Page 35 of Secret Service

There’s nothing I can say to that, nothing that’s fit for public or my career.

Outside these walls, the West Wing is waking up. It’s shift change. People are arriving for their workday. Meetings are beginning.

The post-travel debrief is straightforward. I recount the trip and the SNAFUs that occurred—other than the pull-ups on Air Force One, none—and he gives his input on what worked and didn’t work for him. Sometimes these meetings turn into bitch sessions, where the president rails at the cage the Secret Service builds around him. In the past, I’ve nodded, yes-sirred, and changed not a single thing about our operations or procedures.

Brennan has no complaints. “Please express my gratitude to your team for a job well done.”

“Yes, sir.”

We rise together, and it’s the first time our gazes drag away from each other. Suddenly, he can’t look at me, and he busies himself with buttoning his jacket and clearing his throat as he escorts me to the Oval Office door. Everything is backward as he pulls the door open for me. “Thank you, again.”

“My pleasure, Mr. President.”

I’m across the hall and into the Roosevelt Room before the door to the Oval shuts behind me, before my agent on post can call my name. The Roosevelt Room is empty until nine a.m., when the deputies from the cabinet are meeting. I know this place inside and out, know every room, every schedule, every agent on duty.

I know how to take down an armed attacker within a three-foot kill zone, how to pull an unconscious man from a sinking car and swim him to shore. I can sling lead downrange into perfect bull’s-eyes every time I pick up a weapon.

But I don’t know what the hell is going on now.

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