It was a picture of James Flynn.
Barksdale looked up from his papers and shot a nasty look toward Osborne.
“I wish I was, but all the evidence points to him at this point as being our shooter,” Barksdale said.
“What evidence?”
“This evidence,” Barksdale said, pointing to the flat screen on the wall where pictures were uploaded.
The first picture was of an agent lying unconscious — or maybe even dead — in a stairwell.
“This is Trey Madison, a Secret Service agent immobilized by James Flynn.”
Barksdale scrolled to the next set of images, one of Flynn walking with another man through the crowd to a van with an open door with another one of them getting into a waiting van with an open door.
“You can’t tell if he’s leading that operation or if he’s a hostage,” Osborne said, defending Flynn.
“He’ll have his chance to defend himself without you making up theories for him,” Barksdale said.
Osborne looked at the papers in front of him. He felt the uneasy stare of Barksdale fall on him. Osborne looked up. Barksdale looked like he might eat Osborne on the spot.
“Do you know how James Flynn knew there was going to be an attempt on the President’s life today? It’s because he was going to make it! Wake up, Osborne!”
Osborne shifted nervously in his chair, uneasy with the operational plan being put in place — and even more so of Barksdale’s determination to pin the assassination attempt on Flynn. The public would find delicious irony in such a story if Barksdale rushed to leak this to the press. But Osborne hated it.
He knew Flynn was innocent — now he had to prove it before he could save him.
CHAPTER 27
Holed up with a cadre of Secret Service agents and White House staffers, Sandford wondered if this was really happening. People intended to kill the President with surprising regularity, yet the Secret Service and the FBI thwarted most attempts. And the public rarely heard about them. Sandford couldn’t believe someone actually succeeded — almost.
The staffers huddled as they discussed protocol for introducing Sandford as the acting President. A pair of speechwriters began working on Sandford’s speech informing the country of Briggs’ death. But it was all premature.
Despite the furious preparation taking place, Briggs remained alive, fighting for his life as doctors worked to save him. The reports flowed out of the hospital and to staffers every five to ten minutes — mostly updates on what the doctors planned to do or what procedures they were utilizing. None of it meant anything to Sandford. He just wanted to know if Briggs was going to live or die. And that was a question no one dared attempt to answer at the moment.
Amid the flurry of activity, Sandford slunk into a chair lodged in the corner of the room. Without any decisions to be made, he used the time to think and reflect. In a matter of hours, he could be announced as the new President of the United States, the leader of the free world. Just a few days before when he started receiving the anonymous calls and texts, he dreamed about what such a moment would mean to him. In his mind, it was grand. Gerald Sandford, the most powerful man in the world. But that’s not how he felt now. Feelings of guilt and shame overtook him. Arthur Briggs, my friend, would still be alive if I had said something. Maybe he was right, yet there was no way of knowing for sure. If this secret group — whoever they were — wanted Briggs dead and him to be President, they likely would’ve found another way to make it happen.
More than anything, Sandford worried if he would be able to govern like he needed to. Will they use Sydney’s life to control me? What if I say no? Those were real questions that demanded answers. But Sandford had no way of answering them.
Sandford tried to put things in perspective — the country needed him, not weak-stomached Briggs. With Russia threatening U.S. security daily, the American people needed a leader who wasn’t afraid to go on the offensive and protect them from danger. Briggs would never authorize a pre-emptive strike. But Sandford? He dreamed of launching missiles on the country where his daughter disappeared. His thirst for revenge overwhelmed him.
Conflicted feelings aside, Sandford’s major concern was figuring out how to extract his daughter from the clutches of the Russians without starting a major war. Apparently, they had her — and they had her all along. But could he find her? And could he legally authorize a tactical team to rescue her? It was his daughter. He’d get on a helicopter and go rescue her himself if he knew where she was being held. His fantasy of bravado was interrupted by a staffer making an announcement.
“I just got word from the hospital and it isn’t good,” he said. “President Briggs made it through surgery but then he took a turn for the worse. He’s on life support now and his organs are shutting down. If you’re the praying type, now would be the time to start.”
Sandford wanted to pray. It was part of his daily routine in the morning. He always read his Bible and prayed. But he couldn’t put his heart into it. What kind of demented person prays for a man he wants to die? He couldn’t even muster up the words in his head, much less mean them. What does the Bible say? God appoints government leaders? What if this is what God wants?
Sandford concluded he couldn’t be sure if divine intervention was playing a role in Briggs’ death — and he wouldn’t presume to know what God wanted. But Sandford wanted it, mixed feelings and all. He wanted to take charge. He wanted to save America. He wanted to save his daughter.
CHAPTER 28
When Flynn awoke, he moaned. It took him a few moments to realize where he was and what he was doing there. Fortunately, he didn’t forget who Natalie was.
“Are you OK? What happened?” she said, scooting next to him on the floor.
Flynn appreciated her empathy. Her compassion for others was one of the traits he admired about her. Apparently, it wasn’t reserved for orphaned children in Africa, refugees in Washington, or cats with broken legs in her neighborhood. Even a battered reporter could be the beneficiary of her care and concern.
Slumped against the wall, Flynn looked up at Natalie and smiled.
“You should see the other guy,” he said, trying to get her to smile. It worked.
“I’m glad to see they didn’t beat your sense of humor out of you,” she said.
“It’s about the only thing they didn’t beat out of me.”
She smiled then furrowed her brow. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
“Before I tell you, let me ask you something: are you OK?”
While Flynn struggled to regain his wits after getting beat to hell, he realized that Natalie likely had no idea what was going on.
“I’m fine. I figured it all out,” she said.
“Well, maybe you can fill me in because the last couple of hours are a little fuzzy.”
“These guys wanted to kill the President. You tried to stop them — but they knew you would. So, they kidnapped me to deter you. Does that about sum it up?”
“Well, you’re much sharper than I give you credit for.”
Natalie ignored his comment.
“I overheard them talking about their plans — it wasn’t that difficult really.”
“I never realized you spoke Russian.”
“I listen in Russian. Speaking is a different matter.”
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sharp wit, either,” Flynn said.
Natalie smiled again before stroking Flynn’s face with the back of her hand. She looked awkward caressing his cheek with the back of her zip-tied hands, but Flynn appreciated the gesture.