Thursday, September 15, 10:15 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Khadi held the hymnbook and sang:

“A mighty Fortress is our God

A bulwark never failing.”

As a member of a minority religion in a Christian culture, she was used to these types of situations. Growing up, the families of some of her Muslim friends would get upset at their children being exposed to Christmas in school or hearing stories of the Easter bunny from friends. She, however, never really minded. Easter meant candy, and Christmas meant days off from class. On top of that, her parents often felt bad that all her Christian friends were getting presents, so she’d end up scoring a few guilt gifts.

Now everything was changing. These days, you couldn’t even say, “Merry Christmas” in a store—in a “Christian” nation. She remembered her dad telling her when she was eight, “Nobody has a right not to be offended. Just remember who you are, and let others have their fun.”

And I replied, “And if I make their fun my fun, then we all have more fun together!” Dad laughed his deep laugh and gave me a hug. How I love that man!

“Lord Sabaoth His name

From age to age the same . . .”

What is a Sabaoth? Sounds like Sabbath—the Jewish day off. Got to be tied to that somehow. Khadi looked around at the people in her row and across the aisle. I’m guessing none of them have a clue what it means either, but still they keep on singing. And why not? It is a pretty song.

Senator Andrews caught her looking around and glared at her. In response, he received one of the first genuine smiles she had ever bestowed upon him. In your face, she tried to say with her grin.

This morning before the funeral, she had told him of her decision to leave his employ and return to CTD. He had pitched an absolute fit, accusing her of everything from disloyalty and cowardice to being a closeted lesbian.

Then the threats had begun—“You’ll never work in this town again!” and “I could put you in jail for how you’ve threatened me!” A reminder that she already had another job and that there were very good reasons for her threats, ones that his wife would probably be interested to hear, quickly shut down that line of attack.

Finally came the promises—promises of more money, more flexibility in her schedule, and more time off. He swore that he would never make another pass at her and would cut out completely the crude comments.

It was about that time that the creepiness of having a sex-addicted senator begging her to stay with him started jittering her insides. She left the room and didn’t see him again until they were preparing to leave. Thankfully, Charlotte Andrews, the senator’s wife, was with him, buffering his usual piggish behavior.

“My husband tells me that you are leaving us,” Charlotte had said formally after giving Khadi’s black dress a condescending once-over. Even though she tried to fight it, Khadi immediately became self-conscious of how she looked in what was the nicest outfit from her closet. “I wish you luck on your next adventure. We will miss you.”

Khadi knew that neither of those last two statements were true. She had always felt that Charlotte saw her as some sort of rival for her husband’s affections. As a result, her demeanor toward Khadi had always been one of intentionally cold indifference.

She’s another person I won’t miss. But the one I definitely will miss is J.D.

J.D. Little was disappointed to hear her news but not surprised. Gracious as always, he had wished her luck and promised to do everything he could to deflect the wrath that was certain to come from the senator.

Khadi looked down the row to her partner. I wonder if there might be a place for J.D. at CTD. He deserves better than a life protecting Mr. Opportunity and others like him. I’ll ask Scott.

The hymn finished, and everyone sat down. Khadi was surprised to see how many people had shown up. There had to be nearly four hundred people in the vast sanctuary. She couldn’t tell for sure without turning around again, because Senator Andrews had jockeyed for a place in the second row just behind the family.

Seated to her left was Kirstin Evert, wife of the Senate minority leader, Bill Evert, who was sitting on the other side of his bride. And next to him was the controversial Speaker of the House, Cristy Johnston, along with her husband, Lance.

On Khadi’s right sat Tyson Bryson, causing her to cheat herself as far to the left side of her chair as propriety would allow. He had asked her again this morning whether she had thought about his proposal. Her response would have made her mother blush.

Charlotte Andrews sat on the other side of Bryson. Next to her was the senator, and finally, J.D., who was on the inside aisle. Funny how it is so much more important to Andrews to show that he needs personal bodyguards that he gave up the visibility of the aisle seat. Who could ever hope to understand these guys?

Up front on the beautiful wooden platform, standing behind an even more beautifully carved wooden pulpit, Brian Musman, son of the deceased chaplain, began reading the obituary and memorial. Although looking and sounding like he might lose it at any moment, he was doing a good job. Khadi found herself rooting for him to make it through.

The clutch purse on her lap began vibrating. There were only two things in that purse: a cell phone and a Smith & Wesson Model 66 .357 Magnum Snub. She opened it and reached for the phone.

Scott’s number was on the caller ID. Probably forgot where I was, she thought as she hit End and slid the phone back into her purse. Thirty seconds later, she felt another single vibration. Good, he left me a message.

Bryson turned to her, pointed to the purse, and whispered, “This is a funeral!”

“Ah, well that explains why I haven’t seen any clowns yet,” she whispered back, causing him to redden and turn back to the front.

Her purse vibrated again, making enough noise for Mrs. Evert to turn to her.

“I’m sorry,” Khadi said reaching for the phone. “It’s official business.”

Evert nodded like a woman to whom the words official business had been used over her lifetime to justify any and every questionable activity under the sun, save those that actually might be considered by the everyday voting taxpayer as official business. Khadi fought the urge to say, “No, really,” and instead just looked at her phone.

This time it was a text from Scott: Call me NOW!!

At funeral. Call in hour, she typed back. Embarrassed, she slipped the phone into her purse.

Brian Musman had finished his memorial in one piece. Now a little girl, presumably one of the granddaughters, was walking up, carrying a piece of paper. She couldn’t have been more than seven. She was wearing a pretty little black dress that flared out with ruffles at the bottom. Khadi felt her throat begin to constrict and her eyes begin to moisten.

Now it’s your turn to keep it together, she chastised herself.

Turns out that the paper she was carrying was a letter to her grandpa.

“Dear Poppy,” she read.

Khadi’s purse vibrated again. This time she got glares from up and down her row and from a lady in front of her who might have been one of the chaplain’s sisters.

She opened the text message from Scott and read, NO!! DANGER!! CALL ME NOW!!! Immediately, Khadi’s heart began racing. She looked to her right and saw that J.D. was watching her. She pointed to her phone and cut her hand quickly across the air indicating that it was something serious. J.D. pointed for her to go.

“Are the angels beautiful, Poppy?” Khadi heard as she began excusing herself across the laps of the most powerful people in the Senate and the House of Representatives. She heard gasps and whispers from behind her, but she kept pushing on. Once she made it to the outside aisle, she headed toward the back of the sanctuary. Every click of her heels seemed to echo through the high vaults of the Gothic cathedral. After passing several rows, she reached down, slipped off her shoes, and jogged the rest of the way barefoot.

When she finally made it to the rear, she dialed Scott.

“Just listen,” he said, answering on the first ring. “We’ve got reason to think that there may be a terrorist attack aimed at the cathedral. Look around and tell me what you see.”

Instantly, all her anger at Scott vanished and she was in protect mode. She scanned her surroundings, taking special note of the people in the congregation. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. What am I looking for?”

“Don’t know. There have been ten terrorist attacks across the country in the last thirty minutes.”

Khadi felt the air leave her lungs, and her knees felt weak.

Scott continued. “They were all homegrown perps. We’re thinking you may have been right about your distraction theory. DC was the focus of one of the outside threads. And you are right in the middle of the only event of significance taking place in this city today.”

Khadi realized Scott was only playing a hunch. But the hunches that came out of the RoU more often than not turned into reality. She looked to the ceiling—nothing. She looked for explosives up the enormous pillars—nothing. She looked for nervous shifting or excessive sweating among the attendees—nothing.

“I’ve got nothing, Scott,” she finally said, hoping beyond hope that this would be one hunch that didn’t pay off. She shivered, not knowing if it was nerves or the cold seeping from the tiles into her bare feet.

“Good!” Scott said, a little relief coming into his voice. “I need you to keep your eyes open, though. And didn’t you say there was a reception afterward? That’s probably an even more dangerous setting than you have now.”

“Got it. Does this mean I’m officially on payroll?” she asked feebly, trying to lighten the tension.

“Just keep your eyes open,” Scott said, uncharacteristically letting her joke fall to the ground.

Khadi ended the call, and it wasn’t until a full thirty seconds had passed from the time she had rung off that she heard the bootsteps—and then the screams began.