Before Natalie could respond, the woman next to her started pointing at the monitor. “Excuse me. What channel is that?” She gave Natalie a conspiratorial smile. “I want to see if he takes off his shirt again.”

From behind her, Natalie heard Matt start to sing. “And I guess that’s how you get the lead on the news,” to the tune of “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues.”

“Bet that you wish now, you’d worn that bikini...”

“You are lucky they don’t allow weapons on planes,” Natalie muttered.

“What was that?” the woman next to her asked.

Natalie tried for a reassuring smile. “Nothing.”

On the screen, Ryan was still talking, “You can be sure she’ll be swarmed with press attention on her arrival and ATN will be there.” He paused and smiled at the camera. “Also,” he said and dramatically moved his hand to the top button on his shirt.

Natalie and the woman to her left leaned forward together in anticipation, but for different reasons.

“Hah! Just kidding,” Ryan said, then winked. “That’s for the folks at home.”

Watching Ryan now made Natalie want to research ritual forms of suicide. She was considering different options when Matt interrupted her reverie.

“Hey, look.” Matt pointed at the television where, with soaring music, the First Lady’s face had appeared with Natalie’s face next to it.

“Someone is getting an elaborate setup,” Matt said, in the kind of voice you’d use to appease a toddler.

Natalie glared at the screen, hoping her dagger eyes would somehow project behind her to reach Matt.

Now Heath Heatherton’s angelic face filled the screen and the knot in Natalie’s stomach coiled more tightly. Heath was reading the top headlines of the day, but she couldn’t make out his words over the sheer panic that had seized her.

Peering at her between the seats, Matt said, “Why do you look like you’re going to throw up?”

“There’s a high likelihood this piece will humiliate me for the world to see.”

“The world? I don’t want to throw water on your pity party but ATN’s cable audience only averages 850,000.”

She could barely breathe as the monitor cut to a shot of a sparsely furnished room. At the center was a figure seated at a table, head covered in a burlap bag, hands tied down to a chair, and surrounded by tattooed he-men in ski masks. It was the makeshift interrogation room at OpSec Solutions, the private military camp in North Carolina where they’d just spent the day. She’d been careful to wear her shirt buttoned extra-low with a push-up bra, and noticed with some satisfaction that—with a bag on her head—her cleavage commanded attention.