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Guns aren’t my biggest worry here, though.
Lindsay is.
“Stage left you’ll enter, with Mrs. Bosworth on the senator’s left, and the daughter on the right.”
Lindsay bristles at “the daughter.” She recovers fast, though.
She’s used to it.
Gentian and Paulson take their places at Stage Right and Stage Left. We’re indoors, thank God, which means my team has less to worry about. Secret Service already swept the building, and private security is checking bags and clearing visitors. We could have a rogue element here, but chances are small.
Other than Stellan, Blaine and John, that is.
I’ve got every text coming in on Lindsay’s phone echoing over to mine, so if they try that shit again, I’ll be on it instantly. All my guys know they’re working on Lindsay and Monica. Harry’s covered by the Secret Service.
As long as each person does their job, stays in their zone, and doesn’t turn into a cowboy, we’re good today.
I’ll deal with the unpredictable triad later.
I walk next to Paulson, steering clear of Lindsay, knowing my presence will just add to the massive case of nerves she clearly has. If appearances were all it took to play the part of picturesque future First Daughter, Lindsay would win the election for her dad.
Not that easy, though.
“Still no clear sense of what they’re up to with those texts?” Paulson asks out of the corner of his mouth. Earbud in, full boring suit, and more weapons under his jacket than a prepper on Halloween night, Paulson’s scanning the crowd while he talks to me.
“No. But they’ll be subtle. These guys aren’t going to shoot up a crowded theater.”
“You have a way of helping me relax, Foster.”
“Doing my job.”
“Yes, boss.”
Strange words coming from my commanding officer on my first tour in Afghanistan.
“Care to explain the picture with you in it?”
“Already did.”
“I think there’s way more to it than you’re telling.”
I don’t say a word.
We give each other dry looks and I move on, watching the scene intently.
“...a man who needs no introduction, Senator Harwell Bosworth!”
The public address system crackles with the roar of the crowd, thousands of people applauding, stage lights blinding but necessary. I look across the dark back of the stage and see Lindsay standing next to Gentian, blinking furiously, her face a slab of granite.
No emotion.
You’d never have guessed what happened yesterday ever occurred. We’re all professionals. We are about action, not emotion. Control, not impulse. Every calculated move is designed to support the man on stage right now, the guy with both arms in the air waving, and that’s when it hits me.
I’ve been hired to control.
To control Lindsay.
To keep her in a state of agitation and worry.
