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these were true telemetric locators. The chips were late-generation models manufactured by Digital Angel, and as long as GPS tracking satellites circled the earth the chips would locate the wearer and send a continuous feed to establish location and proof of life. It was one of the technologies that allowed agents like Ames to dial down his Maalox consumption.
    Ames set down the duty log, stood, stretched, yawned, and took his cup over to the Mr. Coffee to pour some hot into it. As he raised the carafe he heard a bong-bong sound. An alarm from the telemetry board. A soft, unthreatening sound; more of a notification than a crisis shout.
    Smallwood snapped her fingers at him. “Got a transponder failure,” she said. “POTUS just went dark.”
    “Balls,” growled Ames. He set his cup down and hurried over. “Is it the panel or the transponder?”
    “Unknown, but the other signals are strong and steady.” She looked up. “You’d better call it. Gil stayed over tonight.”
    Ames was already hitting the speed dial for Gilbert Shannon, the president’s body man.
    A sleepy voice answered, “Shannon.”
    “Gil, this is Lyle. Are you with the president?”
    “No, I’m in my room down the hall.”
    “Okay, I need you to go put eyes on the president. Have the agent at the door accompany you in.”
    All the sleepiness vanished from Shannon’s voice. “Is there a problem?”
    “Probably not, but the boss’s transponder stopped transmitting.”
    “Oh, okay. I’ll call you in one minute.”
    Ames set down his phone and made a second call to alert the agents outside the president’s bedroom door. That done, he bent over Smallwood’s shoulder to study the telemetry feeds. The small pulsing green light had been replaced by two words in red LED letters: SIGNAL LOST.
    Ames did not yet feel panic. There was only a tingle.
    “Could have happened at Camp David,” suggested Smallwood.
    “Hm?” asked Ames.
    “The transponder. The president was all over the place. Basketball, jogging, that softball game at the barbecue. He could have banged his arm when he tried to steal second base in the third inning. Remember, he dove in headfirst? Brierly tagged him pretty hard and I think that was on the upper arm.”
    Ames shook his head. “He reached for the base with his left arm.”
    “Sure, but he was tagged on his right. The ball could have hit the transponder.”
    “Maybe,” said Ames.
    “Or, it could have been—”
    The phone rang.
    Ames snatched it up. “Talk to me.”
    It wasn’t Gil Shannon. It was Sam Holly, the senior agent on shift at the residence. His voice was ratcheted tight with tension.
    “Sir, we have a situation…”

 
    Chapter Nine
    The Rose Garden
The White House
Sunday, October 20, 3:25 a.m.
    Agent Jeremy Nunzio had his weapon in a two-handed grip as he ran along the row of hedges outside the Oval Office. The radio in his ear was a crazed jumble of yells, commands, contradictory orders, questions, and desperate demands for fresh intel.
    “We’ve got movement,” cried one of the other agents. Sziemesko. “We’ve got movement.”
    Sziemesko shouted the location and everyone was in motion, a fist closing around a specific point outside the White House. Nunzio was the closest, he got there first, rounding a corner, bringing his weapon up, finger laid along the trigger guard, all his years of training bringing him to this moment. He saw Sziemesko standing a few yards away, his back to the building, staring into the darkened lawn. Suddenly a dozen additional security lights flared on.
    “On your six,” Nunzio called, as he caught up with Sziemesko. The other agent’s gun was also raised, pointing to a specific spot within the darkness. Nunzio sighted down the barrel of his own piece.
    And saw nothing.
    Just darkness and security lights and …
    He and Sziemesko moved at the same time, their guns jerking left as one of the lights moved.
    “Freeze!” bellowed Nunzio.
    “Step into the light with