Chapter 1

Stone Barrington stood in the shooting range in the basement of his New York City home, held the Colt Model 1911 semiautomatic .45-caliber pistol out in front of him with both hands, and squeezed off a round.

The president of the United States, Holly Barker, stood next to him. “Near miss,” she said.

“I hit him in the chest,” Stone protested. “All right, sort of in the chest.”

“You should be able to hit him in the center of the chest or in either eye,” Holly said. “I don’t know why I can’t fix you. If my father, Ham, were here, he’d fix you in a minute. Why can’t I do that?”

“It just may have something to do with the quality of your student,” Stone said.

“You can shoot the eye out of a gnat with a rifle. Why can’t I get you to do that with a .45?”

Stone tried again. “Maybe I’m unfixable. Maybe I’ve been hit over the head too many times, and my brain is wobbly.”

“I could always fix anybody, like Ham does.”

“Maybe serving as president has cut into your range time,” Stone suggested.

“What range time? The Secret Service gets all wobbly anytime I’m in the same room with an unholstered handgun,” she said. “I guess they’re afraid I’ll shoot myself.”

“Then they don’t understand whose daughter you are.”

“Right about that. They’re all so, young. They can’t remember as far back as when Ham was national pistol champion two years in a row.”

“Maybe Ham has faded a little?”

“Forget about that. He only competed twice. He could win it again today.”

“If I ever need somebody shot, I’ll get Ham to do it for me,” Stone said.

“Good idea.”

“I’m fatally limited to having no more than one good idea a day, without a healing infusion of Knob Creek,” Stone said. “Let’s adjourn to my study.”

“Okay,” Holly said. “Then, after I’ve loosened you up, I’ll take you upstairs and fuck your brains out, if we can get past the Secret Service.”

“You must be the only female president to talk that way,” Stone said.

“Wrong. Kate Lee served two terms and never stopped talking that way. She still does.”

They let themselves out of the shooting range, past a nervous-looking Secret Service agent, and sought solitude in Stone’s study. Stone poured.

They took a swig of the bourbon, then Holly sat back on the sofa and gazed at him. “Stone,” she said, “there’s something I’ve never been able to figure out about you.”

“What’s that? I’m an open book.”

“Why are bad people always trying to kill you?”

“I’ve often wondered about that myself,” Stone said. “And I can’t figure it out, either.”

“Why are you such an inviting target?” she asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied.

“Dino says it’s because you’re sloppy. He can’t get you to carry all the time, and you’re constantly forgetting to set your very expensive alarm system. I mean, Mike Freeman or Bob Cantor is always updating it with the latest feature, yet people keep getting into your house.”

“Well, not when you’re here,” Stone said. “Those Secret Service people are the best alarm system on the planet.”

“That’s what they think, too. A tip: don’t bring up Jack Kennedy or even George Wallace in their presence. They get all defensive.”

“Then I’ll never bring up those names,” Stone promised. He rose and went to get a fresh bottle of Knob Creek from the cabinet next to the bar.

“They’ll never need to watch your ass,” Holly said. “I’ll do that for them.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in this millennium,” Stone said, putting that part of himself back on the sofa.

“Have you loosened up yet?” Holly asked.

“I believe I have,” Stone replied.

So, they went upstairs, past two Secret Service agents, and did what Holly had suggested earlier. They did it well, too, being accustomed to each other’s bodies.