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Our eyes meet the moment he steps through the open door. My lips part, ready to call out to him. I need him, his arms, his whispers of comfort. I can’t breathe… and I can’t do any of this without him.

No doubt seeing the panic in my eyes, Trey advances toward me but is stopped by T, who shakes his head and points toward a section of seats where other ragged and torn agents sit.

For the first time since the whole ordeal began, I allow a single tear to slip free.

Men died today keeping me safe. Others are injured and bleeding, all for a fight we didn’t start.

And one… one of those men, I can’t fathom losing.

Once again, I was too close to losing Trey. Today I almost lost my future.

That single thought transforms the panic and uncertainty dictating my every breath and emotion to anger so hot I’m tempted to burn the world to the ground to punish those responsible.

Someone almost took away my forever today.

That someone better be fucking petrified.

Because I'm done playing their games. Those fuckers just messed with the wrong woman.

Up to this point, I've held back the full force of what’s at my disposal.

Now?

Now they’ll feel the wrath of a pissed-off Texas woman.

May God have mercy on their damned souls.

* * *

“It's fine,” I grumble under my breath. What is it about personal physicians and being so damn hovering? I never had a doctor so observant until I moved into politics. “I’ve been through worse and just shook it off. Slap a Band-Aid on it and I'll be perfectly fine.”

The two male doctors share a confused look before directing their overly attentive focus back on me.

These two remind me of someone—but who?

“It's a sprain, Madam President. A Band-Aid wouldn’t fix the issue at hand.”

I roll my eyes and shift, allowing my legs to dangle off the table that’s worked as my doctors’ makeshift workstation for the past hour. “Yeah, I know. I’m not that ignorant. It was a joke. Listen.” I huff and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “You've wrapped the ankle all nice and tight. I have my little baggie of ice.” Grasping the massive ice pack from beside me, I shake the goo-filled bag for emphasis. “And now I need to get back to work. Because I'm pretty certain someone tried to assassinate me—again—and they hurt several Americans in the process. I'd really like to discuss the details with my intelligence team and agents to find out who the hell that was so I can punish them severely.”

The two blink in unison. Turn in unison. Part their lips in unison.

I got it! Bert and Ernie! That’s who these two morons remind me of.

Hell if I know why though, since neither actually has a similar appearance to the loveable Sesame Street puppets. Maybe it’s how they do everything in unison and act like they both have a hand shoved up their ass.

“I appreciate you fixing my ankle, but I've got shit to do.” I ready myself to stand when the set of crutches they've demanded I use to keep weight off the sprained ankle is shoved against my chest. “Fine,” I nearly growl. “I'll take your crutches, but we don't need no stinking crutches.” My loud and a bit obnoxious snort vibrates the tip of my nose. The two doctors blink, not finding my joke nearly has humorous as I do. “Seriously, it's a quote from a movie, but I switched out the word badges for crutches.” Raising both brows, I consider one doctor, then the other. “It's supposed to be funny.”

“What movie, ma'am?” Bert says.

I lift both shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “No clue, but I know I've heard it somewhere. Or maybe it was a poster?” Eager to check on my agents, I plant the pads atop the crutches under my armpits and pitch forward, making for the exit. “Ask Alexa. She'll know.”

Managing the door with the crutches and distracting throbbing pain radiating from my ankle proves to be as difficult as getting the House and Senate to agree on anything, but I manage to tug it open. I shuffle down the narrow paths, making my way toward the front of the plane where I last saw T and Trey. The sharp scent of gunpowder, blood, and stale sweat guides me toward my friends and agents.

I round a corner to a small conference room, the door wide open, allowing me to see the devastation inside. My knees buckle at the sight, the crutches I was against the only thing keeping me from collapsing to the floor.

“We're okay, Mess.” Trey's words filter through one ear and out the other as I take in the agents coated with sweat and dirt; a few have crimson staining their clothes. “Only a few fatalities. Those in here are wounded but nothing fatal.”

My observing gaze pauses on Champ. I saw that wound. There’s no way it didn’t need to be treated the minute he stepped on the plane.