Domino Effect (2019 Edition)

but guilt. Dropping his head in his hands, his thoughts were interrupted by the distinct ringtone of his personal phone.
Becca, he thought, lunging for the phone. Checking, he saw a text from his daughter. “Thank God,” he said, tapping the message app. His relief and smile were erased as soon as he saw the text.
Staring at the screen, he saw a picture of a black glove and the words, “GOT HER,” written underneath.

4
At 8:00 a.m., Frank Graham, Director of the FBI, followed two Secret Service agents into the West Wing. His mind had been abuzz with questions since the agents showed up at his office twenty minutes earlier. Except for the cursory flashing of creds and a blunt, Please follow us. The president needs to speak with you, no one spoke on the short drive down Pennsylvania Avenue. With no idea why he was ordered to meet with President Lancaster, Frank knew it had to be an emergency. Lancaster was a stickler for schedules and his staff planned organizational meetings well in advance: this broke both protocols.
Stepping in to the lobby, Frank expected a long wait. President Lancaster liked to make his appointments sweat. Ever since Lancaster took the oath of office, that had been his M.O. You were expected to arrive on time, and then you were expected to wait. The only time you would get called straight into the Oval Office is when you were late, and then you were lambasted for your tardiness. But today there would be no waiting. As soon as he entered the waiting room, he was ushered forward by the agents.
Frank Graham, a four-term, two-president, Director of the Bureau, had made this walk many times, but today it had a different feel to it. When friends and family asked him to describe the West Wing, he always told them that the atmosphere was organic. A living, breathing thing. But today that breathing beast was stifled. The usual hub bub and action in and around the West Wing was in full-force, but it felt as if someone had punched it in the gut, and it couldn’t catch its breath.
Stepping inside the Oval Office, Frank sensed a strange hush. It wasn’t just quiet, it was still. Already inside were the heads of the HLS and NSA—Joe McIntyre and Tyler Ruffin. They glanced in his direction, gave a curt nod, and then turned back towards the president.
President Lancaster tried—unsuccessfully—to speak to whomever was on the other end of the phone. Frank couldn’t help but notice that the president appeared nervous and apprehensive. A description never used to describe such an imposing figure.
As Frank watched and listened, he couldn’t help but think about the media’s impression of the president and how contradictory he appeared now: Lancaster’s appearance was as imposing as his reputation. He stood six-feet, four-inches and weighed somewhere near three-hundred-and-fifty pounds. As ominous as he appeared, his style of leadership and his way of communicating were even more so. He had a take-no-prisoners attitude toward both domestic and international affairs, and even though he had enemies on both sides of the aisle in Congress, no one could argue with his results. Under his leadership, now in its second term, the U.S. economy was flourishing, violent crime was down, and between diplomacy and military might, there was a balance of power in the fragmented, vulnerable Middle-east.
The president’s biggest accomplishment to date was his fight against terror. Under his leadership, terror, whether it was in the form of radical jihadists, organized crime, gang violence, or any other incarnation—domestic or foreign—had decreased dramatically, not only within the borders of the United States, but also with its NATO allies.
Antiterrorism was the nail he hung his hat on when questioned about his success by a reporter or when he was campaigning. “When you cut off the head of the beast, you stop its heart,” he would say. “That’s my biggest accomplishment. Everything else, more jobs, better pay, less crime, etc., is all a product of shutting down the ideology of fear. When people don’t live in fear, they’re willing to take chances; and chances lead to success.”
But as Frank and the others looked on, the president’s bravado was gone. He appeared to be a shell of the leader he was known to be. Gone were his dark pinstriped suit, starched white dress shirt, and bolo tie. He paced in front of his desk, white-knuckling the phone, dressed in a wrinkled Dartmouth t-shirt and an equally shabby-looking pair of khaki pants. The dark circles under his eyes looked as if they’d been tattooed into his skin. This was the only time Frank had ever seen President Lancaster looking less than pristine.
Whatever was going on had the president—nicknamed Stone by the Secret Service for his unforgiving and hardnosed politics—in uncharted territory. Frank watched as Lancaster raised his hand and pointed a finger, as if he was about to finally get a chance to speak.
“Smitty, I’m putting you on speaker; I have Alphabet Soup with me, and I want them to hear what you’re telling me.” After a brief pause, Lancaster held down the speaker button and returned the headset to its cradle.
“As I was saying, sir,” Russell Smith, the Director of the Secret Service said, “I’ve met with Agent Jason Sawyer and his team. Until last night, everything on Becca’s detail was status quo.”
“Meaning?” Frank spoke up.
“Is that you Frank?”
“It is.”
“Good to know,” Smitty said. “Meaning, Becca has been in Key West for Spring Break from Dartmouth. Jason, with the president’s permission, had given Becca some independence in her movements. Until last night, she has never missed curfew or failed to check in.”
“Where are you at in the investigation?” President Lancaster asked.
“I’ve brought additional agents down to help in the search. We are in the process of gathering all security footage from the hotel, beach, and Duval Street as well as the entire island.”
“What about her roommate, Pia?”
“Same scenario,” Smitty answered. “She disappeared with Becca.”
“And her family, have you been in