by Aceves, Gigi
He smirks. “Trust me, he’s everyone’s. You might as well get in line.”
“Alright, gather up! We need this asshole alive. I know things are fluid, and once shit hits the fan adrenaline kicks in. Keep in mind; we need to know their next move. If he’s cold and talking to Satan, he’s no use to us.”
Daniels adds, “Fire only when you need to. We don’t want this turning into a blood bath, boys. We’re a go in. . . .” He looks at his watch then says, “ . . . in thirty.”
I can feel the tension in the air, and everyone’s desire to get it done right. I take deep cleansing breaths, focusing my mind on the objective at hand. Where some would run away from the line of fire, people like me and the men and women in this room do the opposite. We’re trained to desensitize ourselves from that inherent act of saving ourselves, but rather run toward the fire to kill and suppress it. . . . to defeat it.
With the blanket of darkness covering us, we cross the street in a tactical formation. I’m part of the first assault team coming through the front, and Daniels’ team coming through the rear. Once in position and the front door busted open, we all swarm in going through the motions of clearing the room and finding the targets. The three armed men in the living room attempting to reach for their guns didn’t stand a chance; a shot through the head kills them instantly. As we pass through the living room with Lucas on my ass, I kick open the door to my left.
“FBI, hands in the air!” The woman squirming on the bed reaches for something underneath her pillow which decided her fate. I fire one shot through her head while Lucas hits another on the chest, center mass.
A couple more gunshots sound off, then minutes later Daniels’ voice rings through the night. “All clear!”
As we converge in the living room littered with agents, three subdued gunmen are at the center of the room. Two have superficial wounds, and one is hanging on by a thread with two gunshot wounds, one in his leg and another through the chest. I’m sure he wishes his injuries would finish him off, but not until I get what I want from him. People like them are calloused to the core, conscience is non-existent.
“Give me a name! What’s the next play?” I question, pressing on his chest dressing while Lucas presses on his leg wound.
“Aaaahhhh!” He yells in pain.
“Give me a fucking name!”
“Drakob! Drakob!”
“Give me a last name you son-of-a-bitch!”
“Drakob Petrović! Petrović!”
“Where is he? Who’s the target? Answer or I’ll let you bleed out and die right here!”
Drakob? The name doesn’t match the damn picture!
“Gar—den I—nnn . . . ahhhh!” He squeals in his thick European accent.
Lucas runs toward Daniels. “Run Drakob Petrović’s name through your database and check for other aliases. Meanwhile, arrange for other agents to check all Garden Inn hotels in and around the White House. Call it in, now!”
“I need paper!” I yell. Lucas hands me some, and I press the perp’s bloody fingers on it. “Lucas, scan this and send it to Dan. Tell him to run it through our data base to see who else besides Drakob this piece of shit is affiliated with, aliases . . . the last place he’s been to. . . . the last fucking time he took a fucking shit!” I turn toward the piece of shit in question. “Who’s the fucking target?” I press on the hole where Lucas’ fingers were a few seconds ago. Crimson red colors my skin.
“Fam—fam—ily . . .”
He passes out or dies, I really don’t give a flying fuck as I reach for my phone punching Dan’s number. It’s five o’clock in the morning, which means I’m running out of time to be in Washington before the motorcade leaves.
“Dan!”
“Give it to me.”
I walk out of the room needing air. “I didn’t get much, but only where Drakob Petrović is holed up. The name doesn’t match the picture, Dan. Daniels already sent the order to every agent in D.C. to check out all Garden Inn Hotels around Washington. I also sent one of the perp’s prints, did you get it? I don’t know if the hit is today, but being that he has a scheduled appearance it seems plausible that today is the day.”
Dan’s voice sounds muffled as he yells, “Yeah, I got it. Can someone run these prints through our database? ASAP! Do we have anything for Drakob, yet?” He clears his throat. “Running a search right now, Damien. President won’t budge on his schedule for a hunch. I mean, if they have eyes on him, any deviation to the plan will send them running and planning to hit us another day.”
“Don’t let them leave, Dan. Please make the call. Stop it!”
“I’ll get back with you. Meanwhile, get here as fast as you can. Leave now. Lucas will finish up there and coordinate with us here.”
As I’m about to step out, Daniels hands me a cell phone. “I found this on the idiot in the room. It’s been buzzing since you stepped out. It’s only a picture, but you might want to see this.”
A picture of a building appears on the phone. I immediately dial Dan’s number while I take a snap shot of the picture with my phone.
“Dan, I’m sending you a picture. Is the President scheduled to make an appearance at this place?” I quickly hit send and impatiently wait.
“Got it. That’s St. Louis High School. Can someone give me the schematics on this school?” Dan exclaims, “Damien, he’s scheduled to go there next week for a town hall meeting. I think this is the target. It makes sense since a Garden Inn Hotel is about two blocks away from it.”
I nod to Daniels and head outside preparing to leave. “I don’t know, Dan. I still have a bad feeling. . . . like shit’s gonna go down today.”
“Damien, everyone’s in place. The President is secure, and we have all vantage points covered. No one can fart inside Walter Reed without us knowing. Just head back here, okay?”
“Alright, can you give me the route and the road closures? I’ll meet you there. I just don’t want to get stuck or detoured.”
“Taking the route we took a year ago. . . . remember that?”
“I do. I’ll see you when I see you.”
Within ten minutes, I’m in a car speeding through the streets of Virginia Beach to Washington. I cave and call Sophia whose voice I haven’t heard . . . whose touch I haven’t felt.
“Hey, baby.”
Groggily she answers, “Oh God! It’s nice to hear your voice. Are you coming home? Today?”
I control my voice the best I can. “Yes, I’m driving back. You want to wait for me?”
Please say you’ll stay behind. . . .
“I wish I could, but duty calls. You know how it is.” I sigh loudly while I enjoy the sound of her voice. “I miss you something fierce, babe. I can’t wait to hold you.”
“I love you . . . so much,” I whisper.
Her soft giggles give me a moment of happiness, leaving a small smile on my face only to be erased by the demons I’m chasing.
“I love you, too.”
“I have to go, baby. Who do I love?” My voice cracks with the intensity of the moment . . . our moment while I’m praying hard it won’t be our last.
“Me! Always me.”
We hang up with the promise of spending the entire day together. I’m fifteen minutes away from the White House when I get a call from Dan.
“Damien, the motorcade . . .” Static. “hit . . .” Static. “ . . . hospital. . . .” Static.
“Dan! Dan!”
And the line goes dead.
I grip my phone so hard while my foot steps on the gas. Praying to God I get there in time.
Love—sometimes it’s like going to war. I fight so hard for what I hold sacred. I make hard decisions to achieve victory while holding on to hope that it’s love that’ll bring us back together.
SOPHIA
I couldn’t sleep worth a wink after my talk with Damien. So, I resort to reliving memories to survive a couple of hours until I’m in his arms. A vivid picture of the day of my recital gives respite to my soul.
“Think of me with every step you take, feel every word of that song because I more than hunger for your love, baby. Even though I’m not the one you’re dancing with, I know you’re dancing for me. Always dance only for me.”
While I melt into a puddle of goo in his arms, his lips invade my own. A sensual dance filled with love and passion coupled with our tongues meshing together overwhelms me.
A soft knock gets my attention. “Hey, sweetheart, are you awake?”
“Mom? What are you doing up this early?”
“Sophia, it’s ten after six. You know Dad and I get up around five.”
“What’s up?” I push the blanket off me and scoot toward the edge of the bed.
“I just miss our morning hellos. I’ve really been enjoying the past couple of mornings, it feels like old times.” She smiles at me, contentment twinkling in her eyes.
I lean forward hugging her a tad tighter than usual. “Me too, Mom. I’ve missed this, too.”
“Is there a bun in the oven?”
I giggle leaning back. “What? Mom! I’m not going to discuss my sex life with you! Oh gosh, kill me now!”
“Soph, I want grandkids to spoil. Remember morning, noon, and night! How does Darcee say it? Drop it like it’s hot!” She says while wiggling her brows.
“Please Mom, don’t do that again! I’m dying . . . I’m dying . . .” I say covering my face.
“Well in your case, it has to be pump it like it’s hot!”
I gasp, jumping off the bed as I yank her arm. “You need to leave!” I say between chuckles as I push her toward the door. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
She’s happier than I’ve seen her be in ages, then she turns and hugs me again. Leaning back she says, “I’m ready whenever you guys are. I know Anna is. I love you, Sophia. I love the life you’re leading, how you’ve grown. You’ve made Dad and me truly proud. And in my ever humble opinion, I know you’ll be an excellent mother because of your heart. You’ve never really lost that innocence of a child.”
I cock my head questioning her statement. “Really? I beg to differ.”
“What I mean is, you don’t harbor any anger, you may pout like a child even for your age, but you forgive and forget easily. I know this life isn’t something you want, but you’ve learned to live with it and have flourished while doing so. Thank you. . . . thank you for loving Dad enough to sacrifice your freedom to allow him to work freely.”
“I love you, Mom. Thank you for teaching me how to be patient, for being my source of strength. Thanks for loving Damien and accepting him.”
We share another hug and head down to the kitchen for an early breakfast where my dad spins and dips her as they dance to music only they can hear. Three hours later, we’re in the beast on our way to Walter Reed. I sit next to Mom across from Dad and Joe as usual. They’re talking about approval ratings and meetings with only God knows who.
As I look outside, I can’t help but think of Damien. In a couple of hours I’ll be in his arms while his lips mingle with mine. I can feel my lips pulling into a smile just imagining the surprise awaiting him in our apartment. Giddy with excitement, a few giggles escape my lips getting my mom’s attention as she winks at me knowingly.
It’s a very touching experience to talk to and meet with wounded soldiers and their families. Their sense of pride and love for their country is infectious and humbling. We’re walking through the corridors straight to the convoy waiting outside as we’re followed closely by Secret Service agents that seem to be attached to our hips since we left this morning. The long motorcade of black SUV’s that provide safety for my dad line the expanse of the sidewalk. Before stepping out of the double sliding glass doors, my dad turns and gives his final wave goodbye. As soon as he sets foot outside, a loud bang echoes clearly and all hell breaks loose.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” Everyone wearing a dark suit yells like a symphony orchestra, only it brings chills to my entire being.
Firm, solid arms grab me and another set grabs my mom while three agents converge around my dad, literally lifting him off the ground covering every inch of him as well as they can. “Move! Move!” Voices around us keep shouting as we’re hauled out of harm’s way.
There’s no time to scream, to speak, to check if my parents are okay. There’s no time to process anything at all. My feet aren’t touching the ground, my head pushed down, pinned on someone’s arms while another hand covers my head. My dad gets shoved inside the belly of the beast as I curl into myself, praying for everyone’s safety. I feel the beast moving and quickly look around—how in the hell are we getting out of here with a long line of SUV’s moving in the same direction—backward! We are moving backward!
“Maverick secure! Tell me someone knows where the shots came from! Find us a turn! We can’t be boxed in! Go! Go! Go!” Tony, my dad’s lead agent, bellows.
“I’m fine, Paul!” My dad wards off the agent checking if he’s been shot.
We’re speeding away, still driving backward when the SUV in front of us jerks to a stop and makes a quick turn, swerving violently with tires squealing, the back window open and long guns poking out, aimed at I don’t know what. When our car follows and makes a sharp turn jerking us all to the side, my face hits the side of the door as it speeds behind the black SUV, thankfully facing forward as sirens are blaring everywhere. Two black Tahoes are flanking us while behind us is a long line of black cars. My heart is beating as quickly as the beast is moving. That’s when I see my mom slumped on the limo floor face down.
“Oh my God! Mom! Mom!” I reach for her.
My dad beats me to her and quickly turns her over. “Sweetheart, are you hurt?”
My eyes frantically search for something red anywhere on my mom’s body, finding none I breathe a sigh of relief, but my dad’s words thunderbolt through my heart.
“Sweetheart, breathe for me. She’s not breathing!”
“Take us to the nearest hospital!” Tony yells. “Make the road clear for us and block all the side streets!”
I’m surprised to hear Joe’s voice. I didn’t even see him get thrown in after the melee. “The President is secure. I repeat the President is alive. Where is the V.P.?” He breathes out a sigh of relief and a short pause falls. “Keep the Speaker of the House informed and keep the line of succession secure!”
My eyes are still glued to my mother when hers open and my dad puts his ear right over her mouth. My dad’s eyes shut tightly as he twines his fingers with hers while my tears are raining down my face as the fear of something tragic . . . something morbid envelopes my heart.
The car abruptly stops and we’re covered once again with agents while my dad carries my mom inside. The ER doctor takes us into a room and quickly assesses my mother. “What meds is she on?” He asks looking at my dad as he works cohesively. . . . eerily calm, while I’m close to losing my mind.
“She’s on Coumadin . . . ah. . . . my wife suffers from Coronary artery disease.” My dad’s eyes never leave my mom as we both watch her. Her eyes are closed, her body isn’t moving, and her chest doesn’t rise or fall while the tight grip of my father’s arms surrounds my shaky body.
“Secure all points of exit on this floor. No one goes in or out . . . initiate total lockdown!” Tony barks orders. “I need coverage outside! Establish a secure perimeter a-fucking-sap!”
“Unresponsive! No pulse!” A female nurse shrieks drowning Tony’s voice.
“Code blue! Starting compressions!” The doctor yells as people wearing scrubs start moving all at the same time.
One woman puts an oxygen mask on my mother as loud whimpers escape my lips.
“I’m putting the pads on!” Yells another woman as she attaches two sticky white pads on my mom’s chest.
We’re pushed to the side behind the blue curtain as my dad’s hold on me gets tighter. I stop breathing, watching helplessly.
“Stopping compressions. Let’s see what kind of rhythm we have.” A calm voi
ce coming from the doctor breaks the silence.
“Looks like it’s bfib,” a woman, probably a nurse, wearing pink scrubs answers.
The doctor yells more medical jargon, and the next thing I hear is him yelling, “Clear!” A couple of seconds pass. “Shock delivered.” Another round of unwanted seconds passes. “Resume compressions . . . administer Epinephrine, one milligram IV push. Someone let me know when two minutes have passed!”
Two minutes must have passed when the same woman says with a shaky voice, “Still bfib.”
“Charging! Defibrillate at one hundred seventy joules. Clear!” The doctor zaps my mom’s chest once again. “Starting compressions! Come on! Fight back!” He does the compressions himself, eyes focused on my mom’s chest.
Time seems to tick by ever so slowly when at the same time everyone stops moving, except for the doctor who’s pressing on my mom’s chest as fast as he can. That’s when I knew, as the avalanche of uncontrollable wailing purges out of me disturbing the silence. I stare at my dad pleading with my eyes to do something. . . . anything. He tries his hardest to hold me up as a few errant tears fall on his face, staring at my mother—his wife with so much love my heart aches even more.
Then a female doctor wearing a white coat stops the male doctor. “Call it, James.”
He pauses for a short while with head bowed down. “Time of death, two o’clock P.M.”
War—my heart and mind are at war with each other. My mind understands what I’m witnessing, but my heart aches because of it. Fighting within myself should be unfathomable. Shouldn’t my mind try to understand the state of my heart? Or shouldn’t my heart try to see the reasoning of my mind? I am me, an autonomous ruler of myself, but one part of me has declared war over the other. The pain that pours out of my heart is without mercy.
DAMIEN
IT TAKES ME ALMOST THIRTY minutes to get to the hospital and another ten just to set foot in the emergency room. But once I do, the curtain of sadness veils the hearts of every person Sophia’s mother has touched. My eyes land on my wife clinging helplessly onto her father’s chest as her shoulders shake uncontrollably, eyes tightly shut, and tears drench her flushed cheeks.