It was quite a shock when Sara actually got around to reading the notebook Michael had left with her. The dramatic way in which he'd brought it, the rendezvous itself, concentrated her full attention for a long while, so it was only around three in the morning, after more silent pacing and inner deliberations, and a long shower (ice-cold), that Sara actually sat down at her office and opened the notebook, whose black covers hinted gaudily at the black mysteries it concealed.

"All right, Michael," she sighed. "Let's see what you have for me."

What followed was an intense forty-eight hours during which Sara hardly got out of the office. It became the subject of comical allusions among her staff. She was having food and beverages brought in but hardly came out herself, even for bathroom breaks or rest. One minor appointment was rescheduled. Apart from that, Sara had had little official plans for the next few days.

Kellerman had been away in China trying to negotiate an environment-friendly agreement when Sara's reading of Michael's black notebook occurred. Fortunate enough, as she saw it – not only because she wouldn't have wanted to share the information she drank in hour after hour, even with her closest advisors, but especially because many of those advisors' names featured in the notebook. Including Kellerman's.

Sara didn't know how Michael had gathered all of that information about the Beltway – but given his brother's infamous relations, because of the recording of Bagwell's private phone conversations which he had provided them with, she could make an educated guess.

"Jesus, Michael."

Anger was notable among the variegated rush of emotions Sara experienced in those busy forty-eight hours, but it wasn't the most prominent.

Surprise made the list as well, though not the top. If reading about Theodore Bagwell's long history of alliances with the Italian mob represented by John Abruzzi didn't exactly get Sara raising an eyebrow, the records of Alex Mahone's affiliation with the same organization did.

In fact, the sheer amount of politicians, whether Republican or Democrat, who were orbiting powerless in the sphere of control of mafias or multi-billionaire corporations, was staggering enough that Sara could do nothing but digest it in silence for a while.

Of course, not all alliances were hidden, and Sara had been aware of some of them before – but the black book contained certain pressure points that would be interesting, maybe even necessary, to push, say in the case of a gridlock Congress.

Sara had Kellerman stop by her office first thing, after his return from Asia.

Maybe because of the long trip, or because it was well past midnight when he was shown into her office, his mood was one of moderate formality only.

Over the years, Sara had known Kellerman as a friend as well as an associate, but since the presidency, the former had been pushed back to the fringes.

"Well, I got good news for you."

He dropped his black leather briefcase on the floor before taking a seat on the couch – the sound it made was too light for it to have contained a laptop. Kellerman was a strictly smartphone guy, anyway, preferred the handier tools that could always fit in a coat pocket.

"China's agreed to the deal. Not a revolutionary deal, but more than I ever expected we'd get out of them, frankly. Ten times better than Copenhagen. More broadly, the whole tour of raising awareness about the environment went well, though I met more than enough corporation CEOs to last me a lifetime. You were right, you know – what you said before I left. It's not civilians that need a wakeup call. The masses around the world are well-awake. The handful at the top, though – well, give them a choice between climate chance and the apocalypse in fifty years, and immediate profit, and all of a sudden they don't seem that optimistic about their longevity."

"I didn't ask you here for a report, Paul."

Cautiousness slid like a snake into his blue eyes.

"How can I be of service to you?"

Clean-cut practicality in his tone – no mock obsequiousness. Sara could tell he hated himself for letting his guard down.

Sara got up from her chair. Maybe this wasn't such a smart move. Maybe she ought to have sat there at her desk, all the while, distant and presidential.

But she'd be damned if Paul's betrayal felt strictly professional.

"You went behind my back," she said.

"Excuse me?" Not with the shame of one caught red-handed but anger, that she would actually accuse him of disloyalty.

His eyes like smoldering coals. She wondered that smoke wasn't actually pouring out of his nostrils.

But a smooth surface, of course. Clean and cold.

"Who told you that? Was it Gretchen Morgan filled your head with bullshit like this? Cause she's been out to get me since we first spoke."

"I don't want to hear about your petty feuds. Morgan's got nothing to do with it."

Kellerman got up as well. If the mood had been anything but dead serious, Sara might have felt amused at it – that he would need to face her from an equal footing when under attack, when he usually embraced the rank of service so well. Their footing was not quite equal. Sara was tall, taller yet on her three-inch heels, but Paul was at least six foot two.

When there's conflict in the air, that's really all it comes down to.

Though there might be allies, though there might even be friends, it is a jungle up here. Never forget it. And in a jungle, among animals, there's no notion of sacrifice or loyalty.

"You cut a deal with the NRA."

Sara wasn't tempted to toy with the suspense that burned between them. It was hanging red and thick in the air, like poisoned gas, and she would sooner put her head in right away than wait for it to explode.

A vague relief swept Kellerman's face. "Jesus, Sara. Is that all?"

"During the campaign. I told you I wanted none of their courtship. That we were to get all our funding from grassroot donors, that we'd come out of it clean from owning any of these big companies anything. Especially the NRA."

"It wasn't about taking their money, Sara. You misunderstand. I don't know how you landed on this – but you're wrong." He shook his head. "The deal wasn't about getting help from the NRA, it was about not getting machine-gunned from the get-go. They've got the resources to crush most campaigns before they've had a real chance, you know. It's a matter of formality, nothing more. I met one of their representatives, had dinner, and told them there'd be no serious legislation during your term about gun-control." He shrugged. "Pure statistical logic, Sara. There's been a bill less than ten years ago and it got crushed by Congress. We all know why. Because the NRA owns people."

"And you thought you'd tell them they owned me, and I wouldn't have a problem with it?"

"No, Sara, of course not."

"But it's the message you're sending."

"Look, there certain rules in Washington that won't be moved, no matter what comes against them. You can be the cleverest, strongest tiger in the wide-world – and you're a real tiger, I mean that as a compliment – there's things you can't measure against. They're too strong, Sara. Anyway, it's out of your hands to pass a real reform about this."

"It wasn't your call to make."

Kellerman tilted his head, ever so slightly.

If he was a boxer, Sara could tell he'd be the kind who took the hits without flinching, the sort of player who blinks back the blood beading down his lashes like it were just a noisome fly to be brushed away.

"All right," he nodded. Ever resourceful under pressure. "My mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake. You knew my position on this. You knew I would have sooner lost this office than obtained it by making any sort of deals with people like this."

"Hey, you got there all on your own –"

"It was a betrayal."

Though both of them looked calm, there was a laden heaviness to their silence. They had long learned to wear masks above whatever reprehensible emotion raged below the surface.

It had been a very long time since they had spoken like this, spoken of anything but reports and interview schedules – for a matter of fact, since they had stood face to face this closely.

"I know you think you know me," she said. "I know my victory meant a lot to you. I even get it might feel like your own, after you put so much of yourself into this. But when you went to these people, during the campaign, when you made a pledge on my behalf – you were looking after your best interests, not mine. Not this country's. I can't have you do that, you understand."

"Sara –"

"I want your letter of resignation on my desk by the end of the week."

The ruthlessness in her own words sounded foreign to her. Like hearing an actress speak, wearing her body, the way it sometimes felt when she was brought to meet with leaders whose record on human rights made her blood curdle.

There were things she knew had to be said, had to be done.

But it felt impossible to think she was the sole captain of that ship at the moment.

"I'm not kicking you out, Paul. There'll be another job for you in my cabinet. But as Secretary of State, you're representing me abroad to dozens of national leaders, and I need to trust completely that they're getting the right picture."

The look on his face, somehow, was red, though his face itself was white as a sheet of paper. Quelling the thunder in his blue eyes – he couldn't forgive himself for looking at her like this, couldn't allow himself to lose his temper now, alone in a room with his president. But neither could he believe the words that she'd just spoken.

"That's what it's about, not all, but most of it. Trust. You're my friend," she said, founding no room for lies, "and I know you love me. But when we're in that office, Paul, I'm not myself – I'm the representative of this country. And I need to be sure it's getting what it deserves, what I promised I would give. It has to be my priority."

The antique clock on the wall ticked away the seconds as he watched her in silence.

It flashed through her mind that his reaction might be completely unpredictable – he could storm out of here like a witch in fury, make a scene, he could even throttle her, she imagined.

But deep down, there was never any doubt in Sara's mind that he would do the only logical thing. That he would oblige her. As he always did.

"I need to write you a proper report about my last trip. I'll add my letter of resignation along. You'll have it tomorrow morning."

Sara gave a curt nod.

"May I ask you one question?" He said, but didn't wait for her to acquiesce before he asked, benignly – innocence in its finest form. "Who told on me?"

A rock-like lump sank down Sara's throat.

"Honestly," he chuckled, and because he was almost his regular self again, Sara was all the more cautious. "I'm just plain curious. It was one dinner, almost two years ago. You can imagine I didn't go bragging about it. So I'd just like to know."

"I can't answer that, Paul."

He cocked his head to the side once more. She'd always found the habit snake-like in appearance. "Do we have to be this formal, Sara? You know it's not my style to grab a gun and settle my scores the old-fashioned way. I never was one to enjoy playing cowboys and Indians."

Yet she didn't have the slightest doubt he would have been the one playing the cowboy rather than the Indian.

"Yes, I'm afraid," she answered, "on this occasion, we're going to have to be this formal."

The smile he gave her still bore the traces of their humiliating exchange, but it was all the wider for its wounds.

"Naturally."

"We'll talk later this week, about finding a new position for you in the administration."

A wordless nod for approval.

She could feel the hate raging in him, pulsing in the flexed fists of his wide hands, but knew she wasn't the target –

She still had his devotion, as she had since they'd met.

But someone had to pay for this. Someone.

Sara took a couple of minutes to reason with herself, after she'd shown Paul out. Let him be as angry as he wished. It wasn't as if he could actually find out Michael was behind this.

Paul had never heard the name Michael Scofield in his life, and if he were to hear it now, it would mean nothing to him.

Sara sat at her desk, grabbed the telephone and asked for fresh coffee to be delivered along with some sandwiches. Back in her young adult years, there had been moments when she'd gotten so caught up with work, she'd allowed herself to grow faint with hunger, but there were different standards for a president.

Then, she picked up the black notebook, all innocuous-looking tucked in her drawer, and she got back to work.

It was several later, at the beginning of the new year, that Sara gave that historic speech following the school shooting in Joliet, Illinois.

Her reaction was strong, not only because it had happened in her home state.

Honestly, the shooting was only what made the scale tip, what morphed Sara's deep-rooted convictions into a fire hungry for justice and change.

That it gave her an occasion to let the NRA know she wasn't hooked on one of their puppet strings was just additional motivation.

She was in the limo with Gretchen Morgan when she found out, squeezing in a meeting just before she was scheduled to fly to Kentucky to inaugurate a renewable energy plant.

The two women were talking about domestic security measures when the call got through. The news was fresh as a newborn babe yet. The numbers that would feature in every talk show and news outlet on the next day, seventeen dead, twenty-five wounded, didn't yet exist, and Sara felt, ridiculously, that she could still have an impact, reshape a tragic event into a bad scare.

"What is it?" Gretchen asked.

"Gunshots in a school in Joliet."

Gretchen's neatly waxed brows arched into thin triangles. "Anyone dead?"

"We don't know yet."

An awkward pause, while the woman visibly waited to see if the event had definitely ended their makeshift interview.

Sara's own mind was fusing, going far beyond the situation in Illinois – she was thinking not only of this school shooting, but of the 366 mass shootings there had been in the country in the past year. She was thinking of what it was going to take before anyone seriously started challenging gun violence – and who might actually have a chance to do it, if not the president?

Of course, she was thinking about that cozy dinner between an NRA representative and Paul Kellerman, and it was burning holes in the back of her brain.

"We've made it to the runway." Gretchen noted, after a moment.

Indeed, the limo had stopped moving, but Sara had not been ready to make a decision about what to do next.

"Gretchen," she said, "we'll finish our talk when I get back."

"From Kentucky?"

"From Illinois." She turned to her assistant, always with her in the car. "Cancel my first trip with my most sincere apologies. And tell our pilot we're going to Joliet."

And it was in Joliet, on that very night, that Sara performed the speech which gave Michael enough reasons to worry that he decided to move to Washington DC.

Sara herself did not feel afraid, as she faced the crowd and the cameras, not even as she strayed from the words her speech-writer had carefully laid out for her.

It didn't matter that her advisors would go insane over this, that Kellerman's brain might actually blow up from the pressure, that the NRA would stop at nothing to end her for this.

It was time someone in this country became brave enough to address the problem.

Thousands of innocent lives were at stake, as well as the integrity of this government and her own cabinet.

Sara might get crushed in the process, she might not stand a chance at reelection. But she would not be a coward and look the other way.

End Notes: I know it's been a long time since I updated… Life has been crazy lately. In France, there's a competitive exam called the 'agrégation' and let me tell you it's a pain to be a contester ;). Hope you enjoyed this chapter. The numbers concerning the mass shootings are valid and correspond to the year 2019. Please share your thoughts in the comment section as always.