Leo checked into a hotel near Dupont Circle.

The room was standard: heavy curtains, dark wooden furniture, and the faint scent of lemon air freshener.

The "enemy of my enemy is my friend" logic he had discussed with Roosevelt on the plane had sounded irrefutable at thirty thousand feet.

Senator Warren needed chaos, and Leo could provide it. It was a perfect deal.

Logically, there was nothing wrong with it.

But as the roar of the airplane faded from his ears, an indescribable sense of unease began to rise from the pit of his stomach.

He paced back and forth in his room.

From the door to the window, and from the window back to the door.

The carpet muffled his footsteps, but it couldn’t quiet the turmoil in his heart.

"What’s wrong, my boy?"

Roosevelt’s voice rang out.

"You’re hesitating."

"I’m not hesitating." Leo stopped pacing and looked out at the brightly lit city. "I’m just thinking about the specific execution plan. We reached a consensus—we’re going to find Warren. That’s correct."

"You’re lying," Roosevelt said, seeing right through him. "Your heart is racing, and your breathing is getting shallow. That’s a sign of anxiety. You’re resisting this."

Leo loosened his tie, irritated.

"I’m ready."

"Mindset and experience are two different things," Roosevelt said. "Right now, you’re like a newly promoted second lieutenant. You have the heart of a general, the desire to conquer the battlefield. That’s good."

"But having the right mindset doesn’t mean you know how to fight a war."

"Do you know how to position an artillery battery? Do you know how to calculate supply lines? Do you know whether to order your men to open fire or to call for support when the enemy charges?"

"You don’t."

"That’s experience."

Roosevelt’s tone became earnest and profound.

"You want to win, you want to solve the crisis in Pittsburgh, but you don’t know what to say to that old Republican fox. That’s what you lack—experience."

"But those two things aren’t at odds, Leo."

"You don’t need to feel ashamed, because you have me."

Leo walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of ice water.

"Fine." Leo took a large gulp of the ice water, trying to suppress his frustration. "Then tell me, based on your experience, how should we contact Russell Warren?"

"That’s simple."

Roosevelt began to list the options.

"You could try the official route. Call Senator Warren’s office in the Senate. Tell the intern who answers the phone that the Mayor of Pittsburgh needs ten minutes of the Senator’s time."

"But let’s be realistic, Leo. On Washington’s list, you’re a nobody. Worse, you’re a radical Democrat in their eyes."

"His scheduling secretary will politely take your name and put you on the waiting list for next year’s Christmas party—and that’s if you’re lucky."

"Or, you could try your luck at the Congress Building’s visitor center first thing tomorrow morning." Roosevelt let out a soft chuckle. "You can stand in line with the high school students on their field trips and the tourists from Iowa, and pray you can corner him on his way from his office to the Senate Hall to vote."

"Of course, there is a more direct way."

Roosevelt paused.

"Go find Morganfield."

"He’s Warren’s financial backer. He definitely has Warren’s private number and could even arrange a meeting for you directly."

"All it would take is one phone call, and Morganfield would pull the strings for you. After all, you’re a community of shared interests now."

Roosevelt had laid out the options, but Leo didn’t answer right away.

Suddenly, he felt a faint but piercing itch on the back of his neck.

Leo raised his left hand and scratched hard at the skin on the back of his neck. His nails scraped against his flesh with a faint rustling sound.

The more he scratched, the more it itched.

He applied more pressure, his fingertips digging into the muscle, leaving several angry red marks on the skin.

The itching filled him with an uncontrollable irritation.

Only when the pain overwhelmed the itch did he abruptly stop.

"And then what?"

Leo’s voice turned icy.

"Then I owe Morganfield another favor? Then I have to trade away another piece of Pittsburgh to pay this debt? Should I sell him the water system too? Or maybe give him the naming rights to the city parks?"

"Another deal, is that it?"

Roosevelt was taken aback.

He hadn’t expected such a vehement reaction from Leo.

"It’s just a means to an end, Leo. In these circles, favors are hard currency."

"A means to an end?"

Leo slammed the glass down on the bar.

"Mr. President, I’ve had a question on my mind ever since we got off the plane."

"Why are we going to the Republican Party?"

"We’re Democrats. Murphy is a Democratic Representative. Our base, our principles, everything we have should be in the blue camp."

"Now, just because someone in our own party is trying to screw us over, we’re supposed to run straight to the opposing camp for help? What is that? Treason?"

"Parties don’t matter." Roosevelt’s voice held the disdain of someone who had seen it all. "In this country, a party is just a label."

"The Whig Party, the Federalist Party, the Democratic Party, the Republican Party... these names have changed again and again throughout history. They’re just tools, weapons that politicians use to divide themselves into factions and attack their opponents."

"Just like how Carter Wright used race to attack you."