Karen got on the two-way radio. She had to alert the Secret Service command post (aka “Horsepower”) located in the West Wing directly below the Oval Office.
In addition to the team riding in the escort vehicle, agents from the UD, Uniformed Division, as well as the Secret Service, monitored the frequency Karen was using 24-7.
“Horsepower, Ray.”
Everyone at work knew Karen by her maiden name.
“Horsepower here. Go ahead, K-Ray.”
“Advise, we’ve had shots fired,” Karen said, managing to speak in an even, steady voice despite the rapid canter of her heart. “Shots fired at Blitz. No injuries.”
Blitz, a chess term, was code for Cam’s convoy.
“Bishop is okay,” Karen said with authority. “Follow-up. Bishop is okay.”
Horsepower said, “Confirm, you wanna go to the hospital or back to the White House?”
“We’re all right … back to the White House. Back to the White House. Bishop is okay,” Karen said.
“Okay, okay,” said Horsepower.
“Tell everyone to stay off the air for now. Bishop’s all right. Request MPD escort at intersection Seventeenth and Piney Branch Parkway. ETA three minutes.”
“That’s a roger,” Horsepower said.
Karen took another glance in her rearview and detected no threats behind them, none up ahead either. Speeding down the parkway, strobes flashing, horn honking, Karen forced cars onto the grassy patch lining the side of the road. Moments later, she could hear sirens off in the distance headed their way. MPD must have been close by.
When the intersection with Seventeenth Street came into view, Karen counted four police cars already on the scene, lights flashing and blocking traffic. She brought her vehicle to a hard stop with a slight squeal of tires. The escort vehicle behind her came to a stop as well. Exiting the car, gun drawn, Karen yanked open the passenger door and urged Cam forward with a wave of her hand. He needed to be transported to the White House in a more secure vehicle, one that had all its bullet-resistant windows still intact.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe. Come on, Cam. Take my hand.”
As Cam lifted his head, shards of glass stuck in his hair cascaded to the floor mat with plinking sounds. He reached for Karen’s outstretched hand, terror burned into his eyes.
Every second it seemed more police were arriving on the scene, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Joining them was an armored SWAT vehicle, several fire engines, and even an ambulance. It was an incredible show of force, and one that had assembled with startling efficiency.
Pulling Cam gently from the car, Karen shielded his body with her own as she scanned the tree line for movement, any signs of a possible sniper.
Sensing the all clear, Karen led Cam to the escort vehicle with her arm draped around him. Police officers rushed toward her. Above, an MPD helicopter hovered. Dirt kicked up from the fierce winds of the whirling blades got behind Karen’s sunglasses to sting her eyes. Cam kept his shoulders hunched forward, shielding his face with his arms to guard against the winds.
“Get him home!” Karen yelled while easing Cam into the backseat of the idling SUV. She positioned him in the middle seat, in between two agents who had their guns drawn. “I want a rolling escort back to the White House,” she instructed an MPD officer standing nearby. “No stops. Block traffic ahead. Go now! Get it organized. Now!”
MPD held joint training exercises with the Secret Service on a regular basis—they knew what to do and how to do it.
On the way back to her SUV, Karen noticed something she had missed. The other car was a Chevy Suburban, which had a bullet-resistant-glass rating of level seven, able to withstand five shots from a 5.56mm rifle. The Ford Explorer she was driving, while armored as well, only had a level-two rating on the glass, which could handle a couple shots from a .357 Magnum with soft-point bullets, considerably less firepower. It was hard for Karen to be certain because of all the commotion, the speed at which everything had unfolded, but she believed the gun the biker had used might have been a SIG MCX Pistol. If memory served correctly, and usually it did, the SIG pistol fired a 5.56mm round, enough to shatter the weaker bullet-resistant glass.
It was a disturbing observation.
Soon they were off. She took lead again, racing through red lights, traveling at a high rate of speed, the road ahead cleared for her passage. Through her peripheral vision, she watched Duffy closely, curious to see if he attempted to use his phone again. He did not. His expression was a blank. It was like he had switched off, gone into shock or something. His sweating had stopped. His fingers had gone still.
By now Horsepower would have altered POTUS and FLOTUS. Teams would be assembling. Gleason would want to examine Cam, while his mother and father would want to console him.
“How are you holding up?” Duffy asked, as Karen sped through yet another red light.
“Fine,” she said in an icy voice. Her tone made it clear there would be no idle chitchat.
Eventually, the convoy arrived back at the White House. Pedestrians on the street and drivers trapped in their vehicles, waiting for the go-ahead from the police, rubbernecked with intense curiosity.
When Cam was out of danger, after the Uniformed Division had escorted the SUVs through the White House gates, Karen did not relax. Because she was the agent in charge of the first family detail, it was Karen’s duty to lead the debriefing in the Situation Room. She would do this, but only after her colleague—her employee, really—answered her questions.
The SUV carrying Bishop headed to the West Wing entrance, where Cam could be brought inside the White House undercover. Karen got on the radio.
“Horsepower, Ray.”
“Ray, go.”
“Bishop is home safe. Parking my car. Will meet in the Situation Room.”
“Roger, out.”
The underground garage was dimly lit and deserted when Karen pulled into an available space. Duffy got out of the car at the same time as Karen. He started for the elevator, but stopped when Karen called his name. He turned to face her.
“Who were you texting?” she asked.
Duffy took a step toward her. Karen tensed.
“I told you, personal business.” His voice was a low rumble.
“Give me your phone,” Karen said.
Duffy’s face registered surprise. “What? No.”
“Hand it over.” Karen took a step toward him, her hand already at her hip.
Duffy tensed and took a step back, fixing her with a scathing stare.
“Why did you bring up the Explorer from the garage?”
Duffy tried to act offended, confused, when in Karen’s eyes he just appeared guilty. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The bullet-resistant-glass level on the Explorer is a two. I should have noticed, but I didn’t. You didn’t think I was coming on the drive in the first place. I saw you sweating, and don’t try to tell me it was your medical condition.”
“You’re sounding crazy, you know that?”
Maybe, but Duffy’s hand had moved closer toward his hip.
“How did the biker know where we were?” Karen asked. “I took a route we’ve never taken before. How did he know?”
“Maybe he was tailing us?”
“How did he know?” She said it more forcibly this time.
“K-Ray, think about what you’re doing here.” It sounded like a warning. Duffy’s fingers were moving, nervously twitching, as his hand inched closer toward his gun.
“Who paid you?”
“This is wrong, Karen. You’re accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
“Then hand over your phone.”
Duffy got a distant look in his eyes, one Karen found deeply troubling. “You froze. I pulled Cam down to the floor—”
“What? You did—”
That was when Karen realized Duffy was concocting his explanation for what he was planning to do.
“You were petrified, crying even. I had to take over. You’re not fit for duty—and when I told you I was going to have to report you—”
“Duffy, don’t do this.”
Karen pushed back her suit jacket so she could reach her weapon more easily.
“—went crazy—you pulled your gun on me—”
It was a crazy story, one that would never stand up to scrutiny, but Duffy was not thinking clearly. His fingertips brushed against his SIG Sauer, tapping a fast beat against the butt of his weapon.
We’re alone down here, she thought, panicked now. No witnesses.
“There’s another way,” Karen said. “Hand over your phone and your gun. That’s what you have to do. Are you working with Yoshi? Is Gleason involved? Is this about Cam’s sickness? Talk to me, Duffy. Please—talk to me.”
“You just—went—crazy—”
Karen kept a close watch on Duffy’s hand, waiting for the slightest twitch.
When it happened, it was so stunning, so unbelievable, she almost failed to react. His left hand, his weak side, pulled his suit jacket back, clearly exposing his weapon. Karen did the same, only a fraction of a second behind him. But when he went for his gun, his right hand failed to make solid contact with the handle of his SIG. Karen did not have this problem. She cleared the gun from the holster first and slapped her left hand to her right as she took a firing stance. Her finger found the trigger only when she was ready to engage.
Her eyes were dry. Hands steady.
Duffy’s gun was out of the holster, rising up from his waist when she pulled the trigger. The bang echoed off the concrete walls. The flashes were blinding. Her hearing was gone. Three bullets struck Duffy in the chest. He dropped to the ground, grunting, but there was no blood. Karen had fired knowing the body armor agents on protective detail were mandated to wear would keep him alive.
Duffy lay on his back, his breathing labored, chest heaving. Somehow, though, he had managed to keep hold of his gun. He was still a threat, but in too much pain, too immobilized to sit up and fire. He could still move his arm, though, and as he did, brought the gun barrel level with his temple.
Karen’s eyes widened. “No!”
Her scream rang louder than the gunshot when Duffy pulled the trigger.
And then there was blood.