Donald worked for the Chesapeake Port Authority which oversaw all the seaports and harbors throughout Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia. He spent the next five minutes telling them what he could have summed up in three words: “Everything is shut down.”

Next was Natalie Forensics.

She spent twenty minutes telling them what they found.

They’d pulled twelve fingerprints from the crime scene, and all but one matched the elimination prints they’d taken from the witnesses at Bonnie’s. The one unmatched fingerprint was on a piece of duct tape, which could have come from one of the terrorists prior to them putting gloves on. They ran the print through AFIS, but it didn’t match any known persons or terrorists. The bullets that killed both Red and Captain Marshall were consistent with Kalashnikovs, and the perforations indicated silencers were attached. Ballistics was running more tests, trying to match the bullets to any other crimes, but it was doubtful they would get any hits. They had found the President’s Range Rover parked on the street. They ran the plates and the car had come back registered to John Legend, Sullivan’s favorite musician.

“Well, that fingerprint on the duct tape is at least something,” Susan Secret Service said.

Natalie shrugged. “It could have come from one of the terrorists, but it also could have come from the guy at the hardware store who stocked the tape, or the checker, or a hundred other people.”

Cooper nodded, then said, “How about you, Susan? Anything to report?”

“Yeah, like how did the Secret Service lose the President?” Welds spat.

“Cool it, Tim,” Cooper said. “It’s not like Susan lost the President. And the President knew what he was doing. No one forced him to sneak out of the White House; it was his decision.”

“You guys figure out how they got out undetected?” asked Donald Port Authority.

Susan shook her head. “We haven’t. We know there has to be some secret exit somewhere in the private residence, but apart from ripping the place, well, apart, we won’t know.”

“So rip the place apart,” Welds said, shrugging.

“You just want us to start smacking walls down with a sledgehammer?” Susan asked. “This isn’t a frat house, Tim. This is the White House.”

Ingrid smiled at the exchange. Susan and Tim obviously knew one another. Ingrid wondered if they knew each other more than just professionally. Something told her they did.

“Any video surveillance?” asked Tasha.

“There isn’t any in the private residence. Sullivan’s orders. There are agents stationed outside the only ingress twenty-four/seven, but no cameras.”

Donald said, “So there is, what, some secret elevator shaft behind a wall somewhere that leads to the underground tunnels—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid said, breaking her silence. “Who cares how he got out? He did.”

“The hell it doesn’t matter,” Welds muttered. “The Secret Service let the President slip out of the most protected house in the known universe.”

Susan stammered, “We didn’t—”