SIXTY-TWO
It was only thirteen miles from Andrews to
the White House, so Zach knew the chopper ride couldn’t be taking
as long as it seemed. Voices over the radio shouted at them. Then
other voices shouted over those.
“Four, repeat, we have four confirmed intruders at
the White House, we’re trying to—holy shit, that can’t be—holy
shit—”
A scream, then static.
Cade switched it off.
Zach saw the White House through the windscreen,
bright and tiered like a wedding cake in the lights. It looked
strangely peaceful.
Cade put the chopper into a steep dive.
Zach looked over at him. Cade’s lips were drawn
back, his teeth exposed. His eyes were bright. It took Zach a split
second to recognize what he was seeing.
His guilt was gone. This is what he was made for,
Zach suddenly realized. On the hunt, up against something that
might present a challenge.
Off his leash. Kill or be killed.
Cade was happy.
THE AGENTS GOT down the stairs and into the Secret
Service room. More gunfire erupted, this time closer. Then screams
and then sounds that were sickeningly wet.
Haney and Patterson overturned a file cabinet and
opened a panel hidden in the wall, revealing a steel door behind
the clean white wood. Haney’s hands shook as he entered the
combination into the keypad.
It took two tries before the locks disengaged with
a heavy thump.
The agents began sorting through the cache. Kevlar
vests—no time. And those things didn’t have guns. Automatic
weapons—M16s. One each. And two AT4s. Shoulder-fired anti-tank
rockets. These were the CS versions, specifically designed for
close-quarter, urban warfare. They came with only one round
apiece.
It would have to do.
Haney took the incendiary and its firing tube, a
deceptively small, light cylinder. He handed the other to
Patterson.
“I’m going to the Residence,” he said.
Patterson frowned, but nodded. No time to argue.
The other agents were checking their rounds, stowing their spare
ammo.
Patterson and the other two agents headed toward
the West Lobby. Haney, alone, ran past the press corps offices,
toward the main residence.
THEY LANDED HARD ENOUGH to send Zach halfway to
the ceiling of the chopper. The seat belt yanked him back down
again. His ribs and his other injuries screamed in pain.
Cade was moving, unlatching himself.
“Cade,” Zach said.
“The president’s family,” Cade snapped. “Go. I
don’t have time.”
He was out of the helicopter then, sprinting for
the buildings.
Zach, moving much more slowly, unstrapped himself
from the restraints and got out, jumping several feet to the
ground. His body reminded him of every injury as he hit the
manicured lawn.
Cade was at the West Wing already, not looking
back.
Zach thought about the president’s family. And he
thought about Candace.
He forgot his pain. He turned and ran as fast as he
could for the White House.