Chapter Two

Henry

The plane taxied and came to a halt outside the terminal. All around, people began to unbuckle and climb out of their seats. The flight hadn't even taken an hour, yet people were already grabbing for their carry-ons. Until the announcement came over the tannoy.

"For security purposes, we request that all passengers remain in their seats. I repeat: All passengers are to remain in their seats until further notice."

Henry's heart beat a little faster. The other passengers hesitated, as if unsure if the message truly applied to them or not, but as two men in black suits boarded the plane, everyone sat down. The flight attendant pointed towards Henry, and one of the men began to stride down the aisle. Henry's stomach lurched. His heart pounded Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. And in his mind, he prayed that the man would sail past.

"Dr McCord." The man stopped just in front of Henry's seat. "If you'd collect your belongings and come with me."

"My wife?" Those were the only words that he could muster, everything else was a blur.

"Sir." The man looked like he was fighting back a grimace, and there was something else—pity?—in his eyes. "Please." He motioned towards the front of the plane and the waiting passenger bridge.

Blood pulsed through Henry's ears, matching his pace stride for stride as he followed the two agents across the bridge and into the terminal. Inside was eerily silent, the air still. It felt like a three AM run, when the streets were empty and no noise filtered out from the houses, and for a moment you could believe that time had ceased and you were the only one still breathing.

Crowds of people had gathered around the television screens that hung from every wall. And splashed across each screen were the words: Secretary of State, Elizabeth McCord, Shot.

Henry stopped. His heart stopped. The world stopped. The agents tried to usher him on, but he was frozen. He stared up at the screens.

"Earlier today, Secretary of State, Elizabeth McCord, was shot through the chest during a presentation at the White House." The news anchor looked straight into the camera, and it felt as though she was talking directly to him. "White House security neutralised the shooter within seconds. We head now to Molly, who was at the scene."

The screen split. One side showed the reporter, the other showed a still of Elizabeth and Conrad side by side on stage. The reporter took over. "The presentation was about to begin when a shot was fired through the window from the grounds and hit Secretary McCord in the chest. It's not yet known who the bullet was intended for, and there's speculation that perhaps this was an assassination attempt on President Dalton. We have footage from the moment that it happened. We advise viewers with younger children present to turn away."

Henry gripped his mouth. There was a gunshot and then screams. Elizabeth looked down at her chest as blood unfurled like a rosebud across her shirt. She stumbled. Dalton caught her. He lowered her to the stage.

"Henry." Russell Jackson stepped in front of him. "Henry, you don't want to watch this."

But Henry couldn't move. The words just washed over him. Elizabeth lay on the stage, her head resting against Conrad's knees as Conrad shouted for help. Elizabeth's face was torn with pain, spittles of blood breaking from her lips. The image of her lingered on screen and burned itself into Henry's mind. Then Will was beside her. The two Adams siblings together. "It's okay, Lizzie. Just breathe."

The footage cut away, the screen now showing the reporter at the White House next to the anchor in the studio. "And how does the situation stand now?" the anchor asked.

"Secretary McCord was taken to hospital in an ambulance," the reporter replied after a pause. "We are yet to receive a statement from the White House."

"Henry." Russell took hold of Henry's elbow. "The car's waiting. We're going to take you to the hospital." He nodded to the agents, and they took their positions on either side of Henry and half-nudged, half-dragged him along.

Henry's mind was still reeling. They had walked from the airport to the car, but all he could see was Elizabeth's face and the blood, her precious blood, spilling onto her shirt, onto her lips. The car started and the driver flipped on the sirens. They blared through the background of his mind.

Henry turned to Russell. He swallowed. "Is she dead?"

Russell had been watching him, his head not buried in his phone for once, as if he had been waiting for the question to come. "Her brother attended to her at the scene. She was taken into surgery as soon as the ambulance arrived. I don't know anything else."

"Is she going to die?" The words clung to his throat.

"I…" Russell began. He shook his head and looked away. "Bess is a fighter."

Dozens of reporters had gathered outside the hospital. They were held back by a barricade, but still they leant over with their microphones and cameras, everyone in search of a stray word or an image that they could use to enhance their coverage. Henry's stomach tightened. They were like piranhas, frenzied at a drop of blood.

Russell led the way, Henry tucked in behind with the two security agents at the flanks. The cameras flashed, an endless dazzle in the corner of Henry's eye. They tracked his movements up to the door, until he disappeared into the buzz of artificial light.

"They have more footage than what you saw earlier," Russell said. They weaved through the members of White House security who had swarmed the corridors like termites. "We've managed to use threats to suppress it for now, but I can't promise that it won't come out." He added in a mutter, "They shouldn't have shown any of it at all."

Henry just nodded. His head was swimming and his heart pounded too fast to allow any coherent speech. What footage hadn't they shown? How had his tragedy turned into a…a spectacle?

"Dr McCord." The nurse gave him a grim smile. "If you'd like to come this way, I'll show you to the family room."

"My brother-in-law?" Henry followed the nurse down the corridor.

"He's already waiting in there, along with the president."

Henry nodded. He stopped outside the door. He turned back to look at the nurse. "Is there any news?"

The nurse's gaze dipped, and she shook her head. "As soon as we hear anything, we'll let you know. And if there's anything we can do for you in the meantime, just come and find us."

Henry nodded again as the nurse turned and left. He held the door handle, clutched it tight, but for some reason couldn't turn it. Will was in there. Will, who had been there with Elizabeth, not him. Will, who had fought to save her life. Henry took a deep breath. It shook through him. He entered.

When the door shut behind him, it was so silent that it felt as though he had stepped into a vacuum. Will and Conrad both rose to their feet. Their expressions made the nurse's sombre face look cheery. Conrad's shirt was covered in a fine mist of blood, but Will's pale blue shirt was stained deep red. Henry swallowed, but a lump stuck in this throat. Everywhere, her blood was everywhere. Spattered and smeared and sprayed.

"Henry." Conrad stepped forward, but Henry's gaze clung to Will's shirt. "I'm so sorry. I…You know how much I care for Bess. I'm truly sorry."

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to stem the tears. But none had yet appeared. It was too raw, too sudden; it didn't feel real. "Is she…?" he began, but didn't know how to complete the sentence.

"Still in surgery," Will said. His voice was thick. "The bullet passed through her lung." He paused. His gaze fell to his hands. They were stained with her blood too. "I'm sorry…you probably don't want to hear—"

Henry cleared his throat. "Tell me. I need to know." As painful as it was, he needed to know. He hadn't seen those final moments, what happened after the television screens cut out. Just knowing, it felt like it might bring him closer to her.

Will nodded, as though he understood. But how could he understand? How could any of them understand? None of them knew Elizabeth like he did. None of them had woken up early just to catch a glimpse of her still sleeping. None of them had spent hours thinking up bad jokes just to hear her laugh. None of them had held her so tight—

"The space around her lung was filling up with air and blood," Will said. Henry's mind flitted back to the room—the room that someone had decorated so colourfully, but that would never be rid of the shadows of grief and death. "When the paramedics arrived, I used a needle to relieve some of the pressure, but she was still bleeding out. Her blood pressure was very low. We gave her fluids in the ambulance, but she had lost consciousness by the time that we arrived. The surgeons are opening her chest to try to repair the tissue."

The words washed over him. If he'd been asked to repeat it, he wouldn't know where to begin, other than to say that it was bad, that it should never have happened, that everything was wrong. His gaze darted up to meet Will's eye. "What—" he tugged at his mouth "What are her chances?"

Will shook his head and backed away a step. Conrad laid a hand on Henry's shoulder and said, "Henry, let's not—"

"Will, please," Henry said. Not knowing wouldn't help; it wouldn't change the outcome. "Just tell me."

Will stared hard at the floor. "It's complicated…every case is different."

"I don't want the doctor spiel." The Adams siblings had never been anything but straight-talking. Why break the habit now? "If she were your patient, what would you say the odds were?"

Will let out a sharp breath. "Five percent."

"Mortality?" The word 'death' was on his tongue, but it was too blunt, too finite.

Will shook his head. "Survival."

Henry felt like he had been hit by a truck. Like the driver had stopped, climbed down from the cab and torn out his heart, and then reversed over it. He turned to the wall and bit down on his knuckle. Five percent. Five percent? If he lived this scenario a hundred times, in only five cases would his wife come out of the surgery alive.

"Henry." Conrad spoke as if to a child; a gentle, coaxing tone. "You should know that Stevie was there. I don't know how much she saw."

The kids. Their children. How could they not have even crossed his mind? "Where is she now? And Alison and Jason?"

"At the White House, in the bunker," Conrad said. "It was the safest place for them."

"They should be here," Henry said. But a sudden doubt crept over him. He looked to Will, questioning. "Right? They should be here?"

Will nodded. Then he sank back into a chair. He leant forward, his elbows rested against his knees, his hands pressed together as if praying—though neither Will nor Elizabeth ever prayed; they couldn't even keep their eyes shut when Henry said grace. He brought his fingertips to his lips but then must have caught sight of the blood, for he lowered them again.

"I'll have someone collect them." Conrad opened the door, and the sound from outside rushed in. He turned back, and his gaze fell to Will's shirt. "And I'll ask someone to find you something clean to wear."

Henry stayed where he was for a long moment, and then took the seat next to Will. The words ran laps through his mind before finally making it to his tongue. "Did she say anything, before…?"

Will nodded. He glanced sideways to Henry. "She asked for you." His lips tweaked into what could just about pass for a smile, given the circumstances. "Conrad told her that you were coming and she could tell you herself." He paused. "I know what she wanted to say, but maybe if I don't say it, she'll have to live just so she can tell you."

The logic was twisted, but it made perfect sense to Henry in that moment. Perhaps it was a kind of superstition, or maybe even a prayer in a way. Whatever it was, he would cling to it. She couldn't die, because she hadn't told him. Even on the phone earlier, she hadn't told him. I like you okay too. How different that last conversation would have been if they had known.