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  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.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened out there?” she asked.

  Flynn detailed the events that led up to his capture—the veiled threats against him, the television interview, how he muscled his way through security, and his showdown on the catwalk above the U.N.’s general assembly hall. He resisted the urge to embellish. The story seemed fanciful enough without him adding in unnecessary—and untrue—details just to make him look more like a real action hero. The truth worked fine, though he winced when telling her about his capture and how he let the shooter get a shot off.

  Natalie shared the details of her abduction as well. She had gone to bed early that evening only to be awoken from a deep sleep by armed masked men who stormed into her room. They gagged and bound her before taking her outside to a waiting van. No one saw them as they left, her muffled screams absorbed only by the still night air.

  After she finished, she asked the only question that mattered.

  “So, how are we going to get out of here?”

  “That’s a good question. Let’s see if we can find out what’s going on first.”

  Flynn scooted across the concrete floor on his butt. He lay down and looked beneath the small crack between the floor and the bottom of the door. Natalie followed suit. Flynn counted three guards, none of whom appeared to be all that imposing to him. He strained his ears to hear what they were saying. Most of the conversation centered around the President’s condition. Only one of the guards appeared to speak English, as he listened to the broadcast and translated what the commentators were saying. President Briggs’ condition appeared to be worsening. And so was Flynn’s fate.

  “ Это - позор , он никогда не будет жить , чтобы рассказать его историю ,” said one of the guards.

  “Did you get that?” Flynn asked.

  “Yeah, I got it—‘It’s a shame he will not live to tell his story,’” Natalie answered, confirming what Flynn thought he heard.

  Flynn needed to find a way out of there—and fast.

  CHAPTER 29

  MINUTES TICKED PAST LIKE HOURS for Sandford as the clock struck ten on Friday evening, nearly eight hours since the assassination attempt. Updates from the hospital slowed as doctors settled in for the night to monitor the President’s vitals while in a coma. None of the latest reports were hopeful as the mood became one akin to a deathwatch.

  Josh Pickens, the White H
ouse Chief of Staff, walked toward Sandford. The usually spry Pickens appeared dour and looked like he had aged several years in less than a day.

  “I think you need to consider looking this over,” Pickens said, reluctantly handing Sandford a sheet of paper.

  It was a copy of the 25th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

  When the Constitution was first written, the language in Article I, Section 2, surrounding how the Vice President might assume office in the event that the President became incapacitated was vague at best. There needed to be a clear way to determine how the President would be declared unfit to lead—and there needed to be a designated body of people to make this happen. In 1967, the 25th Amendment was ratified, providing a clear path to the presidency in such an unlikely event. Today, the unlikely became reality.

  Sandford stared at the memo, citing Section 4 of the 25th Amendment:

  Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.

  This is really happening. I’m going to be President.

  “Mr. Sandford, some of the cabinet members are reluctant to move on this so quickly,” Pickens said. “They want to give it time to play out before they cede control of the office to you. But I don’t believe we can afford to wait, given some of the situations facing our country right now.”

  Sandford nodded, but then questioned Pickens’ motives.

  “Why are you doing this, Josh? Aren’t you supposed to be fighting for your boss to keep his job right now?”

  “If the situation were any different, I would, Mr. Sandford.” He then leaned in close to add in a whisper, “But I agree with you on foreign policy. And we need your brazen leadership right now—or I fear something far worse than we ever imagined will happen.”

  As Pickens pulled back, Sandford winked at him.

  “I’ll try not to let you down,” Sandford said.

  “Don’t just do it for me—do it for the American people.”

  With that, Pickens vanished into the stream of staffers scurrying about the room.

  Sandford smiled. He needed to draft a declaration. The office was almost his.

  CHAPTER 30

  WHILE NEARLY EVERY AGENT TURNED their focus on apprehending James Flynn, Osborne had a different agenda. If perhaps the Kuklovod were holding Flynn hostage, and if law enforcement found Flynn, then they would catch the real assassin. But Osborne knew how these things went. In a situation like this, nobody is innocent until proven guilty. The public, along with every politician and government agency wanting to claim an easy victory, will want to swing someone from the gallows first—and ask questions later. Restraint was lost in times like these.

  Osborne mulled over what he knew. The President was shot, just as Flynn had predicted on television the night before. Flynn assaulted a Secret Service agent and took his gun. Flynn was caught on a security camera impersonating an FBI agent before vanishing into the crowd. Osborne admitted to himself that things looked bad for Flynn. If it couldn’t get any worse, the FBI found Flynn’s cell phone lying in a gutter near the U.N. All signs pointed toward a hit and escape plan—one that was premeditated if it included an FBI jacket and hat.

  Without much else to go on, Osborne felt defeated. He only had one idea that could possibly turn around the investigation and point it to the right people. It could also result in a suspension or dismissal. Barksdale seemed irritable at best, and Osborne wondered if now was the time to present the only bit of evidence he had. After pondering every possible outcome, he decided to take a chance. Time was running short if every agency didn’t turn their focus on hunting the real assassin.

  Osborne walked down the hall toward the command room serving as the operational headquarters for this manhunt. Barksdale snipped at an analyst and shoved a paper into his chest before turning to his next victim. Though Barksdale’s irritable mood made this an inopportune time, Osborne wondered if there ever was a good time to bring something to the deputy director.

  “I think I have something you might want to see,” Osborne said, tentatively offering a folder to Barksdale.

  “If it’s not a report on the capture of James Flynn, I don’t want to see it,” he barked.

  “Sir, I think you really need to take a look.”

  Barksdale flipped open the folder and saw the surveillance camera footage of Ivan talking with Flynn several days before at The Liaison in Washington, D.C.

  “Who is this guy with Flynn?” Barksdale asked.

  “That’s Ivan the Terrible. He’s one of the Kuklovod’s top operatives.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Osborne, for more evidence to throw at James Flynn. Conspiring with the Kuklovod, the same group he accused of being behind the JFK assassination. No wonder he knew they were going to attempt to shoot the President. He was working with them.”

  “He wasn’t working with them. They were trying to prevent him from talking about the group publicly.”

  “You have a fanciful imagination, Mr. Osborne. Where did you get this picture anyway?”

  “Flynn sent it to me several days ago.”

  “What for?”

  “He thought some group was trying to keep him from finding out the truth behind the JFK assassination. He sent it to me so I could help identify the guy.”

  “And you gave out classified information to James Flynn?”

  “I thought he might want to know who he was dealing with. And I warned him to stand down.”

  “A lot of good that did!”

  “Look, I know —”

  “I’m done with you. I need all hands on deck now, but when this search is over with, you’re suspended. And if I find out you spent one more minute after this conversation trying to prove Flynn’s innocence, I’m going to make sure you never sniff another government job the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”

  Osborne nodded and walked away. He felt more defeated than when he began.

  But it didn’t take long for that to change.

  Osborne heard one of the analysts shout gleefully about some footage she found. She transferred it to the main monitor so everyone could see. It was a security camera that showed Flynn being led away by a man holding a gun closely to Flynn’s back.

  “We need to be looking for that guy,” the analyst said, pointing at Ivan.

  Barksdale jumped in. “OK, people. It looks like we have a hostage situation here and we need to let all other law enforcement know about it. And get me an ID on that shooter.”

  Osborne glared at Barksdale. “I think we already know who he is.”

  Barksdale didn’t even acknowledge Osborne’s find. “Everybody, we’re looking for Ivan the Terrible, a Kuklovod operative. He’s trained, armed and dangerous. Get a BOLO out on him right now. Move it!”

  Osborne returned to his office, feeling vindicated. Now if they could only find Flynn before Ivan put a bullet in his head.

  CHAPTER 31

  SATURDAY MORNING STARTED with a flurry of activity for Gerald Sandford. Becoming the President of the United States overnight isn’t a smooth process, no matter what the Constitution allows. Convincing resistant cabinet members that it was in the best interest of the country to hand over power to him wasn’t easy.

  Sandford’s staunchest opposition came at the hands of Diane Dixon, the Secretary of Education. Dixon never liked Sandford for a number of reasons. First and foremost was the fact that he unseated her late husband in a Tennessee Senate race. Despite her southern charm and uncanny ability to convince people to do whatever she wanted them to, Dixon didn’t fool Sandford. She possessed an ulterior motive for every action she took. Her antics annoyed Sandford so much that he even cam
e up with his own nickname for her: Dixon the Vixen. There wasn’t an ounce of love lost between the two, and Sandford wasn’t surprised at her strong resistance to joining the rest of the cabinet in declaring the President unfit to lead. When questioned by Josh Perkins as to the reason for her reluctance to sign the letter, she quipped, “A comatose Briggs is better than a fully coherent Sandford any day.”

  Nevertheless, she eventually joined the others and signed the letter, requesting that power be transferred to Sandford immediately.

  By noon, the power of transfer was complete. Wearing a dark suit with a red power tie, Sandford even looked the part when he assumed his new leadership role. An hour later, he addressed the nation :

  “Good afternoon, fellow Americans.

  “As you know, we have all struggled with the news—and graphic images—of our beloved President, Arthur Briggs, getting shot yesterday afternoon during a speech at the U.N. The President and I have been friends for years, and seeing him shot like that pained me to no end. We will not stand for an attack against our leader, and I guarantee you we will exhaust every resource we have to track down the person or group responsible for this travesty and bring them to justice.

  “Meanwhile, while President Briggs fights for his life, we still have a battle of our own to fight, one that involves a disconcerting swell of aggressive talk of war from Russia.

  “As a result, the President’s cabinet decided it best to maintain a presence of leadership during such difficult times. While we all hope and pray for the President’s full and speedy recovery, the cabinet has invoked Section Four of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment, which allows me to serve as acting President.

  “Our office will provide the media and consequently the American public with daily updates on the progress of President Briggs’ recovery.