7.
A team of Federal agents swarmed an apartment that was the listed address of
one Michelle Wilson. Getting no answer after repeated calls at her door, Agent
Seitz had the landlord open the door. Charging inside, the rooms were quickly
searched for occupants. All were found to be empty.
"She's not here," Agent Flint said dejectedly to his partner, with more than a
hint of added irritation in his voice as he re-holstered his weapon.
"That's what worries me," his partner replied. "We still haven't been able to
reach Jack Collins on his cell phone, and the Britland's butler maintains they
have not arrived home yet. Something's clearly wrong here."
"They left the field office two hours ago," Seitz snapped. "They should have
been home by now."
"Agent Seitz; Agent Flint!" called a voice from one of the rooms.
Both agents entered the room where another agent was staring at a room filled
with newspaper and magazine clippings pinned to the walls.
"What is this?" Agent Flint growled under his breath.
The clippings all had one thing in common: Henry Parker Britland IV. The pieces
of paper ranged in age from the time of Henry's second term to present-day.
From a desk, Agent Seitz withdrew several thick folders, where photocopied
pages held articles and pictures from the time of Henry's first presidential
term to present-day. Many of them were from out-of-state publications.
Upon closer inspection of all the newspaper and glossy magazine pictures of
Henry, the faces of two particular individuals when appearing with Henry were
angrily scratched out. Sometimes they were cut out of the image entirely, or
blotted out with a black marker. The two individuals, the agents guessed, were
member of Congress Sandra 'Sunday' O'Brien Britland, and President Desmond
Ogilvey.
***
Jack Collins eyed Derek Mendel knowingly as the partition between them and the
backseat slowly crept up. Whenever that happened, they all knew serious
discussions would be taking place between the former President and his member
of Congress wife.
Collins
felt very uneasy for Henry and Sunday. He had learned very early to take his
job as head of security for the former head of state very seriously. Some,
perhaps, would have considered it a lesser job without much glory or
importance. He also knew that in about four years, Henry and Sunday would no
longer be protected by the Secret Service, for five years ago it had been
legislated that protection only be provided ten years after a President leaves
office – legislation Sunday herself had been a part of as a member of Congress.
But until then, Collins swore, he'd do everything in his power to make sure
nothing happened to either of them.
As he drove, he recalled those unsettling twenty-four hours that occurred near
the start of his position protecting Henry and Sunday - the twenty-four hours
where four of his agents were left incapacitated but luckily not seriously
harmed in their cars while Sunday was abducted. Collins had had an awful,
sinking feeling that he had somehow failed, and that the situation would not
resolve itself on a positive note. He had never admitted it to Henry, but when
they first received word that Sunday had been kidnapped, he honestly thought
she would not be found alive, if she was found at all. And it would be all his
fault. True, he wasn't even in either the car Sunday had been in or the
follow-up car, but somehow, as the Agent in charge, he knew he would carry the
guilt.
Collins, out of habit, kept checking his rear-view mirror as he continued to
head towards Drumdoe, and he knew Mendel was constantly checking his
passenger-side mirror as well. The follow-up vehicle with agents Jerome Ashton
and Chris Harrington were never more than a few car-lengths behind.
I want this to be over now, Collins thought to himself, as he approached the
turn-off into the wooded area on a private road that lead through to the
Britland's extensive property. The car's headlights cut neat beams as he made
the turn along the road, and brightened the trees they passed along the way.
From between the trees on the right side of the road suddenly sprang a figure,
desperately waving its arms, and throwing itself directly in the path of the
car. Jack cursed and slammed both feet onto the brake pedal. The car came to a
stop a mere inch from the person Collins could now make out as a woman. Before
he could catch his breath from having the seatbelt constrict across his chest,
the woman was at his window, a gun drawn, pointing at his head…
