I hope y'all enjoyed the previous chapter! It felt so rewarding and so thrilling to publish it. Unfortunately, I have been running into issues where the chapter disappears and then reappears, so please let me know if you have trouble viewing it. Thank you for your reviews and comments; they keep me going! Here's the next chapter!
STATE DEPARTMENT – CONFERENCE ROOM – DUSK
The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the long conference table cluttered with files, tablets, and half-empty coffee cups. On the screen, muted news footage played of President Dalton delivering his national address, providing reassurance for the American people. Headlines scrolled across the screen: "President Dalton Vows Justice After Dulles Attack" and "Nation Unites in Wake of Tragedy". In contrast, however, inside the room, the true transparency of the crisis exerted an unimaginable crushing force.
Jay stood stationary at the end of the table closest to the door. His sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. His arms folded across his chest, and his face drawn with exhaustion. Seated next to him was Nadine, her fingers intertwined tightly as she listened intently. Across the table were Daisy, Matt, and Blake.
Jay's body then leaned forward as his hands pressed firmly against the surface, bearing the weight of both exhaustion and persistence.
"POTUS did his job tonight. He gave the country hope. But that was just words. We have to make them believe it. We still have a terrorist group out there, and they've already proven they're willing to hit us at home." He said, his words enveloped in fatigue.
He glanced at the looping footage of emergency responders at Dulles Airport.
Noting her colleague's demeanor, Nadine stepped in. "The Jacob Whitman Society isn't just another extremist group. They're strategic, organized. We need to cut off their communication and funding. Make it impossible for them to regroup."
Daisy spoke up as her pen raced across the page, her handwriting hurried and slanted as she scribbled notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. "We're monitoring social media and fringe sites. Public sentiment is mixed, but there's a growing wave of support for their anti-immigration rhetoric. We need to counter it before it spirals."
The notepad was dog-eared and smudged, its pages curled at the corners and covered in layers of ink; some words bleeding through the thin, worn paper from notes hurriedly scrawled on the other side—the consequence of that terrible day.
After Daisy finished scribbling her notes, Matt cleared his throat, his voice steady as he built on her ideas with his own perspective. "Right now, they're feeding off fear and division. If we don't counter it, they'll only grow stronger. I'll draft statements emphasizing unity and resilience. We can use Elizabeth's recovery as a symbol of strength, but... we need her voice. People trust her."
The room fell silent, a heavy shadow falling at the mention of Elizabeth. Uneasy glances were exchanged, fully aware that Elizabeth's absence was more than just a physical void—it was a missing heartbeat in their message to the nation.
A few agonizing seconds passed before Daisy's voice cut through the insufferable silence. "Matt is right. I'll get to work on messaging. We need to emphasize unity and resilience without downplaying the threat. It's a fine line, but we can't afford to lose the public's trust."
Daisy's statement reignited the energy and began a domino pattern dialogue.
"I'll coordinate with Homeland, the FBI and our international allies. There is a possibility that this isn't just a domestic threat. We need intel on their funding and recruitment networks. If there are any leads, I'll find them." Blake said.
"Good," stated Jay. "We need to be proactive. The minute we're reactive, they win."
He paused, his eyes turning to Nadine, a silent question hanging between them. She nodded discreetly, understanding his unspoken worry.
To assuage any abrupt interrogation of the tacit agreement, Nadine made sure to speak next. "I'll make sure the agencies are aligned. We're not just fighting a terrorist group; we're fighting the ideology behind them. 'You-know-who' would want us to keep moving forward. She'd want us to fight back, even if she's not here to lead it herself."
"She taught us how to handle a crisis. And we're going to prove she taught us well. We owe it to her—and to this country—to see this through." Jay said.
The team nodded, willpower beginning to simmer within the confides of each of them. Matt's fingers tapped against his tablet, his mind already drafting talking points. Daisy flipped open her notepad, her pen poised to capture the messaging strategy. Blake's fingers flew across his keyboard, gathering intel.
Nadine leaned back, watching them. A hint of pride crossed her face before she turned to Jay.
"We'll get it done. For her," she said.
Jay's expression softened, and nodded in agreement.
"The President gave the nation hope tonight. Now, we have to give them results." Jay clapped his hands. "Alright. Let's get to work."
As they dispersed to initiate their tasks, the television continued to replay President Dalton's speech, his words echoing through the room as a reminder of the hope they must turn into action. The work was far from over, but together, they were ready to face it.
WALTER REED MEDICAL CENTER – DUSK
Hospital rooms never get completely dark; there is always some glowing panel behind the bed in case of catastrophe, a runaway strip so that the nurses and doctors can find their way. At the end of the day, the room had a stillness about it. The contrast between the endless activity of the day was profound. Now it was just him an his wife.
She looked so small, Henry thought. I wonder when this optical illusion took place, when neither of us had moved.
Although the shades were drawn, he could still see the angel pallor of her face. Tubes and wires blooming from her body like a fountain; the veins on her neck and exposed chest were a roadmap, highways that do not go anywhere.
Elizabeth was hooked up to one of those patient-managed morphine drips, and her thumb pushed down on the button every now and then, although she's fast asleep.
Henry sat hunched in the stiff hospital chair, his eyes glued to his phone as his thumb moved involuntarily, scrolling through photos and videos of the devastation. Twisted metal, shattered glass, and scorch marks blackening the walls. Emergency responders combing through rubble, faces grim beneath their helmets. In one video, the camera shook as screams echoed, the chaos undeniable even through the screen. His chest tightened and his fingers trembled as he forced himself to look away, to turn off his phone, but the images were already haunting his mind.
A nurse entered the room quietly, her movements practiced and gentle as she checked Elizabeth's vitals and adjusted the IV drip. Henry watched her closely, his eyes moved from Elizabeth's pale face to the monitors beeping steadily beside her.
"She seems more tired than she was earlier... when the kids were here," he said, his voice tight with worry.
The nurse glanced at him, her expression sympathetic as she finished noting Elizabeth's stats.
"It's normal, given what she's endured," she assured him, her voice gentle but honest. "But she's been through a lot. The blast caused multiple injuries." She took a breath, mentally ticking through the list.
"She has three broken ribs, one of which punctured her lung. That's why they had to insert the chest tube. She has a large leg laceration. She also has internal bruising, particularly around her abdomen." Her gaze flickered to the bandages peeking out from under Elizabeth's hospital gown.
"Second-degree burns on her back and shoulders from the explosion's heat. And a concussion from when she was thrown by the blast. The adrenaline wears off, and the pain and exhaustion catch up. Her body's been through a lot—she needs rest to heal." She paused, her gaze softening.
Henry's face went pale, his knees threatened to give out as he sank heavily back into the chair. His eyes ran over Elizabeth's frail form, noticing the bandages he hadn't registered before, the way her chest rose and fell with a slight wheeze.
The nurse laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "The pain is from all of it combined: the ribs... the burns... her body is trying to heal, but it's been through a lot of trauma. We're doing everything we can to manage her pain." She hesitated, her expression kind. "It's a good sign, though. It means she's fighting."
Henry looked back at Elizabeth, his fingers brushing over her hand as he whispered, "Yeah... she always fights."
He was desperately begging and pleading with God for this to work, for somethingto work. His faith has never been irritated by the fact that suffering exists. But being separated from his wife— the lifeline that keeps his own heart beating ,—the stakes were so high! 'If my faith is in vain,' he thought. '…and we don't get reunited in glory . . . this loss is far greater.'
OVAL OFFICE – DUSK
Through the tall windows of the Oval Office, the sun sank slowly beyond the horizon, spilling shades of gold and crimson across the sky. Its fading light bathed the room in a warm, amber glow, casting elongated shadows that danced along the walls. The presidential seal on the plush carpet gleamed softly, its edges kissed by the last rays of daylight. Yet, despite the breathtaking beauty outside, an eerie stillness hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. The morning's terrorist attack cast an invisible shadow over the room, darkening the golden hues with the weight of loss and fear. The vibrant colors of the sunset seemed muted, as if mourning the lives shattered just hours before. As the sun dipped lower, the shadows grew longer, crawling up the walls like haunting reminders of the day's horrors.
The room was dim, the last traces of sunset fading through the windows. President Dalton stood near his desk, his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. His posture was tense. Russel leaned against the corner of the desk. His lips were pressed in a tight line, anger simmering just beneath the surface of his features. Across from them stood a Homeland Security official who had a folder clutched in his hands.
"Do you think they bought it?" Dalton asked, turning way from the window.
The DHS official hesitated, his fingers tightening around the folder. "The public needed hope... needed to see strength. You gave them that. But... persuasive? That's harder to gauge."
Russell scoffed. "Hope's not enough. We need them to feel safe... to trust that we have this under control. And right now... we don't."
Dalton's gaze dropped to the floor. "I could see it in their eyes... the reporters. They weren't convinced. Hell, I'm not sure I convinced myself." His words were slow. It was as if he was navigating through his own mind.
"You did what you had to, sir. We needed to project confidence. But the questions won't stop—especially not with the Secretary of State lying in a hospital bed." Stated the DHS official.
Russell pushed himself off the desk, and began pacing restlessly, walking off the internal, and perhaps external, vibrations he could feel taking over. "We need to show the people we're making progress. Otherwise, tonight's speech was just... words." His hand gestured in outrage and voice laced with disgust.
Dalton looked up; his tone was cold — clipped. "I want to know how this happened. How did the Secretary of State end up at a public airport without adequate security?" His question finally answered why DHS was brought into this meeting.
The Homeland Security official swallowed. "Sir... she did have DHS agents. They were with her... until the blast." He hesitated, the weight of his next words evident. "They... didn't make it. The explosion took them out almost instantly. They never had a chance to react."
The color drained from Dalton's face, his hands tightening on the desk.
Russell stopped pacing, his eyes widening. "All of them?" Russell's voice was hollow.
The official nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir. The team assigned to Secretary McCord... they were killed in the attack. It was coordinated, precise. Whoever did this knew exactly how to hit them."
"And Agent Matt? Where was he?" The president asked.
The official hesitated. It was clear that his discomfort was growing. "That's... still under investigation, sir. We've been unable to confirm his whereabouts. He hasn't checked in since the explosion."
Every muscle in Russell's face seemed to contract, causing his jaw to twitch. "You're telling me the entire detail is dead and her lead agent is missing? How does that even happen?" He took a step closer, his anger distinct. "How did they know her schedule? How did they get close enough to kill DHS agents?"
The official looked up, his eyes filled with regret. "We believe her itinerary was compromised. It's possible they had inside information. We're running a full investigation, but... it was a highly sophisticated attack. They knew exactly where to strike."
Dalton sank into his chair, his shoulders slumping as the weight of the situation bore down on him. He was now beginning to understand what it felt like to be stoned to death. "They targeted her," he whispered, the realization chilling. "They knew she'd be there... they were waiting for her."
Russell's hands curled into fists, fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white. The muscles in his forearms were so tense that, if it weren't for his dress shirt, the veins bulging out beneath from his skin would be visible. "Find Agent Matt. Dead or alive, we need to know what happened to him. And I want answers—."
The Homeland Security official answered semi-confidently. "Yes, sir. We're doing everything we can. I'll keep you updated."
A coldness infiltrated Dalton's voice. "Not good enough. Triple her security. I don't care how many agents it takes. I promised the nation many things... we're going to deliver."
A subtle smile formed on Russell's lips, respect breaking through his usual cynicism. "And we'll keep selling that promise... until we make good on it."
"Let's make sure tonight wasn't just noise," said the president.
The official's grip grew firm on the folder. "Yes, Mr. President."
Dalton turned back to the window, his reflection a shadow against the glass. "Good... because the words won't mean a damn thing... if we don't back them up."
Taking this as a dismissal, the official from DHS bid them goodnight; urgency in his step as he left the room.
Silence settled in his absence, filling the entirety of the room. In that fleeting moment between day and night, the Oval Office felt both grand and haunted, as another day drew to a close, a silent witness to a world forever changed.
STATE DEPARTMENT – CONFERENCE ROOM – NIGHT
The room was quiet now, the echo of voices and hurried strategizing lingering like a ghost. Papers remained scattered across the table, and those coffee cups that were once half-full were now abandoned, the faint hum of monitors was the only sound. Nadine leaned her lower back against the table where the team had gathered only a few hours before. Now they were off, engaging fervently in their endeavors.
This left Nadine alone; the only company being the looping news footage on the screen—images of the bomb site flashing over and over again. The muscles in her back and torso were taut, her arms crossed tightly as if to hold herself together.
She exhaled slowly, her breath trembling just enough that she had to bite her lip to steady herself. Elizabeth's voice reverberated in her head, calm and steady, guiding them through countless crises. But this time, Elizabeth wasn't there to lead. She was in a hospital bed, fighting for her life.
Nadine took a slow, steady breath, broadening her shoulders and her chin lifting as she buried the emotion threatening to surface, her face returning to its familiar mask of calm determination.
With precision, she grabbed her coat off the back of her chair. Her fingers fumbled for only a second before she regained her composure and slipped the coat on.
She headed for the door, her heels echoing through the empty room.
The pace at which Nadine walked down the hallway was filled with purpose; each step deepening the conviction within the very confines of her being. Other members of staff watched her pass, whispers trailing behind her, concerned expressions painted on their faces. She ignored them, her focus singular. She would not allow herself feel the true fear that threatened to overcome her, not yet.
Not until she saw the site herself.
She pushed through the glass doors, the cold D.C. night air hitting her face as she stepped outside.
The harsh and unforgiving wind nipped at her skin, She turned her back against it, her eyes fixed on the waiting car. The driver nodded as she approached, opening the back door. She slid in without a word, her mind already at the bomb site before the engine even starts.
As the car pulled away, her reflection in the window stared back at her—composed, controlled, but with eyes that conveyed something entirely different. She's going to see it for herself. And she's going to find the people who did this.
The car sped through the dark streets, the city lights flashing by as she prepared herself for what she's about to face. The ruins loomed ahead, and smoke could still be seen curling into the night sky.
Nadine stepped out of the car. She came for answers. And she wouldn't leave without them.
MCCORD RESIDENCE – NIGHT
The house stood quiet and still beneath the pale moonlight, its familiar warmth shadowed by an unspoken worry. Inside, the silence was heavy, the rooms empty and still, missing the laughter and late-night conversations that usually filled the space. Scattered textbooks and a forgotten bowl of popcorn sat untouched in the living room. In the kitchen, untouched dinner plates sat on the counter, remnants of a meal no one felt like eating. The walls, once echoing with laughter and lively debates, felt heavy with absence. Henry's presence was missing, his steady voice and reassuring hugs replaced by a silence that seemed to stretch through every corner. The McCord children felt the absence of their mother that night in a way they hadn't before; it wasn't the quiet of her being away on business, but something much more profound. They missed the little things—her morning routine of humming in the kitchen, the way she'd give them a quick but reassuring hug before leaving, or how her voice could always be heard from anywhere in the house, whether it was offering advice or simply asking about their day. It wasn't just her presence—they missed the sense of security she brought, the knowing that no matter what, she'd always be there to make things right. Above all, they missed her unmistakable laughter—the sound of it ringing through the house, filling the spaces between conversations, reminding them everything would be okay. Even the family photos on the many bookshelves, smiling faces frozen in happier times, felt like distant memories. The house felt hollow, as if it too was waiting, holding its breath along with them.
Jason sat on the couch, a video game controller limp in his hands. His eyes were glued to the screen, but he wasn't really playing— instead the character stood idle, waiting for a command that doesn't come. His face was expressionless — blank, almost defiant, but his fingers trembled slightly around the controller.
Allison paced near the window, phone clutched tightly in her hand. She continually checked it for messages, even though it hadn't buzzed. Her eyes gave clear indication that she had been crying for hours and that they yearned for sleep.
Stevie stood at the kitchen counter, staring blankly at a mug of coffee that's long gone cold. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she was wearing one of Henry's old sweaters, wrapped around herself like armor. Her phone sat face down on the counter, the screen lighting up occasionally with notifications, which, unlike Allison, she ignores.
Allison turned to look at Stevie. "Why haven't we heard anything yet? Dad said he'd call as soon as there was news."
Stevie spoke softly, her voice barely above a whisper, each word delicate and gentle, as if afraid to disturb the hope she was holding on so tightly to. "You know how hospitals are. It takes time."
Allison's body stiffened, and held her lower lip between her teeth, fighting back tears. She didn't answer her older sister, rather stared out the window at the barren street, her fingers trembling around her phone.
Without removing his gaze from the screen, Jason filled the silence. "She'll be fine. It's not like this is the first time things have blown up around her," he said flatly, almost dismissively. His body told a different story, however, and he was gripping the controller so hard white caps formed on top of his knuckles.
Allison spun around, glaring at him.
"How can you be so... so... heartless?" She exclaimed. "Do you even care?"
Jason didn't move, and feigned composure.
Through his facade, his voice came out low and harsh, albeit there was an underlying tremor intertwined. "Yeah, well, crying about it isn't gonna fix anything."
He shifted uncomfortably, fingers pressing buttons aggressively. The video game character moves erratically as if reflecting his agitation.
Stevie watched her younger brother carefully, her eyes softening, as she chose her next words with sincerity.
"Jase…," She began gently. "…it's okay to be scared."
He scoffed, rolling his eyes before speaking up defensively. "I'm not scared. I just... I just think it's stupid to sit around here acting like everything's falling apart. She's in a hospital, not a…"
His voice caught, and he looked away quickly, blinking hard to prevent his brewing tears from exposing themselves.
Allison's anger melted into worry. She walked over to the couch and sat beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"I hated leaving her there too. I can't stop thinking about it... how she looked so... helpless." She said to Jason, gently.
Jason's bluff began to diminish and his grip on the controller faltered. He inhaled an unsteady breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. "She never looked like that before... not even when…"
He stopped himself, desperately choking back his tears.
Jason shrugged off Allison's hand, hunching over to hide his face.
"I'm fine. Just... drop it." He falsely reassured Allison. It was too hard to speak around the enormous pressure in his throat; after all, truth expands until it can choke you.
Stevie and Allison could both see through his act, but they know pushing him wouldn't help.
Instead of forcing truths and emotions out of him, Stevie replied, "We're here when you're ready, okay?"
Jason didn't answer, his focus was back to the screen. He resumed pressing buttons, the character moving with chaotic and reckless abandon. But his hands were shaking.
Allison looked over at Stevie and then glanced at her phone on the counter.
"Have you heard from Mr. Jackson if you're going into work tomorrow?" She asked.
With a bitter laugh, Stevie answered, "He did call. More like demanded I stay home. Said I'd be 'a liability' if I showed up tomorrow."
She crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I should be there tomorrow... helping... doing something. Instead, I'll just be... useless."
"You're not useless," Allison stated tenderly. "He just... he knows you're worried about Mom. He's... he's trying to help, in his own messed up Russell Jackson way."
Stevie scoffed, "Yeah, well, he could've been a little less... him about it."
She wiped a tear from her cheek, quickly, before the others could see. But Jason noticed, his fingers hesitating on the controller. He felt his defenses rising again.
"Yeah, well, sitting around here isn't helping anyone either." Jason said, his voice anemic.
Stevie looked at him, ready to go to battle, but she took notice to the constraint seizing his upper body and the manner in which he was gripping the controller like it was the only thing holding him together.
The sight of her brother, filled with now undeniable affliction, caused her expression to crumble.
"I don't know what to do, Jase. I don't... I don't know how to help her. Or you. Or... anyone." Her voice broke.
He swallowed hard, refusing to look at her.
"Yeah. Me neither." His words sounded strained as if they were refusing to come out.
They fell into a heavy silence, the weight of helplessness settling over them. Stevie sank onto the couch next to Jason, her head in her hands. Allison sat on her other side, leaning into her shoulder for comfort.
There are times in life when there can be two truths: you can feel afraid, and yet still feel hopeful. You can feel trusting and yet still feel worried. This is one of those times.
The three of them sat together, united in their fear, their anger, their hope.
But none of them knew how to make any of it better.
DULLES AIRPORT – BOMBING SITE – NIGHT
The scene was haunting, shrouded in smoke and shadows. Flashing red and blue lights illuminated the devastation—shattered glass, scorched metal, and scattered debris. Yellow police tape flutters in the cold night air, cordoning off the site. FBI agents comb through the wreckage, flashlights piercing through the dust as they searched for clues.
Nadine stood just beyond the barrier, her coat pulled tightly around her against the bitter wind. All the color drained from her face as she took in the destruction. The acrid scent of smoke stung her eyes, but she wouldn't allow herself to blink too long or look away. The muscles in her cheeks and jaw clenched so tightly that they flickered beneath her skin, tension radiating from every line of her face. The flashes of news footage played over and over like an old videotape that had been damaged after years of use. Usually, she was a master at concealing her emotions, at maintaining an unshakable front. But now, the cracks were starting to show.
An FBI agent approached, a tablet in his gloved hands. The exhaustion in his face was unmistakable.
"Ma'am, this area isn't safe. We're still assessing structural integrity."
"I'm not here for a safety report." Her voice unwavering. "I'm here for answers."
She stepped closer, her gaze was steadfast. "You have a name. Jacob Whitman Society. I want to know everything you have on them. Now."
The agent hesitated, his eyes browsing the chaotic scene behind him. Another explosion feels possible, the air still heavy with smoke and fear.
The agent finally responded to Nadine's demand with an exaggerated sigh. "We're working on it. But these guys are careful. No digital footprint, no chatter before the attack. It's like they appeared out of thin air."
At this point, the tension in Nadine's facial structure was unpliable, and she narrowed her gaze at him, taking delicate steps closer, testing the waters, seeing how far she could go. In a subdued but fierce voice, she retaliated, "No one appears out of thin air. Someone funded them. Someone built those bombs. Someone gave the order. Find them."
She took a moment to glance over his shoulder at the scene—first responders were sifting through the rubble, charred remnants of what once was a bustling airport terminal.
She thought, after spending many years in public service, that she would eventually become desensitized to atrocities. Or perhaps that's the mentality she held close in order to protect herself from, to extinguish, the horrors that humankind were capable of deep down.
Pulling herself back to reality, Nadine continued. "They wanted to send a message. Well, so do we. I want names. I want leads. And I want them before they strike again."
The agent seemed to have stood more upright, her resolve igniting his own. "Understood, ma'am," he said. "We'll keep you updated."
Despite the initial hostility beginning to wain between them, Nadine held her ground. "You'd better. Because if they get away with this, they'll only get bolder. And more people will die."
She turned on her heel, ambition filling each stride, shoulders squared against the cold wind. Her eyes lingered on the wreckage one last time, a silent promise burning in her light brown eyes.
Under her breath, she muttered, "We'll find you. And you'll pay for this."
As she strode into the night, the news cameras remained focused on the smoking ruins, a stark reminder of the cost of failure.
WHITE HOUSE – NIGHT
President Dalton stood alone in the garden just outside the Oval Office, his body felt like lead as he gazed up at the night sky, the stars scattered above him in cold, distant brilliance. Night had fallen over Washington D.C. The crisp air whispered through the branches, rustling the leaves as if echoing the turmoil within him. He replayed the day's events in his mind, over and over again. The images tortured him, replaying relentlessly, each detail sharper than the last. It was supposed to be a day of celebration, but in an instant, everything changed. His chest tightened as guilt and helplessness mingled, a knot forming in his throat. He was the President, the leader of a nation, but tonight, beneath the vast expanse of the universe, he felt powerless. He knew there would be no rest for him tonight. How could he sleep when his choices had led to this? If he saw shooting star, would any wish be able to take away the deep wounds of the day? And the days to follow? He thought about this deeply. After all, shooting stars are not stars at all. They're just rocks that enter the atmosphere and catch fire under friction. What people wish on when they see one, is only a trail of debris. 'Is it like this every night, while we're asleep?' He thought. It is a remarkable question –' Do all the wonderful things happen when we are not aware of them?' Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas – a whole grammar made of light, for words too hard to speak. He closed his eyes, but the visions didn't fade. Sleep felt like a luxury he didn't deserve.