Her eyes wanted to shift away from mine, but she was too well trained. “Dead,” she said. “We lost seventeen of twenty-two agents on this detail. This thing it . . . it’s worse than we thought.”

“No shit. Where’s POTUS?”

“I’m here,” said a voice.

I turned to see the president standing in the doorway to a suite halfway down the hall. He was in shirtsleeves and there wasn’t a drop of blood on him. His hair was even combed. He had one agent and four cops with him, all of them with guns drawn and barrels pointing to the floor in front of them. Only one was so scared that his gun barrel was pointing at the top of his own foot. The president looked me up and down as we walked toward each other. “Captain Ledger. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Over the years I’ve worked with a lot of commanders in chief. Some I respected, some I was indifferent to, and a few were worthless cocksuckers. This guy was pretty good, from what I’d heard from friends on the inside of the White House power circles. A moderate who tried to work with people on both sides of the aisle. Fifty-something, slim, black haired and gray eyes. But there was something too slick and polished about him. He looked like a movie version of a president rather than the real thing. He was one of those people that other people usually liked at once. Charisma and a good plastic surgeon. My immediate take on him was “manipulative self-absorbed asshole.”

He didn’t offer his hand and instead stood there, giving me the kind of measuring look that was supposed to make me think he was assessing everything about me and making reliable deductions. Good luck with that. I don’t look like a psychopath, but my shrink tells me otherwise. I have a smile that crinkles the skin around my eyes, I have good teeth and a deep-water tan. I could just as easily have come from Central Casting. I know for sure he didn’t know my backstory because it’s been comprehensively erased from all databanks. A side-benefit of working for Rogue Team International. We are, for all intents and purposes, ghosts. We get the backgrounds we need for a mission. All the president could really know was when he asked for the right guy.

Thing is, I am that guy. And I wish to fuck I’d been in-country when Lucifer slipped the leash. Maybe I’d have figured something out. I usually do. I know that sounds arrogant as fuck, but it is what it is. There’s a reason I get sent into places like this. Top and Bunny, too.

“Where do we stand?” I asked. Maybe I should have added “sir,” but I wasn’t in the mood.

“My motorcade was hit on the way here,” said the president. “They swarmed us. We lost . . . nearly everyone. The press corps, my aides . . . gone. I need to get out of here. I need to get somewhere safe. Air Force One is at Gillespie Field in El Cajon.”