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can stay up late and watch the end of the Broncos game. I think I’ll let him. He’s been very good about his homework.”
    “The Broncos, eh?” He smiles, but there is still curiosity in his eyes.
    I click off my phone. “I’m jumping in the shower before Ryan gets here. I want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for what he has to tell us about his dinner with Carl.” I make myself smile. “Care to join me?”
    He thinks for a moment but finally shakes his head. “You go on ahead. I haven’t finished the Yemen report. It will be the cherry on the cake of Ryan’s day.”
    “Maybe Ryan’s meeting with Carl is a good sign for Acme. I mean, isn’t it smarter to open all lines of communication, see if we can work out some sort of truce?” This might have sounded more believable if I hadn’t said it in the same voice I use when I’m trying to get the kids to do something they consider a fate worse than death.
    Jack is copping the same attitude, only in his case he doesn’t even bother to argue. Instead, he pointedly ignores my hopelessly inane remark and goes back to writing his report.
    I head to the shower, closing the door behind me.
    I don’t want Jack to see me cry.
    I’ve got to get all the fear out of my system.
    I’ve got to get ready for battle.

    Around ten-thirty, we hear a knock on our door. Jack gets up and looks out the peephole to confirm it’s Ryan, then he lets him in.
    When it comes to showing emotions, Ryan rivals Mount Rushmore. Still, those of us who know him well have learned to read the smallest nuance in his stony demeanor. With a single blink, he telegraphs his disappointment. The tiny wrinkles around his eyes are hieroglyphics that spell danger. You can read the truth between his silences.
    Jack and I watch as he belts back the scotch I offer him. When he finally speaks, it’s with dead eyes. “Not only are we on the chopping block, we may find ourselves in jail, too. Acme will be the victim of Carl’s witch hunt.”
    A trickle of dread runs down my spine. “What do you mean by that?”
    Ryan shrugs. “If you haven’t already guessed, the audit threat to quote-unquote, uncover attempts at treason is aimed at us.”
    Jack grimaces. “If anyone is treasonous, it’s Carl. And we can prove it—if we’re ever given the chance. Will Chiffray at least listen to us?”
    Ryan shakes his head. “He’s still not returning my calls. And Carl was certainly not pleased with my attempts to contact POTUS. Tonight, he made it quite clear that, as far as the intelligence community is concerned, all roads to Chiffray go through him. In the meantime, I’ve got Arnie battening down the hatches around our intel infrastructure.”
    “Maybe a good night’s sleep will bring a solution.” Jack stifles a yawn. “What time does the Acme jet pull out for the west coast, boss?”
    “Oh-nine-hundred.” Ryan puts down his glass and heads for the door. “We can talk more about a defense strategy when we’re airborne.”
    Jack walks him to the door, and locks it behind him.
    We undress in silence.
    I’m relieved he’s too tired for sex. As for me, my body is energized—not for lovemaking, but for war.
    I’ll be packing heat and an assassin’s blade.
    I lay down beside Jack. Twenty minutes later, I hear his gentle snores.
    Not a moment too soon. The L’Enfant Plaza Metro station is half a block away. Still, I’ll have to hurry to keep the rendezvous. Quietly as I can, I rise and slip on my jeans, a sweater, my winter coat and my boots, as well as a G42, a switchblade, and a serrated knife.
    A girl’s got to accessorize, right?
    Then I slip out of the room.
    It’s up to me to keep Acme in play, no matter what it takes.

    The last train leaves the L’Enfant Plaza Station at exactly eleven-fifty-seven.
    When I get to the station, it’s empty. At least, that’s what I’m supposed to believe. But the moment I get on the escalator that takes me down to the Blue Line platform, a man in a suit