“If you don’t mind,” I say.
“Hey, hun,” Collins says, as she comes on the line. “You get in touch with your friends?”
I glance at President Beck. He’s seated across from me at the dining room table, just two rooms away from the Oval Office. I just had some of the best lobster of my life, courtesy of my presidential host. So far, everyone, including the Secret Service, has given Beck the distance he requested, but I’m not sure how long that will last.
“We just finished a nice sit-down meal,” I say.
Collins must be wondering if a ‘sit down meal’ is code for something, because she says, “For real?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Lobster and all the fixings.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize that if anyone is listening and knows the President’s menu choice for the evening, there could be problems. I force a laugh and add, “I’m just messing with you. We had dogs and hot wings. Waiting for the game to start.”
“How’re you holding up?” she asks.
Something about the way her voice sounds makes me wish that it were me waiting in the chopper. They’re parked somewhere, just outside the no-fly zone, waiting for things to go sour. I haven’t seen Collins much in the last few weeks. I’ve spent most of my time with Endo, which sucks more balls than the last hole at a mini-golf course. “Impatient. Looking forward to the game’s end for a change.”
“I hear you, babe. You have any idea when it might start?”
A distant siren tickles my ear. I look at Endo, who is wiping melted butter from his mouth. Apparently, the lobster was good for him, too. He couldn’t hear the siren, which means the sound is coming through the phone. “What’s that sound?”
No answer.
“Betty,” I say. “What’s that sound?”
Collins’s voice comes back as a whisper. “Kickoff.”
It takes a moment to settle in. Kickoff. The game is starting!
“You better hurry on that pie,” I say.
“I’m on it,” she says. “See you soon.”
I hang up the phone and turn to Endo, who is already watching me, napkin frozen over his lips. “It’s time.”
I dial the phone again. It’s answered quickly. As per our protocol, I speak first, using our code names. “Ranger, its Bob.”
“I’m here, Bob.” Ranger, who was a hard sell on my quasi-crazy idea, doesn’t sound enthused.
“The game is about to start.”
“We’re settled in and waiting for the whistle to blow.”
A distant siren blares, its whine piercing the night. It’s accompanied by another, and another until it’s impossible to not hear them. Everyone in Washington, D.C. will be wide awake and terrified in the next five seconds.
“See you in the end zone,” I say.
“We’re on our way.”
The line goes dead.
I place the phone back in my pocket. I can hear the rumble of approaching feet. “Here they come.”
Endo stands and takes up position to the President’s side. I stand on the other side, framing him in. Dunne stands half way around the table, closer to the door, looking as vacant as Beck.
The door slams open violently. No warning. No knock. Just action. At a moment like this, with the whole of Washington, D.C. under imminent attack, the President is treated like a helpless, frightened baby and whisked away to safety. Normally, I have no doubt that Beck would rush away with them. That’s probably what they’re expecting. But the President isn’t feeling like himself.
“Sir!” one of the agents yells, stopping short of tackling the President and throwing him over his shoulder. “Three Kaiju have emerged from Chesapeake Bay! We have to leave, now!”
When Beck doesn’t reply, but remains seated in front of his uneaten lobster, the man steps closer.
I get in his way.
“Step aside,” the man says. His hand goes toward his gun.
Other agents crowd in, looking ready for action. Those on my side of the table get close. Those on the other side are stopped by Dunne, whom they either fear or trust. He is the agent in charge. “The President is staying here,” Dunne says.
“Agent Dunne,” the man in front of me says, “Protocol is that we—”
“Protocol is whatever the President of the United States says it’s going to be,” Dunne says, and I suspect the words are being fed to him by Endo.
I’m still connected to Beck, but I haven’t tried to make him speak, I’ve just been...reconditioning…certain aspects of his personality.
All the agents turn toward Beck. He doesn’t blink.
Shit, did I lobotomize the man?
“Sir,” the closest agent says. “We need to leave. Now. It’s not safe—”
“Not safe?” Beck says. He shakes his head. “Not safe. Who am I to be saved while the rest of the people are in harm’s way?”