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That, if he believed more in such things, might have him dialing up the gods for a little chat about their twisted version of humor. He enjoyed a good joke as much as the next dude, but this was not funny.
A point backed up in grotesque detail the very next moment.
“What the fuck?” His whisper layered atop Tracy’s stunned gasp. Considering the context, she was fully entitled to it—along with the death grip she wrapped around his hand.
The metaphor fit.
Too damn well.
They were stopped at a light just after clearing The Strip. A sports bar sat to their right, a coffee shop to their left. Both were packed, but not a single person in either was laughing, drinking, or caffeine-ing. Not even the wait staff and baristas moved, riveted along with their customers on TV screens filled by somber journalists.
At first, the sight was confusing. Even if the media had arrived at The Bellagio on the heels of the fire department (highly likely), then connected the blown-up villa to the vice president (also highly likely), then formed a “theory” she’d actually been inside the villa (moderately likely), they had to lock the story down with confirmation from someone in Tracy’s camp—highly unlikely.
Or was it?
Because there, prominent on the monitors before those crowds, was the professional head shot of the woman by his side. Her birth date and death date—today’s date—were listed underneath.
But that wasn’t the most shocking thing about the broadcast. That came with the next “update” across the screen.
The announcement so shocking, John couldn’t summon a reaction for it in English.
“Kefe.”
His brutal growl didn’t make translation necessary—though Shep layered the word on the air anyway.
“Fuck.”
Tracy emitted a tight, stunned choke. “Th-that can’t be right.”
“Maybe it isn’t.” Shep’s voice was vicious with hope. Normally, Franzen would shut that shit down. He’d done it enough times in the past—talking the brutal truth into a desperate soldier after watching their buddy get blown apart—that it was second nature by now. But this time, he yearned to believe too. This time, as he yanked down the small TV screen from the ceiling console then jabbed the Power button, he prayed the bar had opted for some trash TV network instead of verified news…
The news every channel on the planet was now carrying.
Shit.
Not that it amazed him—though to really convince himself this was real, he ceased his station surfing on the Golf Channel. They were apparently a subsidiary of the larger cable news outfit, so had spared their anchors the task of having to break this kind of a story. Those guys, still in their polos and checkered pants, were probably as frozen and stunned as the rest of the world, listening to the main news anchor speak with visible strain.
“We’re still waiting confirmation from the office of Vice President Tracy Rhodes—but it appears the vice president has joined her leader and mentor, President Craig Nichols, on the casualty list of this bleak, black day in our world’s history.”
The newsman couldn’t keep his shit together the whole way. He stumbled over the last few words, his emotion cracking through, now seeming to pour from the monitor. As the light turned green and Shep guided the car down the street, it came as no wonder that all the passing sights seemed different. In one day, the world had changed.
“Nichols and his wife, First Lady Norene Nichols, were pronounced dead after a pre-programmed explosion tore apart half of the White House residence. The first couple were enjoying a rare lunch break together. Six members of their Secret Service detail were also killed by the blast. It is still unknown how the explosives escaped multiple security scans.”
Tracy clapped a hand over her mouth. The move barely muffled her anguished moan. “Craig. Norene. Oh my God.”
“We’ll bring you updates about the tragedy in Washington as they are received, but as most of you know, it is just the beginning of the shocking stories we’ve been forced to confirm over the last two hours, from all around the world.”
John leaned over to turn up the volume. The position secured her head into the crook of his arm but damn if that didn’t feel ideal right now. The inches responsible for taking her out of the politician box, into the space of being simply woman. The woman he was responsible for, despite what looked to be even weirder news than what they’d already heard.
Something strange…is happening in Oz…
“We now have validations from the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Canada, Australia, and Japan. As we suspected and reported at the top of the hour, every one of their leaders, including Prime Minister Azkan, Chancellor Pfeuller, President LeBon, Governor General Ontario, Governor General Long, and Prime Minister Shoju, as well as the King and Queen of England, have been officially pronounced dead, taken out in blasts similar to the attack that killed President Nichols—and, we presume, Vice President Rhodes.”
“Holy. Fuck.”
Shep’s oath mixed with Tracy’s sob. As she twisted, burying her head against John’s chest, her outburst intensified. He clutched the back of her head, keeping her close, absorbing her grief—in more than one screwed-up way, even thankful for it. She poured out the shock he couldn’t allow himself to feel—had been trained not to feel.
When feelings got involved, he made stupid decisions. Caused missions to go sideways. Nearly got people hurt—or worse.
