Page 105 of BounBound By Scars

“He’s also more dangerous,” Amelia replied under her breath. “He’s the people’s president for show. Butweknow he’s just Robert Romano’s puppet.”

I hummed in agreement.

Just then, Dylan and Delara rejoined us. Dylan’s gaze flicked between Amelia and me, then scanned the ballroom again.

“We’re good,” Delara said. “Armed and still beautiful.”

“Indeed,” I hugged her quickly, discreetly taking the gun she had ready for me. Amelia did the same with Dylan.

“We’re on the clock. Phase One is in place. Phase Two begins the moment that orchestra wraps up.”

The gala was alive with laughter and light, champagne and concealed tension. No one suspected a thing.

I had already altered the White House Crazon to fail at any facial recognition for the four of us. That, however, still left us open for any recognition in person.

As the orchestra concluded and announcements about a global initiative for accessible internet services began, Amelia and I exchanged a glance. It was time.

We moved casually through the crowd, weaving between guests, our demeanor relaxed.

We navigated our way towards the corridor leading to the West Wing basement. A security checkpoint loomed ahead. I nodded subtly to Amelia, and she adjusted her hair, revealing the Sentrix device cleverly concealed within her updo.

“Ready?” I murmured.

“Always,” she responded.

We approached the checkpoint, presenting our credentials. The guards scanned them, then us. After a tense moment, they nodded us through.

Descending into the basement, the atmosphere grew colder, more sterile. We reached the door to the Situation Room. Amelia retrieved the Sentrix, connecting it to the panel beside the door.

“Give me a moment,” she said, fingers flying over the device.

I stood guard, alert for any signs of interruption. Suddenly, two men turned the corner, their eyes narrowing as they spotted us.

“Can I help you?” one asked, stepping forward.

“Just got turned around,” I replied smoothly. “Looking for the restroom.”

They didn’t buy it—obviously. As they reached for their radios, I acted. Quick as a flash, I pulled the syringe disguised as a pen from my jacket pocket, jabbing it into the first man’s neck. He collapsed instantly. The second lunged at me, but I sidestepped, delivering a swift blow to his temple. He crumpled to the floor.

“Clear,” I said, turning back to Amelia.

“Biometric override authorized,” she announced. “You’re up.”

I placed my hand on the scanner, and the door slid open. We stepped into the darkened room.

“Check the cameras,” I reminded her.

“Already looped,” she confirmed.

I moved to the compact command terminal at the back, taking the Sentrix from Lia and plugging it into the secured port. The screen blinked awake—dark blue to gray—before flooding with Pentagon-level intel feeds.

I didn’t even pause to admire it. I didn’t have time to be impressed.

My fingers flew over the keys, eyes locked on the data streams. Incoming traffic, classified ops, encrypted communications—eight years’ worth of buried ghosts were coded into these logs.

Buried, but not dead.

“We’ve got less than three minutes before those guards wake up,” Lia warned, eyes glued to her phone. She was probablycycling through camera overlays, making sure the feed still looped that empty hallway.