For a man who couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds, Sarge could put down some pancakes. He devoured eight, filling in the cracks with four cups of coffee, hardly pausing his chatter throughout. A few of the stories he told were familiar, but Daniel didn't mind. Sharing his experiences was part of Sarge’s recovery. It helped remind him of where he’d been, of where he could go again.

  "So, that second time I went out”—Sarge slurped down a scalding gulp of joe—“well, that second time took away my fourth wife and put me in this wheelchair. I self-medicated to the point where my kids stopped talking to me. Now here I am, sitting across from a jarhead, eating mediocre pancakes and drinking crap coffee."

  "Mediocre?” Daniel arched a brow. “You wolfed down eight. Couldn’t have been that bad."

  Sarge waved the comment away. "You listen to me, kid. They always talk about the first drink taking you down the dark path again. But I know different. I lived different, though I am just the same as you and all the other drunks out there. My experience was that I let everything else in my life slip first. I thought I had it figured out. I thought I knew better than God. Some model of sobriety I turned out to be."

  "You're not so bad once you get past the crusty exterior," Daniel said, his grin returning.

  Sarge nodded, a small, appreciative smile on his chapped lips. "Breakfast is on me as long as you wheel me back home."

  “Deal,” Daniel said. He’d stopped trying to pay for their meals, though he knew Sarge was on a very limited income. Letting his sponsor pay was better than taking away any more of the old war dog’s pride than life already had. And besides, Sarge got just as much out of their relationship as he put in. That was how it worked.

  A week after Daniel had arrived back in Vegas, an old timer had approached him at a meeting. He’d disclosed his worry that Sarge would back out of the meetings, relapse, and drown himself in Wild Turkey, which he’d used to cradle like a baby.

  "But then you came," the old timer had said. "First sponsee Sarge’s had in years." He’d shaken his head, smiling. Then he’d hugged Daniel and left for work.

  So here they were, a former marine sniper, very much still in his prime, at least physically, and a Vietnam veteran whose physical prowess was long behind him. Something had stuck them together for a reason.

  Daniel popped the wheelchair up onto the sidewalk just as his cell phone vibrated.

  "You going to get that?" Sarge asked, already lighting up another Winston.

  How the old man could hear the buzzing in his pocket, Daniel didn't know. He pulled out the phone and saw the familiar name. He sent the call to voicemail and put the phone back in his pocket.

  "You can't ignore the world forever, you know."

  "I know," Daniel said.

  For the time being, he was quite content to let the world live on without him in it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAL STOKES — ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE

  When Daniel's voicemail message came on, Cal ended the call and set his phone on the desk.

  "Still ignoring you?" Neil Patel asked from his bank of three computer screens.

  "He still needs time, I guess."

  Neil Patel, the chief technology officer of both Stokes Security International—SSI for short—and the Jefferson Group, kept his eyes glued to his screen.

  "You should go see him. I'll come with if you want me to."

  Cal shook his head. "If he wanted us to come, he would send an invitation."

  "You sure about that? This is Daniel we're talking about."

  Cal approached SSI’s tech guru, feeling underdressed in his physical training gear, which was drenched in sweat from his morning workout. Even though Neil was not going to any meetings today and was the only one in what the members of SSI called the Bat Cave—Neil’s personal domain, where engineering and science reigned and experiments resulted in new technology worth millions—the man was dressed to the nines.

  "You should be careful, you know," Cal said. "Keep dressing like that and the guys will think you’ve got a side hustle as a gigolo."

  Neil looked down at his clothes, then back at Cal. "A gigolo side hustle. Now that's an idea. Why didn't I think of that?" Rolling his eyes, he ever so slowly raised a middle finger for Cal.

  They'd known each other for a long time, since their days as students at the University of Virginia, but no matter how strong their friendship was, Cal keenly felt the void of Daniel Briggs, his best friend. Daniel's abrupt departure from their operation in Costa Rica had brought a hammer to the team's core. The warrior monk, the man who never rattled or frazzled, the man who was always calm, had disappeared without a word after a very public, very violent snap.

  Of course, they knew where he was. He'd made no attempt to hide from them. Cal even knew exactly where he was staying: a run-down, one-bedroom apartment on the fringe of the seediest part of downtown Las Vegas. Why he’d gone to Vegas, no one understood. As far as Cal and the others at SSI knew, Daniel didn't have any ties there. Sure, that's where they'd all first met, but Daniel had never mentioned any old acquaintances.

  Cal thought of their first meeting often now. At the time, Daniel had looked very much like a mountain man with his full beard and long, blond hair. He’d leaped over barriers to come to their rescue. After that, they’d become fast friends, and later, they’d become something more. Family.

  "You're really not going to go see him?" Neil asked.

  Cal shook his head. "He needs his time, and we need to respect that."

  "Take it from a gigolo," Neil said. "Never let a friend lie in his own shit. At least, that's what the ladies tell me." Then he chuckled and went back to his computer screens.

  There is truth in that, Cal thought.

  He was in uncharted territory. He no longer knew the boundaries of his friendship with Daniel. Daniel had always been the one to come to his aid. On too many occasions to count, Cal had put his life in Daniel's hands with unshakeable trust. Was it time to return the favor? Did his friend need to be rescued, or did he need to work through his inner turmoil on his own terms?

  For now, Cal would keep calling. He’d resist the urge to hop on a plane and knock on Daniel's door. If that was what Daniel wanted, he'd have said so by now. So, until Daniel accepted their outreach, they would monitor their friend from afar and hold out hope for his speedy return. Because if there was one thing the warriors of SSI and the Jefferson Group never lacked, it was a crisis to jump into. And one of their greatest assets was outside their reach.

  "Time to get back to work," Cal said with a sigh.

  He nodded goodbye to Neil and headed for the door, his mouth pulled into a grim line. He’d worried about Daniel enough for one day. Now he needed to focus on far darker matters.

  There were still so many pieces to pick up in the wake of the biggest slaughter of politicians in American history.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SENATOR ED ROBERTS — WASHINGTON, DC

  "Are you okay, Senator?" Roberts asked Greenwood, who was staring down at the white knuckles of his clasped hands.

  The rest of the hearing had not gone well. Senator Greenwood had continued badgering Miles Manning far beyond reason. To the Blinker CEO's credit, Manning had taken every verbal pummel with dignity, maintaining his composure just as Roberts had instructed, until his lawyer had stood and said, "Senator, I think we're done here."

  Greenwood had really thrown a hissy fit after that, infuriated by the lawyer’s gall to declare the hearing over. He'd gotten so worked up that Roberts had thought the man would pass out. He'd lost all color and begun to tremble. All the hearing attendees but Roberts had then left, leaving the two men sitting alone in the large, echoing chamber.

  "Bruce?" he tried again in a softer voice.

  Greenwood still did not look up. "If I hadn't dragged her to that stupid rally, she'd still be here."

  "There's no way you could have known."

  Greenwood shook his head. "You don't understand. She didn't want to go. The killings had already begun. And still, I just had to pitch my career above my family." He shuddered. "I thought it was my duty to go to that rally. Silly pride. I had to show my constituents that I wasn't afraid. I paid for it, sure . . . but not as much as I should have. Not as much as they did."

  Greenwood's face crumpled, and he put his head in his hands as he began to weep loudly. A Senate page poked his head into the room, but Roberts shooed him away.

  It took a full five minutes for Greenwood to regain his composure. When he swiped away the last tear, his face was ruddy and swollen, his eyes glazed with fatigue. He looked far from the man who had railed against Miles Manning for over four hours.

  "You should get some rest," Roberts said.

  "I don't have time for rest."

  Greenwood stumbled as he rose from his chair, and Roberts caught him, careful not to grab the shoulder with the missing arm.

  "I'm okay," Greenwood said.

  "You should go see your daughter," Roberts suggested, remembering the morning briefing he’d received from his aide. Melissa Greenwood’s condition had worsened overnight. She was teetering on the edge of death.

  Tears flooded back into Greenwood’s eyes. The miserable senator sniffled, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "I can't see her," he said. "They've got all these tubes stuck in her. I can't bear it. She doesn't even look like my daughter anymore. What am I supposed to say to her?"

  "Tell her that you love her," Roberts said. "Just let her know that you're there. I'm sure that's enough."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Why are you trying to help me?"

  Because I bear some responsibility, he thought.

  As the Senate’s liaison to Blinker, Roberts had meddled in the social media platform’s decision-making on more than one occasion. Whether it was on behalf of the Senate or the president himself, he’d worked with Miles Manning to bury content as needed. Some things just couldn’t be allowed to see the light of day. But the Operation Bounty Killer video had slipped through his fingers, and Greenwood’s pain was a constant reminder of his failure.

  At a loss for words, he only said, "Why wouldn't I?"

  Greenwood’s brows lifted in surprise. Here was a man who'd lost everything. A man who was trying to do his duty and wade through his grief the best he could. His desperate desire for revenge was just a conduit for the pain he harbored. He wouldn’t rest until he’d avenged the death of his wife—and likely his daughter, too. But Roberts knew revenge was often dangerous for everyone involved.

  "Now go," he said. "I'll make sure your page takes your things to your office."

  Greenwood nodded absently, leaving the room without further protest. Roberts slid into Greenwood's now-vacant seat. The Illinois senator had left behind his ubiquitous legal pad. He scanned through the copious notes recorded on the pad. Greenwood's writing was neat and precise. Roberts was a fast reader, which was a good thing because the page reentered the room just as Roberts finished the best part.

  Roberts handed him the pad. "Here you go. I was about to gather it up for you."

  "You don’t have to do that," the page said, stacking Greenwood’s things together, which included the legal pad, a planner, pens in several colors, and a Time magazine featuring Miles Manning on the cover. The cover story’s headline read, The Titan of Blinker, and someone, presumably Greenwood, had taken a Sharpie and inserted two letters. The Titanic of Blinker, it now read.

  Roberts left to see if he could catch up with Manning. They needed to discuss strategy. He could guide the young CEO, but he could not outright direct his actions, so he’d have to tread carefully.

  He found Manning on the steps of the Senate building. The CEO was surrounded by reporters, who were, in turn, surrounded by cops, both on horse and on foot. The DC force was on high alert after the political bombing.

  Manning spotted Roberts and tilted his head in acknowledgement. He thanked the reporters for their time and then passed through the crowd as everyone dispersed. The two men met at Manning’s armored SUV.

  "How bad did they get you?" Roberts said.

  "The reporters? The story's already out that Greenwood wants my blood. You'd think you’d have some privacy in a closed hearing."

  Roberts chuckled. "Didn't you hear? This is Washington. It's the place that proves time and time again that if more than one person knows a secret, there is no secret."

  "You’re right. I should know better." Manning turned to his driver. “Back to the hotel, please.”

  They drove away, and the brilliant CEO began describing his ideas for future iterations of Blinker’s algorithm. As Roberts listened, he realized that if Manning somehow found his way through this catastrophe, he had no doubt the young man would go on to become the world's first trillionaire.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MILES MANNING — WASHINGTON, DC

  They dropped Senator Roberts at his Georgetown townhome and began making their way back to Manning's room at the Willard. There was so much to do; thinking about the many priorities competing for his attention brought on a headache. It had been a tough day, but he'd kept his sanity in check with the help of Roberts, whom he now considered a friend. But could you even be friends with a politician?

  Manning turned back to the window to watch the city speeding by. DC was alive tonight, all aglow with warm lights and buzzing with activity. He’d come to the city many times, both for business and pleasure, but something about this trip made him sentimental. Perhaps it was because he’d been called to testify in front of a powerful group of senators, a mighty request his humble beginnings had never allowed him to imagine. In any case, he found himself smiling in disbelief at how far he’d made it, both in life and with Blinker. What had begun as a means of communication between a group of buddies had turned into an empire with the power to change the world.

  Manning recalled the backpacking trip across Europe where he’d met his now-lifelong friends. They were from Australia, Wales, Switzerland, and the United States. When they’d parted ways, they'd promised to stay in touch—a hard thing to do all those years ago. Hamish, a muscular soccer player from Wales, had said, “If anyone can keep us together, it’s Miles Manning.” Miles still wasn’t sure if it had been a joke or a dare. It didn’t matter. He’d taken the words to heart.

  So, back home, Manning had begun piecing together the code that would fulfill their promise. Within a month, he’d built a working prototype. When he’d sent it to his friends, they’d marveled at the ease with which they could interact. He’d made the website public, though he’d had no expectations about its broader use.

  Being one of the first social media platforms to market, initial adoption had taken time. Their biggest blip of success in the beginning had come from Australia, where three of his friends had told all their friends about Blinker. Word had eventually tracked from Sydney to Melbourne, popped over to New Zealand, and made a pit stop in Guam. It had been the American service members in Guam who'd really popularized Blinker. With their help, people across the globe had embraced the social media platform to reconnect with old friends, update loved ones on their lives, and share memories.

  Blinker’s reputation had been so strong—until he’d taken the company public. Then, venture capitalists had sunk their talons into Blinker, demanding a handsome return on their investment. As a result, social media advertising and the monetization of user data were born.

  By that point in time, Blinker had wiggled its tentacles into all facets of users' lives. Their programmers had used this to their advantage by training the advertising algorithm to feed from every interaction between the user and the site. Mention a car, and suddenly your feed would fill with car ads and discounted insurance offers. Post a picture of a cat, and ads for kitty litter would appear. The underlying algorithm was so strong that many users had joked over the years that Blinker read minds. In truth, the algorithm was merely playing the best game of twenty questions ever played. It had enough data at its command to know users better than they knew themselves.

  The rise of advertising on Blinker—and the revenue associated with it—had caught the eye of the public and the government. Privacy groups had dissented, but Blinker’s team of high-priced lawyers had easily shut them down. The constant calls to suppress “inflammatory” content, on the other hand . . . those had been much more difficult to handle. With the external pressure rising, a new morality had formed inside the company, one initially geared toward the preservation of its ad accounts, but which later morphed into a crusade to eliminate any and all users deemed a threat to Blinker.

  Regular citizens had been banned. Then some religious leaders. Political pundits had followed. Manning himself had reviewed content and weighed the risks of suppression until he’d gone blue in the face. It had been an uphill battle all the way. Censorship had become the issue of the day. Men like Senator Greenwood, who had always been avid allies of free speech, had begun to understand the power Blinker possessed as a megaphone to the masses. Anyone with something to hide had come to make demands of Manning.

  The content enforcement team had grown like a malignant cancer in response to the rising demand for their services, and their swelling power had led to unhealthy levels of self-importance. As a result, they’d quietly referred to themselves as the Gestapo. Manning had been unaware of the poison spreading within the enforcement team until he’d caught two managers saluting each other like Nazis in the bathroom. That had been the end of those two managers, and the end of any mention of the Gestapo.

  Blinker’s public investors had not been happy—not with the growing costs of enforcement, not with the advertisers pulling out, and certainly not with the decline of Blinker’s user base in response to the constant political unrest embroiling the company. Over the years, the number of active users had gone down, and their average age had gone up. What had once been the darling of college students had become the evening routine of retirees. Blinker had been on the decline.

 

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