The cop came around the car and saw them. He was holding his flashlight, illuminating more of the scene. The headlights for the car only went so far to give them visibility.
He crouched down.
“The Commissioner called us, and we’re to get you to the White House.”
She was to the point.
“One of my Marines is in that car. The woman there,” she said, pointing at her, “shot him to get our car off the road. She was going to kill us. She’s not an American. I need her body transported to the FBI building. Lowkey. Call them and tell intake it’s been authorized by me, personally.”
He knelt down and shined the light into her face.
“Can we not with the flashbang to the face?” she asked.
He explained.
“The commissioner wants an update, and he told us to check and make sure you’re not injured. I’m checking for a concussion.”
Well, she didn’t have one of those.
What she did have was a suspiciously large pain in her ass named Devon Slater.
The cop continued.
“He’s en route to ensure your well-being. The President wants you transported. Capitol cops and the Secret Service are on the way.”
Then, it was time to move.
Before she’d leave, she went back over to the car and spoke to Jet.
Was it silly?
Yes.
Was it necessary?
Yes.
“We’re getting you out, Jet. I’m sorry, and I’m not leaving you behind.”
She couldn’t look at him. If she did, Elizabeth knew she’d be vomiting or having that mental breakdown.
Bet.
On.
It.
When she was done, the cop helped her up, and the three of them scampered to the top of the ravine, slipping and sliding along the way.
Uriel had the most difficult time thanks to his concussion.
At the top, she was shoved into an SUV with flashing lights.
Both Marines followed, unwilling to leave her alone for a single second.
“Sit tight, Director,” the cop said.
Before he could close the door, she grabbed his arm.
