Sardosky pulls back to look at me, but it is in that moment the drug courses through his system, filling his arteries like cement, the blood trickling in drops, his heart slowing, slowing, faltering, stopping. His eyes roll back into his head and he crumbles, his arm knocking against the side table and sending the glasses to the floor where they shatter around us.
I drop down next to him, cradling his head in my hands. His mouth is open, gaping, like a bloated fish struggling to reach the water again. “Shh,” I murmur. “It’s okay.”
His eyes dart frantically from side to side and his hands claw at his chest. He understands what is happening to him, understands that I’m not trying to help, and the accusation in his gaze is unbearable. I rest his head on the ground and turn away. The glasses have splintered into hundreds of pieces, some large enough to cut, others light as dust. I stare at the broken shards, covering my ears with my hands so that I won’t have to hear his desperate gurgling anymore.
A sound at the door distracts me. It swings opens, and I shoot to my feet. Please be Wes, I pray. But no, it is a member of Sardosky’s Secret Service.
Chapter 6
The agent takes in the scene: the fallen glasses, the puddle of spilled water, Sardosky’s feet sticking out from behind the love seat, twitching and shaking. I freeze, unable to say or do anything to explain.
“I need an ambulance and backup,” he calmly states. It sounds like he is saying it to me, but I know the noise is carried like lightning through the airwaves, arriving at the I-units of his fellow Secret Service in less than a second.
“What happened here?”
I jump, realizing he’s speaking to me.
“I . . . I . . . he fell, he just started shaking. I don’t know what’s happening.” I am scared enough for my voice to tremble naturally. What do I do now? Backup is already on its way. I could disable the agent and barricade the door until Sardosky is dead, but then they’d know I had a hand in this. I would never make it out of here alive. And who knows what would happen to Wes, Tim, and Twenty-two?
The Secret Service agent skirts the couch and falls to his knees next to Sardosky. The president’s lips have turned blue, his eyes still open but glazed over, unseeing and empty. “Why didn’t you get help?”
“It just happened. I haven’t had time.”
He presses two fingers to Sardosky’s neck. “He’s still breathing. The ambulance will be here in seconds. Move to the side; I’ll deal with you later.”
Time to abort.
“Please . . . my fiancé doesn’t know I’m here. Can I leave?”
The agent looks up at me quickly, taking in my wrinkled gown, my shaking hands. “Just go. You’ll only get in the way.”
“Thank—”
I can’t finish the word before the door swings open again. It is Tim, wide-eyed and frantic. “It’s mayhem out there. We need to go.”
I wave my arm through the air in a stopping motion, but it is too late. The agent heard every word. He springs to his feet, and I see Tim jerk back, not realizing that someone else was behind the couch. The agent takes in Tim’s waiter uniform and my formal dress, and his hand falls to the gun at his side.
“You two know each other?”
“Go.” I spit the word at Tim, then run for the door. I hear a shot fired, and the bullet hurtles past my cheek, close enough for me to feel the heat of it. Another shot, but it misses too and I grab Tim’s arm as I pass, pulling him behind me. We run out into the hallway, then quickly enter the ballroom. People are running in every direction and the screaming is so loud I’m surprised I didn’t hear it in the library.
“Samantha!” Wes is halfway across the room, fighting the crowd to reach me. Twenty-two is right behind him. Tim and I run toward them, shouldering and pushing people out of our way.
“We heard the president had a heart attack,” Twenty-two says, still in character.
“They know.” I let go of Tim and clutch the lapel of Wes’s jacket. “They’re coming. We need to leave.”
Wes looks over my head. I follow his gaze to see a cluster of Secret Service agents pointing in our direction.
“Come on, before they seal the exits.” Twenty-two turns and we follow her as she pushes through the crowd, using her small body as a battering ram. A loud noise comes from somewhere above our heads—a siren, an announcement. Please remain calm. Due to an investigation we ask that you remain in this room so that we can question those involved. You are in no danger.
People around us murmur, then still, gathering into tight groups as they speculate about what happened. It is the mentality of those witnessing a fire or a car accident—the need for companionship, for information, to see the disaster firsthand.
Twenty-two reaches up and pinches her eyeballs, pulling out her I-units and throwing them to the ground. She grinds her heel into each one. Wes, Tim, and I copy her actions. Other people can still scan us, but at least now the Secret Service won’t be able to track our movements.
“What do we do?” Tim whispers. He is hunched over slightly, trying to hide his unmistakably large frame.
“The windows.” Wes’s voice is impassive, blank, despite the men in suits who are pushing through the crowd to find us. “There’s no point in being subtle now. If we try for the doors, then they’ll either lock us up or shoot us.”
“Would locking us up be so bad?” Tim
