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in line for the job of Director of National Intelligence and a seat on the National Security Council. He needed a media circus now about as badly as he needed a heart attack.
    The inference was clear. Any shit, and he would pin it to Marc’s ass.
    Saunders exited with a crisp, “Keep me informed.”
    Lissa stepped into Marc’s office bare seconds after Saunders was out of earshot. She was on the point of leaving, the strap of her purse slung overone shoulder. “Do you think it matters to him that Jim died?”
    Bayard pulled up a file on his laptop. “Trust me, don’t go there.”
    Saunders had feelings—just not very many of them.
    The first time Marc had met Saunders had been over twenty years ago at the memorial service of Todd Fischer, Sara’s uncle and his friend Steve’s father. At that time, Saunders had been almost single-handedly responsible for the cover-up of the Nordika dive tragedy in which Todd Fischer had died, and the leaked file that claimed the “missing” naval dive team had deserted. His actions, aimed at protecting the Navy’s reputation, had reaped him professional advancement, but with the recent recovery of the bodies of the naval dive team in a mass grave in Juarez, Colombia, Saunders was hurting.
    When Lissa turned to leave, Marc stopped her. “Did you drive in today, or take the Metro?”
    Her expression was dry. “I don’t have a dedicated parking space so I’m afraid it’s the Metro. Why?”
    â€œI’ll ring down and get security to escort youto the station. Until further notice, you can drive in. I’ll authorize a parking space.”
    Her expression didn’t change, but Lissa was nobody’s fool. She had a double degree in foreign affairs and business administration. She ran his office like a well-oiled machine, and when it came to understanding the nuances of the intelligence world, she was as sharp as a seasoned agent. “You think it’s Lopez.”
    He kept his expression impassive. “I’m just taking precautions.”
    After calling security, then arranging that one of the visitor spaces be redesignated, he studied the file on Lopez. The moment in the morgue when Herschel had described the shooter replayed in his mind. The fact that Lopez had shot Corcoran himself was significant. Lopez’s network was in tatters, most of his key people behind bars. Financially, he had to be hurting.
    The fact that Lopez was killing to an agenda made him predictable and vulnerable. In strategic terms, Marc had the upper hand. He could play the decoy game and use offensive surveillance tactics. With the resources at his disposal, he could guarantee Lopez’s capture. He just had to get Lopez before he killed again.

    * * *
    Just after six, Marc drove into the garage of his apartment building, collected his mail and newspaper and took the elevator to his third-floor apartment. Leaving his briefcase in the hall, he tossed the mail and the newspaper on the dining table and walked through to the bathroom. If it had been a normal evening, he would have worked off the tension by going for an extended run, but Corcoran’s death had ruled out that option. Until they found the shooter, he and his staff couldn’t afford to expose themselves any more than necessary.
    Feeling restless, his muscles tight—a side effect of the fierce anger that had gripped him when he had seen Corcoran’s body in the morgue—he showered and changed into sweats. He could think of another way to relieve his tension, but that option wasn’t viable. He wasn’t into instant sex, and lately he didn’t have time for relationships. Snagging the remote on the way to the kitchen, he flicked on the television and caught the end of the evening news as he sipped a cold beer and reheated day-old pizza.
    Still feeling edgy, then outright pissed when he caught the sports news and saw that the Falconshad