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Clint Cross. The name sears into the white matter of my brain. “That’s where I’ll start.”
Marshall’s gaze sweeps the Oval. He waits until he has everyone’s attention. “Not a word leaves this office. Not one breath.”
McClintock frowns. “The attorney general is coming to swear you in—”
“Call him off. False alarm.”
“Sir—”
“Push the story that the crash was an off-duty Secret Service agent. A beloved agent who met his tragic end. None of you breathes a word that President Walker is not upstairs at this moment, sleeping comfortably.”
Britton looks like he’s going to faint. Sheridan’s exhale is the only sound in the room. There’s nothing even close to legal about what the vice president is ordering us to do. Not in the same zip code. Not on the same continent.
“We need to buy time,” Marshall continues. “If Walker’s remains aren’t found at the crash site, we have to assume he’s been kidnapped. Silence is our best friend right now. Silence keeps whoever is behind this off-balance. They can’t counteract our moves if they don’t know what we’re doing. And if it’s terror they’re after, they will be disappointed when all they see is business as usual when the sun rises.” Marshall grips Matt’s elbow again. “Dry your eyes and get back to work, or go home. That goes for everyone. I need you all to put your game faces on.”
That sends Matt into spasms of tears again, but he bucks up and swallows them down. We all give him a minute, and, under the glares of the most powerful men in America, Matt forces himself to calm. “I can do this, Mr. Vice President.”
Marshall looks to McClintock and Britton. McClintock nods. Britton hesitates. He’s imagining the congressional hearings that are barreling toward us all. What did you choose to do in this moment of crisis?
“It would help my investigation if I knew what the CIA briefing was about—” I start.
“The substance of the president’s brief is not part of your investigation, Agent Theriot. You already have a lead. Track down Clint Cross.” Marshall stands and buttons his suit jacket.
He’s shorter than Brennan, and his hair is prematurely white, unlike Brennan’s thick strands. His eyes are also colder than Brennan’s.
When I started falling for Brennan, it was the kindness in his eyes that drew me in first. Those eyes asked me to trust him, and, damn it, I did. I trusted him, and I fell in love with him, and he was supposed to be able to trust me back.
As I stand here, I can’t say I know with certainty what Marshall is capable of. What is happening behind that poker face? What is he really thinking?
“You’re dismissed, Agent Theriot,” Marshall says. “Agent Sheridan? Stay behind. Everyone else, thank you. You have your orders.”
McClintock, Britton, Matt, and I file out. McClintock throws his hand up when Britton calls his name. He’s either going to pound four shots of bourbon in his office or call the media. What would be the better endgame? I need to keep an eye on him.
And I need to keep an eye on Sheridan. What the fuck is he doing in a one-on-one with Vice President Marshall?
Matt flees into the bathroom to probably puke, then wash his face and try to pull off the biggest lie of his life. If he can make it to lunch, he’ll be able to handle anything.
Britton stops whatever I try to say. “Don’t speak, Reese. Think instead about what you’re going to say on the Hill.” He disappears before the door to the Oval reopens and spits Sheridan out.
Now, Sheridan won’t make eye contact. Fine. Marshall wants to turn my people against me? I’ll do this on my own. I don’t need anyone.
I don’t need anyone except Brennan.
Fifty yards of burned rubber. An overturned, fire-ravaged SUV. Two blackened skeletons. A bullet embedded on the interior of the door.
Brennan, calling my name, begging for help that isn’t coming.
My vision fades, the West Wing walls wavering like they’re underwater. Every molecule of adrenaline that soaked my muscles earlier is gone. The horrors of tonight have emptied the deepest part of me. I can barely stand, barely move.
Sheridan is on my heels as I head for the command center. Downstairs, word has already gone out, probably from Britton, for everyone to keep their mouths shut. Eyes, too, apparently. No one looks our way. I’m a dead man walking, already a ghost in my own command center.
Sheridan stays with me and shuts us in the locker room. We’re alone, and I slump against the wall, my head between my knees, my heart hammering like the devil’s own anvil.
Sheridan pulls a spare suit out of my locker for me before going to his. He comes back with a change of clothes and hands me a bottle of Gatorade and a granola bar.
I’m two bites into the granola bar when he explodes, hurling his fresh suit across the room. The hanger clatters in one of the empty shower stalls. He punches the locker, denting the metal and the chipped hunter green paint until it bows inward. Finally, he loses steam, sliding to his knees with his forehead against the door.
I watch and wait.
