High Treason

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In all his seventeen years with the United States Secret Service, Special Agent Jason Knapp had never felt this out of place, this exposed. The January chill combined with his jumpy nerves to create a sense of dread that rendered every noise too loud, every odor too intense.

Rendered the night far too dark.

With his SIG Sauer P229 on his hip, and an MP5 submachine gun slung under his arm — not to mention his five teammates on Cowgirl’s protection detail — he couldn’t imagine a scenario that might get away from them, but sometimes you get that niggling voice in the back of your head that tells you that things aren’t right. Years of experience had taught Knapp to listen to that voice when it spoke.

Oh, that Mrs. Darmond would learn to listen to her protection detail. Oh, that she would listen to anyone.

While he himself rarely visited the White House residence, stories abounded among his colleagues that Cowgirl and Champion fought like banshees once the doors were closed. She never seemed to get the fact that image mattered to presidents, and that First Ladies had a responsibility to show a certain decorum.

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