Washington D.C., Capitol Hill.
Forty-eight hours.
For the standard Federation administrative process, forty-eight hours wasn't even enough time for a document to travel from a downstairs office to an upstairs one.
But in the world of highly capitalized electoral politics, forty-eight hours was enough time for a slaughter.
Alexandra sat behind her desk, staring at the landline on it, which was blaring incessantly.
Three hours ago, her personal cell phone had died, its battery drained by a flood of missed calls.
The office door was thrown open, and her campaign manager, David, rushed in.
David was covered in sweat, his breathing ragged. He clutched a tablet in his hand.
