Gervais held his breath for a heartbeat. “Five people, including you and me, ma’am. Our contact in Springfield, his liaison, and Wolverton. The president’s movement—”

  “Former president,” she corrected.

  “Yes, of course,” Gervais covered quickly. “The former president’s movements are considered classified intelligence, so only the people who need to know have access to it. What do you make of it?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “What does Wolverton make of it?”

  Her chief of staff cleared his throat. “He... didn’t offer any opinions, ma’am. Just the report. I thought it would be best to deliver it privately, instead of having it included in your briefing.”

  That had been the right choice, but she still had to tamp down the reflex to demand why he thought that. It was a catch 22 for Gervais—if he’d let this into the daily briefing, where the rest of her new cabinet would hear about it, there was no telling what kind of speculation would start simmering between them when she wasn’t looking.

  Maybe Daniels was planning to gain support among the insurgencies? Maybe he was out there telling people she’d ousted him, stirring up resentment? A few wrong words, and Daniels could undermine the administration entirely.

  On the other hand, the fact that her chief of staff assumed she’d want to hear about it privately made her wonder what was on his mind. Was he asking himself the same questions? And if he was, how long before he started asking them of other people?

  So, she gave a slight nod, and closed the report, then laid it on her desk as if it were no more important to her than a daily accounting of the laundry roster. “Well,” she said with forced ease, “at least he’ll have a warm place to sleep. Bring them in, let’s get this briefing over with. Wolverton’s here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gervais paused as he turned toward the door. “I... did suggest to him that you’d take point on the Daniels matter. He won’t bring it up.”

  She gave a tight smile. “Fine.”

  With that, Gervais went to the door and opened it. “Gentlemen?”

  One by one, her five cabinet members filed in. Wolverton, the official director of the FBI now, was her National Security advisor in lieu of anyone else with the qualifications she needed. He led the way in, followed by four old men who’d similarly been her best choices of the options available.

  It wasn’t ideal, and in better times they’d have been drawn from more diverse backgrounds. As it was, they were all military of one kind or another. But then, that was what she needed. Strength, and a willingness to make difficult choices and follow difficult orders. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She waved to the couches. “Please, sit. What have you got for me?”

  Wolverton took his seat first, followed by the others. As he did, he met her eyes, and she swore she saw a sparkle of something there. Amusement? Pity? He knew about Daniels. Maybe he was already doing the math on how long it would take before the former president declared himself leader of some other country. Or maybe he just liked to see her squirm over it.

  Whatever the case, he opened a file, flipped a page, and started with the intelligence reports she’d asked about the night before. “You wanted to know about the roll out of Martial Law in the region. We’ve got troops fanning out to take Denver, Albuquerque, Wichita, and Oklahoma City. Reports are trickling in gradually. There’s been very little resistance, far less than was anticipated.”

  He flipped the page. “Of course, the groundwork laid by our... friends at Apex has helped. We’re on track to expand our perimeter out to Tulsa and Amarillo in the next week, but...”

  President Welcher waited as Wolverton exchanged a glance with General Timson, a man of about seventy who she’d tapped as her Secretary of Interior for his early career with the Army Corps of Engineers.

  It was hard to determine what passed between them, but when Wolverton seemed reluctant to speak up, Timson spoke instead. “It’s the indigenous nations in the southwest that we expect to be a problem,” he explained. “You’ve got the Cherokee, Muscogee, and Chickasaw down that way. Our recent intel is over a week old, but they’ve been hard at work establishing order in their respective regions. They barely had any modern infrastructure to speak of in the first place. There’ve been some rumors about a movement to take back their land.”

  “Take back their land,” Welcher echoed. “Have they got a military?”

  “Not as such,” he admitted, “but if I may make a recommendation—”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Our resources are best spent securing a proper perimeter where we have the manpower to do so,” Timson offered. “Let them manage the southwest however they want for now. We have bigger problems.”

  “Like St. Louis.” Welcher angled toward Lieutenant Gerald Franks, Norman Wilson’s under-secretary. “Any word from Wilson about St. Louis?”

  Franks cast an uneasy glance around at the members of the cabinet before he answered her. “We spoke an hour ago, Madam President. Wilson is back in Lebanon. The meeting with Mayor Lambert was cordial and productive, he thinks.”

  “But?” she pressed. There was always more when the news didn’t have any substantial news, only pleasantries.

  The lieutenant’s jaw tensed slightly. “But... the Mayor of St. Louis seems to be firm on his stance. They want to remain independent.”

  “With what food?” Welcher demanded. “With what energy? What the hell has St. Louis got that they don’t think they need the rest of the country?”

  “Supply lines.” Wolverton drew her attention. “Trade routes.” He flipped another page in his report and glanced down. “We’ve identified six, so far. Two going north, one south, one back east, a local circuit connecting a few off-the-grid types, and... one coming west. To Springfield.”

  Bad enough St. Louis declared itself independent from the United States. Now they were building trade relationships. With those would come more dissent. “You know where those routes lead?”

  “We’re in the process of collecting that information. They’re indirect routes, and we’re talking about people who are trying to keep a low profile. But we’re close. At least one goes all the way to the Twin Cities, but there have been disruptions. Not our people—local militias. But it does look like St. Louis has become something of a central trading center.”

  She nodded slowly. “A center of trade.” Unable to help herself, she began to pace, her mind racing. “As far west as Springfield? How did this happen?”

  “Ma’am,” Timson began, “we’ve only just managed to get a lock on the region. It’s been weeks, and people have been doing what they can to survive, to get what they need. Sheldon Lambert was a logistics director before he ran for office. It’s what got him elected, as I understand it. He likely started working on this the day after the dust cleared. And he’s done an impressive job.”

  Welcher flashed the man a narrow-eyed scowl. It slipped past her before she could stop it, but she was gratified to see that he swallowed whatever else he was about to say. “I don’t have to tell you all that letting St. Louis become a bustling hub of industry while we’re over here barely keeping a hold on three states looks very, very bad.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “If Mayor Lambert persists with this... independent city-state nonsense, it’s going to spread.” She balled a hand into a fist. “And with the indigenous nations in the southwest, what we have in front of us is a trend. A dangerous one. Springfield is this close to making a similar declaration. We’ve got to put a stop to this before it spreads.”

  Lieutenant Franks gave a cautious nod. “We could divert forces to St. Louis, intercept incoming supply lines. Put pressure on them.”

  “No. We’d have to commit too many people to a siege like that, and there’s no telling how long it would take. For all we know, they’d call in allies to assist and we’d end up with a ground war. No. We need something more decisive, that will send a clear message.” Welcher ground her fist into her open palm as she walked the length of the room. “We need people to realize that partitioning the United States of America is not an option. Not for St. Louis, not for anyone.”

  Timson frowned as he glanced around the room at the others. “It would take time to arrange an all-out assault, but we’d have to draw troops away from—”

  “What’s our nuclear capability?” Welcher interrupted, her pacing stopped as she waited for the answer.

  After a lengthy silence, Wolverton closed his folder, his expression grim. “St. Louis is still a US city, Madam President.”

  She stared him down until he looked away. “I was briefed with the rest of the defense committee on a B61-12 tactical nuclear weapon. My understanding is that it has variable yield and can be used like a ‘scalpel’, if I recall the D.O.D. presentation accurately.”

  “That’s accurate,” Timson nodded. “Detonating a nuclear weapon on US soil isn’t the hitch, ma’am. It’s the death toll. Even at minimum yield, a B61 will kill a lot of people. US Citizens.”

  “Not if St. Louis is no longer a part of the US,” Welcher pointed out. “Just get me a plan drawn up. I want contingencies developed for every city within a thousand miles—what their political mood is and who is considering joining St. Louis in this ridiculous bid for... independence. If we must, we’ll make an example of St. Louis. If you think a bomb is going to cost lives, consider how many people would die in an all-out civil war.”

  She took in each of their faces in turn. “This situation is not getting out of hand, gentlemen. Not while I’m president.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  LANA

  Outside St. Clair, MO

  Thursday, July 19th, 2:24 pm CST

  Lana stared out the window, bouncing her leg up and down. When she was a child, car trips stretched like Laffy Taffy in the heat; sagging in the middle as they stretched on and on. Even twenty miles seemed eternal. She would squirm and bounce, rolling the window up and down, asking the dreaded, “Are we there yet?” a million times. She supposed most kids were that way.

  Of course, as she aged, her sense of time shifted, grew. Twenty miles became inconsequential, two hundred not that bad. A high school friend had moved her senior year and Lana visited now and then, driving to Virginia with music blaring out the open windows and her phone on speaker. In no time, she was there, hugging, laughing.

  Maybe that was the thing about being an adult—time passed faster because you’d seen more of it. Or maybe because children paid attention to everything, or tried to, and that hyper awareness of the world made everything seem to move more slowly.

  Whatever it was, Lana felt more like a five-year-old than a grown woman now. After two days winding their way north along back roads to stay clear of Apex Security patrols, Lana squirmed in her seat like a kid again, her jaw clenched tight to keep from asking pointless questions. Finally, she snapped. “Dad, I’m losing my mind back here. Can I drive?”

  Caleb eyed her in the rear view. “Sure you can’t rest? It’s not your shift for a few more hours.”

  “If I have to stare out the window with nothing to do for another hour, I might shave my head again.”

  The car slowed.

  After pulling over, Lana’s parents moved to the back and Derek slid into the front passenger seat. It didn’t take long for her dad to fall asleep—a skill Lana envied—and Lana leaned toward Derek. “Best road trip you’ve ever been on. Go.”

  He cracked a smile for the first time in days. “Summer after high school. A couple buddies and I drove eight hundred miles to go to this three-day concert out in some field in the middle of nowhere. Halfway there, the car broke down. Had to hustle some odd jobs in this small town for a weekend just to get back home.”

  “What about the concert?”

  “Missed it.”

  “And that was the best road trip?”

  His smile turned into a grin. “Not everything’s about the destination. Sometimes the journey’s worth it.”

  Lana groaned. “You sound like a Hallmark card.”

  “But I made you smile.”

  She opened her mouth to give him heck, but the view out the windshield caught her breath. Dark, billowing clouds clogged the horizon. “That’s… a really big fire.”

  Derek shifted in his seat. “Should we backtrack? Find another way?”

  Lana swallowed. “Let’s get a bit closer. Maybe it’s already burned out.”

  They kept driving, Lana’s attention firmly on the road and the smoke in front of them. At the first sign of the actual fire, Lana rolled to a stop, a curse slipping from her lips. A glowing wall of reds and oranges seemed to devour the horizon, black choking smoke swarming above it. “Um, Dad?"

  Caleb muttered something in his sleep.

  “Dad!”

  “What is it swee—oh, goodness.” Her mother slid forward, fingers digging into the driver’s seat as she took in the view.

  Her father rubbed a hand across his face as he assessed the situation. “I guess Apex was telling the truth about this, at least.” He paused, peering out the window to take it in. “It stretches so far west and south; we probably would have run into it regardless.”

  “Do we turn around?” Elizabeth asked. “We could try St. Louis. They’d have to understand people escaping the fire.”

  Lana shook her head. “I don’t think we want any part of St. Louis. Even if they’re not associated with Apex, it looked like Horse Creek on steroids. We could chance it, but for all we know if we go in, we won't come out.”

  “She’s right,” her father agreed. “Our best bet is to go through the fire. What we’re seeing is just the front. Behind that, there’ll be less fire and more aftermath.”

  Derek leaned back in his seat, shoulders stiff and eyes wide. “But it’s... How are we supposed to get through?”

  “Carefully.” Caleb gripped the corner of Derek’s seat to pull himself forward. “The road itself won’t be burning. Asphalt will be hot, but the ambient air temps outside of the fire have been low. It should be passable. If we’re careful, and fast, we should make it through.” He moved toward the door. “I should drive.”

  Lana hesitated. Part of her wanted her father to take over, to be the man he’d always been. But his shoulder limited his range of motion. What if he had to swerve? What if his healing wound tore? She turned to face him. “I can do it.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Derek made a quiet, choked sound of discomfort before he spoke up. “Lana’s got a point, sir. Your shoulder isn’t healed. Not all the way. If you have to swerve quick, it might tear or seize. You could end up crashing.”

  Caleb grunted. “Right, well one of us has been driving for about thirty years, and the other got her license basically yesterday. I’ve got more experience.”

  If Lana had to sit in the back of the car while they drove through that fire and cling to the seat while she waited for them to burn to death, she was going to lose her mind. Not that she didn’t trust her father to get them there safely—she did—but his shoulder was a serious concern. She’d seen it seize up before, and more than once he’d even dropped something.

  “Me driving is the smartest decision,” she said flatly. “No offense, Dad, but it’s not like any of us are stunt drivers and I’m the one that’s rested up.”

  “That’s not the point, Lana—” he started.

  She hit the gas. “Sorry,” she growled as she picked up some speed, “but I’m not going to argue about this. Everyone just hold on.”

  “Lana, stop the car,” Caleb demanded.

  She might have, if adrenaline hadn’t flooded her body at the first surge of speed. Her mother’s voice carried from the back seat, but Lana tuned it out, focusing instead on the road. She pushed the SUV as fast as she dared to close the distance to the edge of the fire.

  A mile was eaten up in less than a minute. Lana jerked the wheel hard to the left, narrowly avoiding burning wreckage strewn across the road. Her pulse hammered in time with the undulating flames. Sweat pricked her brow.

  Wind she hadn’t expected pummeled the vehicle and she slowed. Smoke enveloped the SUV. Everything glowed red and orange and black, and she forced down the panic. No backing out now. The only way out was through.

  Derek sat rigid and frozen beside her, one hand gripping the dash. Her parents were silent in the back, but she knew they were tense. Her mother was probably praying. Lana hoped so, at least.

  The smell of smoke filled the vehicle, noxious and thick. She tugged her T-shirt up to cover her nose, although it did little good. Heat buffeted the car. Trees stood burning like effigies all around, crackling so loudly she could hear it through the glass. Here and there, chunks of burning branches or trunk littered the road, and she had to slow and navigate around them.

  She hadn’t expected the visibility to be so low, somehow. It seemed like the fire should have lit their way, but instead it just made the world hard to look at—bright in some spots and pitch dark in others. Every car length felt like a victory, though, and the further she drove, the more she adjusted, until she was barely thinking at all. Observing, reacting, her mind still and quiet on the surface while survival instinct ticked away somewhere beneath.

  Derek hissed and looked up at the ceiling of the SUV, breaking the spell.

  “What?” Lana’s demand melded with her father’s as they both turned to Derek.

  His jaw worked as he pointed upward. “The gas cans. We’ve got two still up there, full.”

  At first, it didn’t register. “So? They’re secure. Shouldn’t be a—”

  In her impatience to get through the fire, and her insistence on being the one at the wheel, she’d forgotten about the cargo they strapped to the top. The fuel. She swallowed and choked on the spit, throat catching it like sandpaper. “It... under the tarp. That should protect it, right?”

  Even as she spoke, something dripped on her window. Something viscous, smoldering, and black. A streak of it trailed down, pooling along the rubber seal between the glass and the door.