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father used to say—“The way a man fights is the way he does everything else”—and that made her miss Jericho all the more. She kissed her finger, and then pressed it to Quinn’s bearded face. If they ever did have kids, the poor things were doomed to being hairy gorillas. Of course, you had to be in the same time zone to conceive a child, so even if they’d considered such a thing, the notion of it was as far as they would get.
    For all practical purposes, she was alone in the bullpen. The girl that sat in the cubicle to her right had already gone home for the day, and Nathan, the tall, blond drink of water who occupied the stall to her left was off picking up copies at the communal printer, which happened to be next to the desk of the tiny brunette who was his latest conquest. He would be gone awhile.
    Garcia took another quick sip of her Dr Pepper, and then turned back to the computer monitor. Resting an elbow on her desk, she began to scan the screen again while she pondered how odd it was that an intelligence agency that was so steeped in secrecy and compartmentalization would have a communal printer. Government cutbacks bordered on the bizarre. There were so many things about the present administration that were absurd. The new president had clamped down on everything and everyone with all the paranoid efficiency of communist East Germany. Garcia herself had been given the names of five people in the agency on whom she was to provide “vetting overwatch.” She was certain her name was on at least two other agents’ lists. Overzealous, even heavy-handed government employees were rewarded rather than constrained. Jericho Quinn and anyone else who’d ever stood in the way of the new administration were being hunted down, or, as in Ronnie Garcia’s case, sidelined to a life of busywork.
    Citizens followed like sheep because President Hartman Drake, a victim of a terrorist attack himself if you believed the papers, gave them what they wanted—free health care; snarky, populist sound bites; and the drumbeat of war with anyone who dared cross American policies.
    But not everyone marched in lockstep. A sizable underground had sprung up in the aftermath of President Clark’s death. Quinn, Garcia, and others who had worked directly for the former president’s national security advisor, Win Palmer, knew the incoming administration was behind the assassination of Clark and the Vice President. There was just no way to prove it, yet.
    Garcia clicked her mouse, switching screens. Her breath caught in her throat when the image loaded. She looked away, blinking to clear her eyes, then back to check again.
    It was highly pixilated from being enlarged several times over, but it was definitely the needle in the digital haystack she’d been searching for. Dr. Naseer Badeeb, the mastermind of a plan to bomb the wedding of the former vice president’s daughter, stood chatting with a man with a heavy black beard. But neither of these men were the most important find. Garcia clicked her mouse, enlarging the photo as much as she could without losing it completely. It was impossible to prove without enhancing the image, but Garcia was certain the young man standing behind Badeeb was Hartman Drake—the President of the United States. He was younger, in his early teens, but there was no mistaking the condescending sneer and vaporous look in the boy’s eyes.
    “Way to go, Miyagi,” she whispered, full lips trembling slightly as they formed the words. In the right hands, the photo could finally be something—something that could end this mess and bring Jericho home.
    Lost in thought over how to proceed, Garcia nearly jumped out of her skin when her group supervisor walked up behind her and cleared his throat.
    “Thought we agreed you wouldn’t put that up until I went home for the night.” Bobby Jeffery nodded toward the photo of Garcia and Quinn standing in the surf at Virginia Beach.
    “So apparently,” Ronnie sighed,