"Ten seconds."
Second by second, the drugs were losing their grip, clarity returning with agonizing slowness. Not enough. Not yet. But soon.
"Five... four... three... two..."
The red lights went solid.
Buckley smiled at the cameras. The Senator thought he controlled the narrative. But he'd forgotten the first rule of warfare.
No plan survives contact with the enemy.
The man didn’t know it yet, but Knight Tactical had already made contact.
36
Buckley stoodat the podium like a preacher at his pulpit, silver hair gleaming under the stage lights. "My fellow Americans, what you're about to witness is disturbing but necessary for our nation's security."
Shocked faces around the tables set for the luncheon about to be served. Then a wave of interested murmurs.
Mind clearing with each breath now, Griff counted. Twelve cameras. Four exits. Too many guards. The drugs still clouded his thoughts, but each passing minute brought tiny increments of clarity.
In the VIP section, David Pemberton sat forward in his chair, playing the concerned patriot perfectly. His Treasury Department credentials prominently displayed, his expression grave but righteous. The hero who'd discovered the terrorist plot just in time.
"Behind me sit two terrorists." Buckley's voice carried perfectly pitched concern. "They infiltrated the Charleston Summit with the intention of assassinating key government officials."
The crowd murmured. Cameras swiveled toward thestage, zooming in on Griff's battered face, Sarah's defiant posture.
Sarah's eyes swept the crowd and locked onto Pemberton. Her face went carefully blank, but not before Griff caught the flash of betrayal and rage.
Pemberton noticed her looking. He gave her a small, condescending shake of his head, as if disappointed in a wayward child. Then he turned to the official beside him, whispering something that made the man nod gravely.
"This man—" Buckley gestured to Griff, "is Griffin Hawkins. A former hero who lost his way after the tragic death of a teammate, Marcus Sullivan. Grief broke him. Made him vulnerable to manipulation."
Griff's hands clenched against the restraints.
"And this woman—" Buckley turned to Sarah, "—is Sarah Winters, an FBI analyst who we now know to be a foreign intelligence operative. She posed as a federal employee, used her position to access classified financial data. She seduced a grieving soldier, turned him into a weapon against his own country."
Buckley paused for effect. "My financial advisor, David Pemberton, was the first to notice irregularities in Ms. Winters' activities. His diligence may have saved countless lives."
The cameras found Pemberton, who stood briefly, nodding humbly as if accepting a burden rather than praise. Several people applauded.
"In fact," Buckley continued, "Mr. Pemberton will be heading the new financial oversight committee we're establishing after this crisis. Someone of proven loyalty and expertise."
Griff caught Sarah's eye. The tiny head shake she gave him said everything: Pemberton had no idea what was coming. He thought he'd won. He'd underestimated her again.
Excellent.
"Mr. Griffin." Buckley motioned to the guards. "Come. Tell America what you planned."
The guards hauled Griff to his feet. His legs barely held, but they dragged him to the podium, positioned him before the microphone. Buckley's hand landed on his shoulder, fatherly and controlling. “It’s all right, son. Take this chance to get yourself back on the path of righteousness. Go ahead.”
In his earpiece, Ronan's voice: "Stall them, Ghost. A few more seconds. Doc's surprise is imminent."
"Go ahead, son," Buckley encouraged. "Confession is good for the soul. Tell them what you planned."
Griff's head was clearing fast. He swallowed slowly, letting the words come thick and slurred and slow. "I, uh… I planned..."
"Yes?" Buckley leaned in, nodding encouragingly for the cameras.
