Excerpts from Saving the President
The Book Starts Here
Killing a head of state is hard to do. Assassination attempts rarely succeed. Yet in a matter of minutes he would have the leaders of four countries in his crosshairs.
He was not a zealot. Nor did he claim the self-importance of an artist. He was a skilled laborer, one whose particular skills would mean at least 5 million US in his Caribbean account by nightfall.
The first kill would have to be the U.S. President, then whomever had the misfortune to be standing at his left side. A career of practice proved that moving the barrel of his sniper rifle a bare centimeter to the right was smoother and faster than to the left.
The President was delusional. But, the sniper reasoned, that was what made him worth 2.5 million US dollars!
Bad News from the President
They were quiet for a minute or two, and Patrick saw the look come over the President’s face of a doctor about to give his patient bad news.
“Patrick, I’ve been thinking about our discussion regarding your vulnerability to friendly fire and your desire to take that chance. Then on top of that you have the APD and FBI on your tail. You’ve become more than a protector; you’re a partner. I’m going to tell you something probably no president has ever told his pro. My guess is that, even with all the reading you’ve done in our meeting room, you’ve never seen anything about this.”
“OK, Boss, I’m totally hooked.” He didn’t say that it was the first time he remembered POTUS using his real name. President Langford leaned back in the sofa. “Give me your opinion. Did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone?”
Not Just Anyone’s Car
“I won’t hear of you missing the fireworks and the rest of this party because of me.” She stopped walking long enough to turn toward him and give him the kiss he’d intended. Just not under these circumstances. With that, she reached down, took off her sandals, and hurried away up the hill to catch her ride.
Two things are great to wash away frustration—a full-scale lightning storm and a billionaire’s fireworks display. Three minutes later he felt fine, so fine in fact that he wanted to tell her how much he enjoyed her company and how much he looked forward to the next time. He sprinted after her, hoping to regain enough ground. Beside the house and up the flagstone steps he ran, around the corner. Too late. He might have caught a glimpse of her as the door closed and the government car moved away.
He stood rock still for a full sixty seconds, wishing to make the last vision of the car change. It didn’t. He had been around the White House enough to know the significance of the license plate USSS-1. It could only be the car of the Director of the United States Secret Service. On the other side of the house in the shadows, another mind simultaneously reached the same conclusion.