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ChapterTwenty-Nine
Reese
Now
“Ihave a short statement,” Marshall begins, once the press in the briefing room have stopped shouting, “and I will not be taking questions at this time.”
Anatoly, Sheridan, and I are crowded around Sheridan’s cell phone watching the live video stream from CNN. The screen is shaking because Sheridan is shaking. I grab his wrist.
Marshall stares into the camera, and it feels like I’m right in front of him, like he’s speaking straight to me.
“Last night, there was an incident in Rock Creek Park. Two United States Secret Service agents and President Walker were lost.”
The briefing room explodes. Three dozen reporters leap to their feet, questions shouted on top of each other. “What do you mean by lost?” “Was the president killed?” “Was it an attack?”
My mind circles over “lost.” Is Marshall being cagey? Or does he know more than I do? I haven’t heard from Ahn. Did the facial recognition program come back with a definitive identity?
I’ve got to call her, but I can’t tear myself away from the press conference.
Marshall waits the media out. They give up when he refuses to answer, and the room settles into shutter clicks and the pop of camera flashes. “We are still investigating and are working to understand the exact sequence of events that led to this tragedy. Right now, all signs point to a critical failure within the Secret Service.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. “He’s hanging it on us.”
I knew this was going to happen from the moment I walked out of the Oval Office this morning. So did Britton. We knew we were going to get hung out to dry.
Marshall is alone on the White House podium. I scan the edges of the frame, trying to spot the agents who are always supposed to shadow the president and vice president. No one’s there. They aren’t hovering against the wall. Did he push my people away? Or—
“Our investigation has uncovered disturbing patterns of behavior within the Secret Service. None more so than by the special agent in charge of the presidential protective detail, Reese Theriot.” My service photo appears on the screens behind Marshall on either side of the press podium. “At this moment, the Justice Department is filing charges against Theriot. These charges include gross negligence and dereliction of duty that led directly to the endangerment of President Walker. The FBI is currently investigating Theriot as the principal suspect in additional crimes, crimes against the United States which rise to the highest and most severe level.”
Marshall’s words are bullets fired straight at my heart.
“Theriot is now a fugitive from justice. I am asking all Americans to remain vigilant and report any sightings of him immediately to their local police or to the FBI. Please do not approach him on your own. He is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.”
“I don’t believe this,” I murmur. “This can’t be happening.”
“To my fellow Americans, know that even in this dark hour, we are united, strong, and absolutely dedicated to the swift pursuit of justice. Thank you. God bless America,” he says, almost shouting over the room’s eruption and descent into shouts and hurled questions: “Are you the president now?” “Have you been sworn in?” “What time did Brennan Walker die?”
He strides off the podium, and the feed cuts back to the CNN newsroom, where two shocked anchors are scrambling to respond.
Sheridan powers off his phone screen.
“You are being framed, Reese,” Anatoly says.
Fury eclipses everything within me, every thought, every emotion. I shove Sheridan hard, both hands in the center of his chest. “Did you know?”He stumbles back, barely staying on his feet. He’s exhausted, and he’s slowing down. Maybe that’s why he’s slipping. Can’t keep up his facade? “Did you fucking know?”
“No! I had no idea he was going to hold a press conference!”
“Did you know he was going to frame me?”
Sheridan’s jaw clenches so hard his bones might snap. “No.”
How can I believe him now, after everything?
Why did Marshall call me a fugitive when Sheridan has been feeding him information all morning? Hell, the Service could track our SUV if they wanted to. Maybe they’re refusing. Maybe there’s a signal malfunction. Radio is down, Mr. Vice President. Sorry.
I don’t know what to make of the absence of my agents at the press briefing. I know what I want it to mean. It’s the kind of message Henry would send to me, silent support and a giant “Fuck you” to the powers that be all in one.
But Henry is gone.
