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I kiss Reese’s fingers as he keys his wrist mic and replies, “Acknowledged.”
We move through the silent West Wing, passing the dark offices of my chief of staff and the vice president before Reese leads me down the stairs and into the basement garage.
Reese’s best and closest agents are here. Henry’s driving. Stewart, from CAT, is in the front seat. Sheridan will be at Reese’s side at the White House while I’m gone. With the two of them on overwatch, every flap of a bird’s wings will be monitored. Every inhale, every exhale.
Henry is already behind the wheel of the blacked-out SUV Reese has readied, and he watches us both as I climb into the rear.
This is really happening. Up until now, I could pretend that it was all a nightmare. There wasn’t going to be a secret meeting about a traitor. Liu didn’t slip me his note. It’s the stuff of spy movies and pulp novels. But now my hands are shaking, and my stomach is in knots. Dread is choking me.
I want to reach out to Reese—
Reese shuts the door and locks me in the safe cocoon of the SUV.
Our eyes meet through the bulletproof glass. He’s distorted, like I’m looking through a window soaked in rain.
He slaps the door twice. I hold his stare as Henry rolls us forward.
This is it.
We sneak out of the White House under cover of darkness.
The drive is uneventful, save for the novelty of stopping at traffic lights. I watch the scattered cars, the cabs that dot the city. Henry and Stewart are silent in the front seat. Henry studies me in the rearview mirror as we make the turn onto Piney Branch Parkway.
I close my eyes. I try to picture Reese’s face when I pull out the ring and ask him to marry me. Shock. Joy, I hope. An instant, irreversible Yes.
Squealing brakes throw me forward against the seat belt. I get an arm up and brace myself before my forehead slams into the headrest.
Stewart curses. “What the hell is that guy doing in the road?”
“I don’t know,” Henry growls as he throws the SUV into reverse. We peel backward, burning rubber filling my nose.
Glass splinters, and Stewart curses again as the front windshield fractures into a dozen spiderwebs. “Fucker’s shooting at us! I’m going to—”
Henry floors it. We almost fishtail, but the tires grab the road and we punch forward. How can Henry see anything through the shattered glass? “Henry!” Stewart shouts. “Watch out—”
Free fall grabs me. I’m floating, flying inside the millimeters my seat belt gives. I turn my head to the right and see him, the man who was shooting. He’s still pointing his weapon at me even as we’re soaring right for a thick clump of trees.
Impact jars every bone in my body. The seat belt jerks my shoulder to a stop. Something snaps. My teeth slam together, nearly slicing my tongue in half, and my head bounces forward and back, then slams into the frame over the passenger door. Metal screams, the sound of steel tearing, and glass buckles as the SUV gouges the earth. We’re completely out of control.
We end in a sudden, violent collision, upside down, when the passenger side of the SUV slams into a tree trunk. Stewart’s head hits the dash with a wet crunch. He doesn’t move.
I’m hanging from my seat belt, arms dangling over my head. Blood drips up my face, falling from my chin to my cheek and then into my eyes. I can’t move. Am I paralyzed?
No, I’m in shock. My fingers curl, one at a time. Uncoordinated, I try to free myself and get nowhere.
Scampering on our right.
Only one headlight still works, and it’s shining on tree trunks before fading into the darkness of Rock Creek Park. The shooter is still here, and for the moment, we are at his mercy.
“Mr. President, are you alive back there?” Henry unbuckles his seat belt and rolls onto his shoulder. He leans his weight into the driver’s window and shoves. The cracked glass bows, then buckles, and he pulls back, punches the window, once, twice, a third time, before it separates from the frame. He sticks his palms through the gap and peels the whole thing back like he’s opening a tin can.
“I’m alive,” I croak. “Get me out of here, Henry.”
Those footsteps are back, a quiet shuffling in the night. Henry army crawls out of the driver’s seat and crouches, pulling out his sidearm. He waits.
“I’m here,” a voice whispers.
Henry stands. “He’s alive. We don’t have much time. Hurry the fuck up.”
