Traitor

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The sound of the gunshot reverberated through her entire body. Her sole purpose in life was to ensure that wouldn’t happen. She crashed through the door and was met by the sight of her colleague stemming blood from a chest wound. Unfortunately it wasn’t his own.

“Shots fired, POTUS is down, I repeat POTUS is down,” she said calmly into her mic. Years of training had taken over.

She swept the Yellow Oval Room as more agents came crashing through the door. Trauma kits in hand, they rushed to the President’s aid.

“Bill?!” she shouted, looking at her colleague, pressing his hand into the President’s wound. The room was clear, except for the President and Bill Jameson, the head of the President’s Secret Service protection team. A National Intelligence Cross lay on the floor next to the President; its recipient was nowhere to be seen. Frankie began to panic. Her training had not covered the loss of a loved one.

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