“Chelsea wasn’t ready to go yet.”
“She is now. She’s out back with Richie.”
I tilt my head to the side. “You said he was taking care of something.”
“He’s taking care of Chelsea.” His jaw tightens, that muscle twitching with his frustration. “Come on, we need to go.”
Slowly shaking my head, I start to move to the other end of the hallway where the party is still happening, but his hand catches my upper arm, and he starts to drag me away.
I have an emergency button on my watch, which I immediately press, and within seconds, more Secret Service rush in.
Cold metal is pressed against my neck.
“I’m taking her,” this asshole says. His voice shakes a bit, and my eyes find Richie’s.Where was he?
Without hesitation, Richie raises his gun and fires, and my would-be kidnapper falls to the ground, dead.
Oh, God.
I stare down in horror at the blood as it spreads over the floor, and then I’m flanked by three men and taken out to the SUV. They’re talking into phones and communicators, but the blood is rushing so loudly in my head, I can’t hear a word they’re saying.
He was going to take me.
“How?” Is thatmyvoice? So small and breathy.
Richie turns to me, but I don’t understand the words coming out of his lips. His face is set in concerned lines.
Was he in on it?
He wasn’t there.
He was supposed to be there.
“Blackbird is secure. ETA two hours,” I hear someone say as we zoom through Manhattan, just as I start to shake, and I’m hurled back in time five years.
“Get her out of here!” Gideon pushes me toward Richie, but I don’t want to leave him. No one makes me feel as safe as Gideon. No one can protect me like him.
I shake my head, clinging to him.
“No. I’ll go with you.”
“Go with Richie. That’s an order.”
I shake my head again, but then shots ring out, and Gideon grunts, then collapses to the ground.
“Oh my God!”
“Go,” Gideon says. His face is white, his voice strained. “Get the fuck out of here, Lena.”
Strong arms pull me back, but I’m yelling for Gideon. I won’t leave him.
“Lena.” Richie shakes my shoulder, pulling me out of the past. “Shit, she’s going into shock.”
“Of course she is. She just saw a man die.”
“I’ve told you exactly what happened five times,” I tell my mother, who’s sitting with me and my detail in the living room of the White House, in sweats. Her eyes are cold and hard. She’s in scary executive-president mode right now.
Which is better than the terrified-mama mode she was in about an hour ago. I don’t know what to do with that. My mother is not emotional. And she’snevergone into mama-bear mode with me.
