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By Root 399 0

the serum that, when modified in the laboratory upstairs, was the last hope for the president and all those trapped inside the Capitol. If he was Genesis, he would either appear with a story of having been forced at gunpoint to give up the serum, or he would fail to show up altogether. Either way, according to the Constitution, he would be next in line for the presidency. Another possibility was that he had already made a switch, and that what he was delivering was a well-concocted sham, short in one crucial ingredient, but a good enough replica to mislead the biochemists upstairs. After all, nobody but Griff knew what he and his computer model had put together.

The furnishings in the richly appointed rooms were well suited for an upscale sting—armchairs upholstered with plush fabrics, a bedazzling chandelier made of brass and crystal, and fine oriental rugs that framed a deep fieldstone fireplace. This was a home that could have belonged to any high-ranking diplomat or well-connected politician.

Angie fingered the compact pistol in the pocket of her skirt. She had little experience with guns, but she also had a fierce love of life and suspected that she would use this one if hers depended upon it.

A panel of one wall opened up silently, and the three FBI agents whom she had been with since being brought to the house returned to the room.

“They’re here,” one of them said.

Through the tall bay windows, Angie watched a black Lincoln Town Car pull to an abrupt stop at the curb outside. Three Secret Service agents quickly exited the vehicle. One of them opened the Town Car’s rear door and Paul Rappaport stepped onto the curb. The Homeland Security secretary, wearing a stylish overcoat, held one handle of a large, blue cooler. A muscular agent had taken hold of the other. Angie took a few photos with her new digital SLR camera as the two men made their way up the cement outside stairway. The other two agents took up positions near the Town Car.

Angie waited behind the brown leather sofa, which faced the room’s only door. The door opened without a knock and the Secret Service agent stepped inside, his gun drawn. After a check of the room, he holstered his weapon and signaled for Rappaport to enter. The secretary spotted Angie immediately.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked. “Where are the chemists? The lab?”

Rappaport pulled the cooler tight to his body and took a cautious step backward. Angie snapped a series of pictures.

“Upstairs,” she said, “waiting for you.”

“What are you doing here?” Rappaport went on. “I was told you were in a New York City hospital.”

“I got better,” Angie said. “And now I’m writing this story. Hopefully, it will have a happy ending.”

“Hopefully,” Rappaport said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Pardon the camera, but people like pictures.”

Angie peered through the camera’s viewfinder and let out a terrified gasp. Two powerfully built men, dressed in black, wearing black ski masks, carrying pistols, had appeared behind Rappaport. High-tech gas masks dangled from their belts.

“Look out! Behind you!” Angie cried out.

But her warning came too late.

One of the men grabbed Rappaport across the throat, and before he could move, had the muzzle of a heavy pistol pressed up against his temple. The agents in the room were a beat too slow to react. Another intruder moved in quickly and snatched away the cooler from Rappaport’s trembling hand, just as three more masked men burst into the room, each carrying a submachine gun.

“Drop your weapons,” the man holding Rappaport demanded, “and no one dies.”

Two of the agents had their guns out, but the numbers were bad. Angie had her hand in her skirt pocket, wrapped around the Glock. It seemed unlikely she could pull it out, fire it, and hit anyone before she was blown to bits.

“We have what we want,” one of the intruders snapped, his accent heavily Hispanic. “Do as we say, or you’ll all die. Weapons over there. On the floor. Lock your fingers behind your heads. Now!”

Angie hesitated. A burst of machine gun fire erupted from close range, the bullets