Curtis looked grim when he arrived. Wyman looked ready to burst into song.

This isn’t good, Griff thought. He was concerned he’d pushed too hard on the Kuwaiti connection. Maybe overstepped some diplomatic boundary. But Wyman . . . Wyman looked too happy.

“Where are Cade and Zach Barrows?” the president asked quietly.

“I haven’t checked in with them yet today, sir.”

The president chewed on that like a stick of gum. He nodded to one of the Secret Service men. “Show him.”

The agent turned a video screen on a rolling cart to face Griff. It displayed a bombed-out building, shattered concrete and broken glass spewed all over a parking lot.

“What is that?” Griff asked.

“That,” the president said, “is what’s left of the Los Angeles safe house.”

Griff pushed down the panic. Cade was all right. He could survive worse than that. But if it happened in the day . . .

“We covered it as a gas explosion with the locals,” Wyman said. “We didn’t find any bodies.”

Relief washed over Griff. Then something else worked its way to the front of his thoughts.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“We figured you already knew,” Wyman said. He threw a thick folder at Griff. “Read that.”

Griff did.

Phone records. Calls, back and forth. All from Griff to the Promethean Clinic, in Los Angeles.

Then a copy of an electronic flight reservation, made in Griff’s name, for a flight to L.A. next week.

And finally, in the back of the folder, his medical history. Including the latest round of tests, which confirmed the recurrence of his cancer.

Griff felt something plummet in the pit of his stomach.

Griff looked at President Curtis. There was pity in his eyes.

“No one is above temptation,” he said. “Especially when they’re facing a death sentence.”

“None of this is true. These are faked.”

“Sure they are,” Wyman mumbled.

It all became clear to Griff at that moment. They thought he had sold out, for a taste of whatever miracle cure Konrad could offer.

Griff tried to think straight. But it was hard, with the blinding rage pouring through him.

“After all I’ve done—”

“How did this happen, Griff?”

“—I can still see some of the things, when I close my eyes, the things I’ve had to face to keep this country safe—”

“Griff, you have to admit, it doesn’t look good—”

“—children torn to pieces, bodies stacked up on shelves in a supermarket, things that don’t even have names, and, after all that, the shit I have waded through, you have the stones to accuse me—”

“Agent Griffin!” The president was shouting now.

Griff realized he was standing, with his fists clenched.

He took a deep breath and sat down again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

The president scowled. “You say this isn’t true,” he said, pointing to the folder. “You say you don’t know where Cade and Zach are, or even what happened to them. I’m not sure, but I’d almost rather you were lying about that.”

“Sir, I will find them. Cade has probably gone underground. It’s standard procedure when there’s been a security breach.”

Wyman snorted. “You’re the security breach, you dumb bastard. You think we’re going to let you cover your tracks now?”

Griff clenched his jaw and tried to ignore him. “Sir,” he said, directly to the president, “I’m not stupid enough to leave a trail like that. And if Cade and Zach are in danger—”

“We’re all in danger,” the president said. “We still have a threat out there, and our efforts to find it have literally blown up in our faces. Maybe next week we can sit down and sort out this mess. If nobody’s dead. But right now, I have thousands—maybe millions—of people in danger. Right now, your problem shouldn’t be what’s on my desk. Do you understand me?”

Griff hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

Curtis took a deep breath. “Do I really need to tell you what happens next?”

“No, sir.”

The president looked sick and angry. “Get out.”

Griff stood and turned for the door.

He didn’t look at Wyman. At that moment, the VP’s face would have been more than he could take.

A few moments later, Wyman strolled out a side exit, three Secret Service agents trailing behind. Great, Griff thought. He wants to gloat.

He stepped over to Griff and tried to look solemn. “Agent Griffin,” he said. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

They had not taken his gun. Griff thought about that. He could probably get it clear of the holster before the Secret Service reacted. He could shoot at least once before they brought him down.

Wyman waited for a reply.

“Is that all?” Griff asked.

Wyman looked torn. He seemed genuinely curious about something.

“Will you walk with me a moment, Agent Griffin?”

Griff considered that. He wondered if Wyman needed to die. If he wasn’t just greedy and incompetent and corrupt. If he was genuinely evil.

Maybe someone like that shouldn’t be that close to the presidency. Maybe this was supposed to be Griff’s last act on Earth.

“Depends,” Griff said. “You need the entourage?”

Wyman turned to the agents. “Give us a little room, please.”

The lead agent nodded, and Wyman’s detail dropped back a few dozen feet as he and Griff walked toward the Rose Garden.

The day was turning warm. Spring arriving early this year. Griff wanted to see the cherry blossoms. He’d have enough time to do that.

Provided he didn’t die in a hail of bullets right here.

He and the vice president walked side by side easily enough. Neither man said anything until Wyman spoke up.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

Griff turned, surprised. “Doing what?”

Wyman’s eyes searched Griff’s. “Dying. You don’t have to.”

Griff laughed. “We all have to.” His hand was in his pocket. His suit coat flared out, covering his motions. He could easily reach to his holster.

“No,” Wyman insisted. “You don’t. Let’s cut the bullshit, okay? I know you’re not involved with Konrad.”

He hissed the last part, in case the Secret Service was eavesdropping.

Griff almost went for the gun right there.

“But what I don’t understand is, why aren’t you? He could cure you. He could save you. Hell, he could make you immortal.”

Wyman was right. Griff had read the files. Konrad could reset the clock on his body, could wipe out the cancer like a spill on a countertop.

“You really don’t understand a damn thing,” he told Wyman.

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t use something that could save your life.”

Griff looked at Wyman—really tried to see the man beneath it all.

“Don’t you have something you wouldn’t trade? Not for anything?”

Wyman stared back blankly. “I don’t follow you.”

Griff gave up. It was like trying to teach algebra to a slug. He suddenly felt tired. No, more than tired. Done. Done with all of this. He wasn’t sure if this was some other angle Wyman was playing. The man did nothing but play games, really. In truth, Griff didn’t care anymore.

Wyman could believe what he wanted. It was no longer Griff’s job to convince him of the true shape of the world.

His hand dropped away from his sidearm.

“May I go now, Mr. Vice President?”

Wyman still looked confused. He frowned, then waved Griff off as if washing his hands of him.

“You’re a fool,” he said, and stalked back to the protection detail.

Griff started for the gate. He figured he could have gotten at least two shots in when he had Wyman off by himself. Head and heart, for sure. Maybe even three, before the agents would have taken him down.

He wasn’t convinced Wyman didn’t deserve it. It was still possible the little worm was dangerous and needed to be stomped flat before he could do real harm.

But the worst part was, Griff didn’t feel like it was his job anymore.