My King The President

MY KING THE PRESIDENT

He allowed the steam from the shower to totally cloud up everything instead of finishing off with his customary cold blast. No need. He was alert enough, and he didn’t want to see his face in the mirror. Not today. He didn’t want to look at himself and have to question whether he was staring at a hero or a coward. He dressed quickly, amazed at how calm his movements were. He knew it was the training, yet his self-control still surprised him.

Abby hadn’t changed her position in the queen-size bed. Robert gazed at her for another long moment before quietly unlocking, then reaching into the nightstand drawer for his weapon and shoulder holster. The clock read 4:50 A.M., its luminous digital characters blinking like captured fireflies. He sighed softly and walked to the adjoining bedroom. The twin boys were two small lumps beneath their identical Disney World blankets. He bent down and touched his lips to each one’s head, not trusting himself to do more. Then he turned and silently left the room, leaving the door ajar, knowing that if he shut it, no matter how carefully, it would still make a sound and Abby would be instantly awake. He didn’t want that kind of goodbye. He had left his goodbye deep inside her a few hours ago. He prayed, for her sake, that she would not conceive again.

Robert went through the kitchen to the garage, touching familiar things on the way. Since he knew every step from memory, turning on a light was unnecessary. Skirting Abby’s Volvo station wagon, he settled into the silver Corvette, his only other passion in this life besides his wife. No, that was not true. There was one other passion; one that dwarfed his affection for the old car, and lodged deeper in his soul than even his love for Abby and the boys. It was his honest and old-fashioned feeling of loyalty to his country.

The thing called duty.

He started the Corvette without touching the gas pedal, grunting with mild satisfaction when the powerful engine immediately purred into life. As it idled softly, he fingered the automatic garage door switch. He had always kept its cables well greased, and it opened with only minimal sound. He removed the 9mm pistol from its holster and checked its clip again, though he had done so a dozen times the night before. He slid the gun back into the worn leather that was as much a part of his everyday dress as a shirt and tie.

He backed the Corvette out of the garage, thumbed the door switch again, and headed down the empty street. At this time of morning, he knew it would take exactly twenty-nine minutes to reach his assigned parking space at the White House, another five to check in, and three more to be in his place by six, when his shift began.

Robert looked at the dashboard clock. 5:15. Still dark. Very little traffic. There hadn’t been much traffic in Washington this year, vehicular or otherwise. He thought about the handwritten note he’d given Father Tim, hoping he hadn’t placed his priest in jeopardy. Aside from Abby, Father Tim Flaherty was the only person on earth he had complete faith in. Well, it was too late now to worry about that. There could be no second-guessing. He’d
have
to trust. The few lines of the message he’d written to his old college team mate burned across his mind like a laser beam, but he banished them from his brain and concentrated on his driving.

And his mission.

He glanced at the clock once more. On time.

Secret Service agent Robert McHale McCarty easily made his 6:00 shift, and, at 6:21, opened the door he was guarding, took three quick steps inside the Madison room, drew the Walther one final time and fired two bullets into the head of his father-in-law, the President of the United States.