Page 282 of Incisive

Which my gut tells me will point straight back to Belyaevskin. He’s still unaccounted for although there are reports of him making his way toward Buenos Aires.

I hold my nose and sign off on several black ops missions to locate and apprehend him. It’s morally distasteful to me but this is national security. I’ll deal with any residual political fall-out later on the extremely remote chance he ends up being innocent. Considering it’s in the service of justice for the American people, I think it’ll play well for Ciro with moderate conservatives, and down-ballot Dem candidates will benefit, as well.

If the information ever gets out.

Our families are returned to their residences, including Stella and Ellis. Who are, by all reports, pissed right the hell off they were “held hostage against their will” for a few days despite being housed in dignitary quarters on the base that, while not a five-star resort, was definitely not a bedbug-infested flophouse.

They’re still refusing a Secret Service detail and insist their private security is sufficient.

After returning to Andrews, Jordan, Leo, and I fly onMarine Oneto the White House. Looking at the building from the air as we descend toward the South Lawn fills me with relief despite the new and hopefully temporary security measures now in place. I hate that the public can’t get as close to the White House as before, and that, obviously, all tours have been indefinitely suspended. While I also wish our home was private, at least this ishome, for now, and I can finally take a moment to myself to relax in familiar comfort.

Which in this case means being able to take a shit on my own toilet and not worry about a cadre of security standing just outside my door, listening to every fart.

Once we’re upstairs in the residence and all staff and the detail have been pushed back, Jordan and I wheel Leo into the master bedroom and lock the doors behind us.

“Damn, it feels good to be home,” Leo says as we help him undress first so we can get him into the shower. Jordan will help him shower because Leo needs to use my shower chair.

“Yeah, it does,” Jordan says.

After we’ve all showered and settled in bed with Jordan in the middle, my men quickly fall asleep while I lie there wide awake, unable to shut off my brain despite my exhaustion.

Something doesn’t…feelright about everything. Not personally, I don’t mean that.

About the attacks.

Beyond the obvious reasons, duh. Just like that day in the desert when I knew something was wrong and didn’t figure it out until it was too late.

That same creepy sensation still tingles at the base of my spine. The bitch of it is I literally control a massive arsenal and every intelligence resource I could ever need, and not a damn one of them can explain the rationale behind this…feeling.

A feeling that tells me we’re not only not out of the woods but that the worse is yet to come.

CHAPTERSEVENTY-THREE

The next morning,Jordan and I help Leo get dressed before the two of us head over to the West Wing while Leo will make his way down to his office in the East Wing after he eats breakfast.

As Jordan and I walk I hate looking across the lawn and seeing the temporary barricade fences and concrete barriers which now ring the entire White House complex but I also understand why they’re necessary.

Unfortunately, even those considerable precautions do nothing to alleviate the persistent warning tingle at the base of my spine.

While life is far from what passes for normal around here, especially with the drastically increased security,Ineed to return to some sort of “normalcy” and resume my usual daily schedule. I can’t spend the last several months of my presidency in a mountain bunker.

I’m addressing the nation live from the Oval Office tonight at nine p.m., the fourth televised talk I’ve given since the night of the attacks. I refuse to let the press dictate the narrative. Which is exactly what they’ll attempt the longer it takes to apprehend those responsible. Already Fox and FNB and others are trying to spin this into an intelligence failure instead of what it really is—technologically savvy criminals exploiting financial and communication frameworks that many conservatives eagerly championed in their nascent days.

My detail informs me that, for at least the next several weeks, Leo and I will not leave the White House unless it’s for a medical procedure that can’t be conducted on-site in the White House Physician’s office. And even then we’ll be transported by helo, not by ground vehicles. Ciro’s security was tripled and all of his upcoming campaign event logistics have been radically altered. For some events he won’t appear in person but virtually, on a large screen, with surrogates actually on the stage to help whip up the crowds.

I hate that the new logistics mean I’ll miss attending campaign events for Ciro, and miss in-person charity appearances I was honestly looking forward, to but it can’t be helped. I also won’t argue about it.

Mostly because I promised Leo I wouldn’t.

With the adrenaline burst of the initial attack far in my rearview mirror I can now more clearly see—and agree with—Leo’s point of view.

Especially after talking about it privately with Jordan and asking him to give me his honest opinion. As equals.

He told me he thought I acted like a jackass for not going down to the bunker when my detail wanted me to.

Yeah, I know when I’ve fucked up.

If I didn’t think it’d raise suspicions I would order Secret Service to forbid Jordan from so much as setting a foot outside the White House.