She stood outside the gaping maw of the Mount Weather facilitys entrance, smoking a cigarette and holding her smartphone to her ear.

The smoking was one of those secret things that the American people were never supposed to know. Susan Hopkins enjoyed a cigarette now and then, and she had done so ever since she was a teenage supermodel. Especially in times of stress, nothing could beat it, and this was probably the most stressful day of her life. No one had ever tried to murder her before.

She wore a red skater dress, one that was maybe a tad sexy for the occasion. They had choppered it in from the Nordstrom store in the mall near the Pentagon, along with a seamstress to do the fitting. It was David Halstrams idea. It was for the people watching on TV, so they could easily spot her. That way, after Thomass speech, no one in the world could miss the fact that Susan Hopkins was in a tunnel deep underground, hanging on the Presidents every word. It was a good idea. But it was also a cool night, and the mountain air went right through the dresss material.

She shivered. Three very big Secret Service men stood right nearby. They loomed over her. She hoped that none of them offered her their jacket. That kind of chivalry made her want to puke.

Pierre was talking at the other end of the phone.

Honey, he said, I would really like to see you get out of there. Its making me nervous. I can send a plane to whatever municipal airport is closest to you. You could be on the way back out here an hour from now. Ive doubled security. The electric fence is on. It would take a small army to get through. You can just tell everyone that you need a couple of weeks off to regroup. Relax by the pool. Get a massage.

Susan smiled at the thought of Pierre holed up in his thirty-room mansion, safely behind his electric fence. Who did he think he was trying to keep out, fraternity pranksters? His fence and his entry gate, and his eight (instead of four) retired detectives wouldnt even slow down the people who had almost killed her.

Good Lord.

Pierre…

He kept talking. Just let me finish, he said.

She thought of the early times with him. She had already done Vogue, Cosmo, Mademoiselle, Victorias Secret, even the Sports Illustrated young masturbators issue. But she was starting to age out. She could feel it, and her agent told her as much. The covers had stopped coming. She was twenty-four years old.