planning, Cameron. I know, since it’s all Diane talks about these days. I think she’s enjoying your wedding a lot more than you are at the moment.”

“It couldn’t be a worse time to be getting married,” Cam said.

“With all respect, Commander,” Renee said, “I think it’s a perfect time.”

Cam raised an eyebrow.

“Personally, of course, I think it’s great. But it’s more than that. You and Blair are sending a message. You’re telling the world that life goes on, that we’re not afraid, that we won’t be beaten. That we won’t live our lives in fear. You’re making a statement for all of us.”

“Ah hell,” Cam muttered. “The last thing I want is to be a symbol of anything.”

“Blair has always been a symbol, and never more than now,” Valerie said, sounding oddly gentle. “Standing beside her in this is another way of telling the world she’s not touchable.”

Renee wasn’t surprised that Valerie was the one to point out the one thing that would mean more to the commander than anything else. Blair’s safety. Valerie and the commander had a history, and as much as the rest of them admired Cam and would give their lives for her, they weren’t her friends—not in the way that Valerie was. No one other than Blair and Valerie ever really spoke to the commander without a certain degree of reservation and respect. The boundaries were necessary to enable the team to function, and although Valerie was officially part of the team, she would always be a little bit apart. Just as she was a little bit apart from all of them.

“Making Blair a target hardly seems a great way to keep her safe,” Cam said, almost to herself.

Valerie extended her hand as if she were going to touch the commander’s forearm, and then pulled it back. “The more visible she is, the tighter her security will be. She’ll be safer in Colorado than she might be walking down the street here in New York. I know it will be difficult, but try to enjoy the next week or so.”

“I agree,” Renee said. “Blair has great security. Mac and Ellen are doing the advance groundwork at the lodge, and you know they’re the best at it.”

Ellen Marks, a seasoned agent, had been on sick leave for almost three months following an injury sustained in a bomb blast. She and Mac Phillips were already at the Rocky Mountain ski resort where the wedding would take place. Part of their advance work included coordinating plans with local authorities for security along Blair’s anticipated travel routes, detailing evacuation plans in case of injury or imminent threat, and liaising with representatives from the local media.

Cam nodded. “It’s good to have Ellen back on the team.”

“And we’re close to getting this bastard, Cam,” Valerie said with quiet vehemence. “We know who he is, we know where he came from, and we know where his last base of operations was. Felicia is cross-referencing his known contacts—family, ex-Army associates, military school graduates—against names Ricky is pulling from the ATF and FBI patriot watch lists. We’ll find him through his friends.” Her gaze became distant and her voice dropped to a whisper. “The friends are always the weak links.”

Renee wondered if that was why Valerie seemed to have no friends, no family, no connections to anyone except the commander, and now, Diane. The Company discouraged its field operatives from forming intimate relationships, even friendships, because friends could be compromised. Unless of course the relationship itself provided cover. Valerie had been alone for years except for her handler, whom Cam had ordered killed just weeks before. Renee tried to imagine what it would be like to be violently cut off from the only real relationship one had ever had, even if it was a manipulative one. The loneliness had to be devastating, but Valerie never seemed anything except calm and cool. And she had Diane now. Sometimes it seemed love was all that kept any of them going. Renee allowed herself a brief moment to think about Paula and to be thankful for having found her, before refocusing on the hunt for the man who had helped destroy so many lives.

“We have to dig under rocks and sift through a quagmire of disconnected bits of information to get even a whiff of Matheson’s trail,” Cam said bitterly, “but all he has to do is listen to the news or read the daily paper—or better yet, check the goddamn White House Web site—to know exactly where Blair is.” Cam stood abruptly, surprising Renee with the barely constrained tension in her body and the rage in her voice. The commander never lost control. “While we keep her locked down, he’s walking around free. It’s wrong.”

Renee caught the look of concern that flashed across Valerie’s face for a fraction of a second before her usual impenetrable expression returned. They all tended to forget that the commander was human, because they looked to her as their foundation. Her sense of duty was absolute, the clarity of her belief never cloudy, and her certainty of the right course never in doubt. She epitomized what every young agent dreamed of being—brave, honorable, and just. And for those who’d seen battle, like Renee, her strength of purpose helped them cast aside their own disillusionment and disappointment. Cam helped them believe that justice would triumph. And in all of this, she stood alone, and that, Renee realized, was unfair. Sometimes they all needed to let her be human.

“I’m going to get the morning reports together for the briefing,” Renee said as she rose. “See you in a few minutes.”

She closed the door gently on her way out.

Cam stared at the closed door for a moment, then sank into her seat. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Sorry.”

Valerie moved her chair closer until her stocking-clad knees just barely touched Cam’s dark blended silk trousers. She rested her fingertips on Cam’s thigh. “You needn’t apologize to me.”

“What are the chances that he’ll give up?”

Valerie considered lying, because Cam looked tired. More than just tired, she looked soul-weary. At one time, Cameron had escaped her pain and loneliness by taking refuge in Valerie’s arms. She had comforted Cam then, and by doing so had found her own solace. She had nothing as simple to give now, because that door were closed for both of them. So she gave her what she knew Cam needed most. The truth. “He won’t give up. He might have had some rational plan before September—some reason, at least in his mind, for what he was doing. I don’t think that’s the case now. He’s a fanatic, and Blair is a symbol of everything he seeks to destroy.”

“Why go after her and not her father?” Cam asked, as if there were some reason to insanity.

“I don’t know,” Valerie said. “Perhaps because she’s more real than her father. The presidency is an institution as much as a person, but Blair is a living, breathing woman. Her loss would strike at the heart of people.”

The pain in Cam’s chest at the thought of Blair hurt was real, as acute as the bullet that had torn into her flesh and spilled her blood out onto the sidewalk in front of this very building. When she looked at Valerie, agony swam in her eyes. “If I find him, I’ll kill him. No questions asked.”

“Yes,” Valerie said calmly. “If you do, and it comes to that, I’ll make sure it appears totally justifiable.”

“Just like that? Your total support, even if I’m wrong?”

“You’re not wrong. We both know he’s guilty. He’s a murderer and a traitor.”

“What about the law? What about justice?”

“Justice,” Valerie said contemplatively. “Justice is often so much simpler than the laws we create to define it. There isn’t a member of this team or Blair’s security detail who would question the rightness of eliminating him.”

“That makes us vigilantes.”

“No, that makes us soldiers, and make no mistake, Cameron, this is war.”

Cam placed her hand over Valerie’s. “I don’t want you or any of the others to jeopardize yourselves for me.”

“That’s an order you can’t give.” She smiled as she threaded her fingers through Cam’s. “Or I should say, you can give it, but I doubt that any of us will listen.”

“Some leader I am,” Cam muttered.

“That’s exactly right.”

The door opened and Felicia Davis, a statuesque African American woman who looked as if she should be gracing the pages of a fashion magazine rather than hacking into databases, said, “The team’s assembled and there’s a message for you, Commander.” Her gaze flickered down to their joined hands and then away, her expression never changing. “Do you two want more coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Cam said, continuing to clasp Valerie’s hand lightly. “We’ll be right there.”

“Good enough.”

Valerie waited until they were alone again, then asked, “Does Blair know just how badly you need her to stay out of the public eye right now?”

“No. And I’m not going to tell her.”

“Why not? If she knew what this was doing to you—”

“No. Everyone who has ever loved her has asked her to give up something, and I’m not going to be another one.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to find him and make sure he’s not a problem.”

Cam smiled grimly. “I have a feeling if we don’t, he’ll find us.”

Chapter Three

“Ricky, why don’t you bring us up to speed on your frontrunners,” Cam said, addressing the newest member of her team. Ricky Sanchez, a thirty-year-old with curly, dark hair, an olive complexion, and bedroom eyes, had most recently been stationed in the Southwest with the ATF. He’d run a number of operations with the DEA when their territories overlapped. Drugs and firearms often went hand in hand, and both were popular commodities with the paramilitary groups for use in financing their operations. The patriot organizations served as conduits between drug runners from Mexico and South America and dealers in the States, and the money they made brokering the goods went for guns. The guns were valuable assets when negotiating with foreign terrorists, who very often had money but no ready access to weaponry. Sanchez was as close to an expert on the patriot organizations as could be found, and when Cam offered him the opportunity to come over to her team, he jumped at it. Married with two kids, he’d been urged by his wife to get out of the field, and every agent knew that antiterrorism was the hot place to be now.

“The patriots have no central organization—no ruling hierarchy,” Ricky said, lounging back in his chair. He wore boot cut jeans, a wide leather belt with a hammered silver buckle, and scuffed hand-tooled Tony Lamas. “These guys have too much ego to actually work together. They all want to be in charge.”

He leaned forward enough to push several keys on a small laptop computer and an image projected on a wall-mounted monitor. Head shots of three men, ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties, appeared. All were clean-shaven, with short, military-style haircuts and flinty stares.

“From left to right—John Jamieson, Robert Douglas, and Randolph Hogan. The White Aryan Brotherhood, the Soldiers of God, and the Homeland Liberation Front. These three are the most radical of the patriot leaders—they like to make noise about taking back America for the Americans, meaning white men—but we haven’t been able to put them anywhere close to the guys who took down the Towers.”