As President Thomas strode onto the stage, Murdock leeched his thoughts.
The smug bastard reveled in his newfound support. Less than a week ago, his approval rating had been in the toilet. Now he could kick a puppy and people would cheer him.
Tragedies, and the resulting fear and anger that followed them, always drummed up support for government action. Thomas knew it. All politicians knew it.
Murdock would give them all the tragedy they wanted.
Gold, Thomas thought. Political gold.
The crowd exploded in raucous applause as Thomas walked to the podium. Keeping his glee internal, he put on his sternest face and looked over his congregation. His tailored suit, trim grey hair, and lined face gave him an air of supremacy.
The applause rose to thunderous levels as Thomas stood there and soaked it in.
Murdock struggled with every fiber of his being not to force Thomas to bludgeon himself with his microphone.
The president basked in the ovation for nearly a minute before quieting them with his hands.
He stared straight into the designated camera. “We’ve lost many brothers and sisters today.” He paused, looking out over the feverish crowd as they nodded their agreement. “We’ve lost friends and family, loved ones and neighbors. America has suffered a great evil today.”
A thin man wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of the American flag on it clapped his hands with vigor beside Murdock. His elbows rapped against Murdock’s ribs twice.
The man didn’t apologize.
Murdock considered forcing the man to swallow his own tongue, but he held back.
The time for games was fast approaching, but it hadn’t arrived just yet.
Secret Service agents lined the perimeter of the stage. Their eyes scanned the crowd, analyzing the area for possible threats.
Little did they know that they would be the assassins.
“We lost a great statesman, a true patriot, in Senator McArthur. We lost our brothers in blue. Too many officers, too many protectors, were killed needlessly today.” Thomas’ jaw muscles flared. “These were not suicides—they were murders.”
The crowd quieted.
Murdock knew from their thoughts that most people expected that foul play of some kind had happened. Hearing it spoken aloud in such finality still took them off guard. Their clapping died down, expressions fallen.
“Today, we suffered a terrorist attack unlike anything we’ve ever seen. We’ve been infiltrated by those who want to destroy our way of life, those who would crush America under their boot heels.”
Silence filled the courtyards surrounding the monument.
Thomas held another dramatic pause. “What they fail to understand is the indomitable spirit of the American people. We will not sit idly by as our loved ones are murdered. We will strike back at the heart of those who would harm us.”
The crowd’s vigor returned. Shouts came from the back of the courtyard. They wanted blood.
Murdock would give it to them.
He lowered his forehead and clenched his hands into fists.
Focused his rage. Let it build.
He latched onto the minds of five secret service agents lining the stage.
They were strong and determined, youthful and fit.
They never stood a chance of resisting Murdock.
Pistols were pulled from their holsters. Shined, black shoes clopped up the stairs. Hardened, lined faces quivered as they walked across the stage.
Murmurs came from the crowd. The man beside Murdock stopped clapping.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“They’re assassinating the most powerful man in the world.” Murdock grinned at the gangly man. “Let’s see if you’ll clap at this.”
Four of the agents stopped walking and turned toward the edges of the stage. They raised their pistols and sighted their fellow agents who still watched the crowd.
The oldest of the detail, Agent Feinstein, strode over to the president. He stopped beside his boss and stared at him.
“Today, we’re going to strike back at—” Thomas cut himself off and turned to Agent Feinstein. He whispered, but the microphone still picked up his words. “Jim, what in the Sam Hill are you doing?”
Agent Feinstein shot him in the knee.