What have I gotten dragged into this time? There was a power struggle in the MCB and Archer had sided with the hard-ass Myers against the moron Stark, and in doing so he’d probably put himself on the bad side of a top secret black op that was up to who knew what awful business. Franks had pissed off Unicorn, so now he and a few other men got to be glorified gophers to run interference while the world’s most dangerous killing machine had to kiss and make up with a bunch of bureaucrats capable of ending all of their careers.

Something about this assignment was bothering him. Grant could be a narcissistic douche at times, but he was really smart and worked hard. Radabaugh had always struck him as a reliable tough guy. Strayhorn was a rookie and an unknown. The whole thing felt way too much like the time he’d been undercover at MHI.

For a man who hated conspiracies and lies, Archer had certainly gone into the wrong line of work.

* * *

Normally people were supposed to feel some sense of awe when they met with the President of the United States. Even if you didn’t care for the man personally, despised his politics, or wouldn’t let the fellow babysit your kids, you were still supposed to respect the office, and thus the man, but as Stricken watched the President dither over what to do next, all he could think to himself was what a chump.

Luckily, Stricken was very good at feigning sincere respect. “Mr. President, I’m afraid Franks has already proven how unstable he’s become. We’ll need time to get our precautions in place. I’m afraid I’m going to need your decision as soon as possible.”

It was just the two of them in the Oval Office, the President and his Special Advisor. No other members of the Special Subcommittee had been invited to this meeting. “Are you sure detaining him is necessary?”

“Absolutely. This is the safest move for everyone involved. Provided Franks cooperates, nobody will be hurt. If he doesn’t . . .” Stricken spread his hands apologetically. “Even the most loyal dog needs to be put to sleep when it turns rabid. It’s time to take Ol’ Yeller behind the barn, Mr. President.”

The President chewed on his pen as he thought that through. Normally he’d listen to his legion of sycophantic advisors or take an opinion poll, but the nice thing about working at this level of clearance was that it separated the wheat from the chaff. There were very few individuals in the entire government cleared to know the details of this sort of event, and most of those were still occupied dealing with Las Vegas.

The most powerful man in the world pushed a button on his desk. “Bring in the Franks’ contract.”