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Dedication

For Hillary, Chelsea, Marc, Charlotte, Aidan, and Jasper—the real thrills in my life

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PROLOGUE

PRESIDENT WRIGHT ADMINISTRATION

YEAR THREE: SEPTEMBER

1

Brentwood, New Hampshire

Cole Wright is sitting in the rear seat of a black up-armored Chevy Suburban, one of three in a convoy speeding its way down Route 125 in the Seacoast Region of New Hampshire.

Two dark green state police cruisers, lights flashing, are leading this no-frills motorcade, scaled down for the occasion. The presidential limousine—the Beast—is back at the airport, along with the Secret Service counterassault team, support personnel, news media vans, and a fully equipped ambulance.

Three years after the election, Cole still gets pumped from seeing traffic part like magic, even though he’s well aware that it’s for the convenience and safety of the woman sitting beside him—his wife, Madeline Parson Wright, the president of the United States.

He’s just the First Gentleman.

A light drizzle spatters against the bulletproof windows. The agent accelerates to seventy along the two-lane highway.

“Two minutes out,” says Burton Pearce, the president’s chief of staff. Pearce perches in a rear-facing jump seat across from the First Couple. He’s pale and serious, wearing one of his many identical gray suits. “The Gray Ghost,” staffers call him. The president nods without looking up.

Cole glances over to see the CONFIDENTIAL stamps on the pages Maddy is reading as the convoy hums along. He knows those pages represent the biggest political gamble of her administration—of any administration. She should be in the Oval Office working the phones and twisting arms, but instead she’s here with him. A powerful personal show of support.

Maddy puts her briefing packet aside. Cole takes her hand and squeezes it.

She squeezes back. “Don’t worry,” she says. “After all we’ve been through together, we can get through this too.”

The Suburban slows down to make a hard turn behind the police escort. Now the convoy is moving at just forty miles per hour. On both sides of the route, locals hold up crude hand-painted placards.

WE BELIEVE IN YOU, COLE!

STAY STRONG, COLE!

KEEP MOVING, COLE!

He looks out through the tinted side window. Almost game time. He can feel his muscles twitching, his focus narrowing, just like in his days as a tight end for New England—before the blown knee forced him out. He remembers how the tension in the Patriots locker room would build and build almost to the breaking point until the team ran out into the light, and when the cheers of the crowd washed over him, he’d think, Yeah, we’re okay. We’ve got this.

But today?

Today he’s not so sure.