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I had fun, though. Sheridan is an excellent shot. He nearly beat my score, and he absolutely shredded Henry.
While I watched, a whole new side of Sheridan slipped out. For a few hours, he transformed into someone else.
Once, when we’d emptied our magazines and stopped to reload, I thought I saw something. It was only a split second, but in that second, I didn’t recognize Sheridan. I didn’t recognize the hard look in his eyes or how it seemed like everything in him had swirled away down the drain. Like he’d emptied himself.
I blinked, and he was back, all smiles and bright eyes and telling stories about his time at the academy as we reset.
But what I saw lasered into my brain, and I watched him more closely as the afternoon wore on. If he’d let something of himself slip, he didn’t make that mistake again.
I snap photos of my targets and send them to Brennan. Guilt ravages me every time I do. He’s got far more important things to do than text me.
Which is objectively true, because he doesn’t reply. In fact, he hasn’t texted me at all over the past three days, which was more than half of the reason I’d flung myself into Matt’s office earlier, hoping for a glimpse or a run in with Brennan.
We get back to the White House for the second shift, pulling in just in time for Brennan’s chief of staff to drop the Secret Service’s equivalent of a nuclear bomb on the presidential detail: Brennan has decided to host his first state dinner.
For not just one, but a group of eleven world leaders. In one month, right before the UN General Assembly.
This is less a state dinner and more of a mini summit.
“Ready for triple overtime?” Henry throws himself into the chair across from my desk.
Au revoir to any hint of seeing Brennan in the next month. I’ll need three of me to pull this off, and I won’t have a breath or a thought to spare until the evening is over.
Of course, neither will he.
Are we over before we’ve even begun?
The answer to that needs to be Yes.
