The rain was still falling outside the car window.
Leo Wallace hung up the phone.
The light from the phone screen died, plunging the car back into darkness. Only the fleeting shadows of passing streetlights cast mottled patterns across his face.
Sanders had given him his bottom line, and he had given him his list.
It was a "safe" list.
Deputy secretaries, assistant secretaries, policy advisors.
These people might sympathize with Pittsburgh, they might even agree with the Progressives' ideals, but they all played by the rules.
Relying on this group, getting through that damned administrative review process would take a month at the very least.
Leo didn't have a month. He only had twelve days.
He had to find a shortcut.
He had to find the one person who could make the final call—someone who could ignore the rules and tear a hole straight through this massive bureaucratic machine.
'Mr. President.'
Leo broke the silence in his mind.
