Chapter 36
Buckley stood at the podium like a preacher at his pulpit, silver hair gleaming under the stage lights. "My fellow Americans, what you're about to witness is disturbing but necessary for our nation's security."
Shocked faces around the tables set for the luncheon about to be served. Then a wave of interested murmurs.
Mind clearing with each breath now, Griff counted. Twelve cameras. Four exits. Too many guards. The drugs still clouded his thoughts, but each passing minute brought tiny increments of clarity.
In the VIP section, David Pemberton sat forward in his chair, playing the concerned patriot perfectly. His Treasury Department credentials prominently displayed, his expression grave but righteous. The hero who'd discovered the terrorist plot just in time.
"Behind me sit two terrorists." Buckley's voice carried perfectly pitched concern. "They infiltrated the Charleston Summit with the intention of assassinating key government officials."
The crowd murmured. Cameras swiveled toward the stage, zooming in on Griff's battered face, Sarah's defiant posture.
Sarah's eyes swept the crowd and locked onto Pemberton. Her face went carefully blank, but not before Griff caught the flash of betrayal and rage.
Pemberton noticed her looking. He gave her a small, condescending shake of his head, as if disappointed in a wayward child. Then he turned to the official beside him, whispering something that made the man nod gravely.
"This man—" Buckley gestured to Griff, "is Griffin Hawkins. A former hero who lost his way after the tragic death of a teammate, Marcus Sullivan. Grief broke him. Made him vulnerable to manipulation."
Griff's hands clenched against the restraints.
"And this woman—" Buckley turned to Sarah, "—is Sarah Winters, an FBI analyst who we now know to be a foreign intelligence operative.
She posed as a federal employee, used her position to access classified financial data.
She seduced a grieving soldier, turned him into a weapon against his own country. "
Buckley paused for effect. "My financial advisor, David Pemberton, was the first to notice irregularities in Ms. Winters' activities. His diligence may have saved countless lives."
The cameras found Pemberton, who stood briefly, nodding humbly as if accepting a burden rather than praise. Several people applauded.
"In fact," Buckley continued, "Mr. Pemberton will be heading the new financial oversight committee we're establishing after this crisis. Someone of proven loyalty and expertise."
Griff caught Sarah's eye. The tiny head shake she gave him said everything: Pemberton had no idea what was coming. He thought he'd won. He'd underestimated her again.
Excellent.
"Mr. Griffin." Buckley motioned to the guards. "Come. Tell America what you planned."
The guards hauled Griff to his feet. His legs barely held, but they dragged him to the podium, positioned him before the microphone. Buckley's hand landed on his shoulder, fatherly and controlling. “It’s all right, son. Take this chance to get yourself back on the path of righteousness. Go ahead.”
In his earpiece, Ronan's voice: "Stall them, Ghost. A few more seconds. Doc's surprise is imminent."
"Go ahead, son," Buckley encouraged. "Confession is good for the soul. Tell them what you planned."
Griff's head was clearing fast. He swallowed slowly, letting the words come thick and slurred and slow. "I, uh… I planned..."
"Yes?" Buckley leaned in, nodding encouragingly for the cameras.
"I planned... to stop... a murder."
Buckley's fingers dug into his shoulder, painful even through the drugs.
Griff forced more words past numb lips. "You... killed... Tank..."
Guards yanked him backward, but the damage was done. The cameras had caught it.
"The drugs have clearly affected his mind," Buckley said smoothly, returning to the microphone. "This is what foreign manipulation looks like. A broken soldier, used by our enemies."
In the VIP section, Pemberton was nodding along, playing his part perfectly. The righteous official who'd helped stop a terrorist plot. Who'd exposed his ex-girlfriend as a traitor. Who had no idea that every financial transaction he'd designed was about to be displayed for the world to see.
Buckley gestured dramatically to the crowd. "Tomorrow, these terrorists planned to assassinate—"
Buckley stopped mid-word. His hand moved to his stomach.
"Planned to..." He swallowed hard, face paling. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.
In Griff's ear, Doc's amused voice: "As is typical, the senator and his VIP friends ate before the luncheon. Wouldn’t want to get caught on TV chewing, would one?”
“This woman rocks. I mean hard,” Kenji added.
A pause over the link. “Thank you, dead. Syrup of ipecac. Quite a nasty amount. So unfortunate, isn’t it? Surprise in… three, two, one..."
Buckley doubled over, falling to his knees, and vomited with spectacular force. On national TV.
The crowd recoiled. Security rushed forward, unsure whether to help their boss or maintain positions. Other officials were getting sick too—the Secretary of Defense stumbled off stage, hand over his mouth. Three senators rushed for exits.
“Apparently some of Buckley’s colleagues couldn’t resist the pastry tray either,” Doc noted, clearly amused.
Pemberton stood, looking confused but trying to maintain his composure.
He wasn't sick. Clearly, he hadn't been important enough for the pre-conference coffee klatch.
He headed toward the stage, ostensibly to help, but Griff could see him calculating.
The situation was spiraling. Time to position himself as the stable one. The hero in the chaos.
Not gonna happen.
Adrenaline burned off the last of the drug fog. But his body… He had no strength. No speed. His shoulder screamed as he wrenched one arm free from the distracted guard's grip. An elbow to the solar plexus dropped the man.
Twenty feet to Sarah. Might as well be twenty miles with his legs barely working.
He stumbled forward anyway. More guards converged, but some were helping Buckley, others dealing with violently ill VIPs. The scene had devolved into chaos.
Three steps. Five. Ten.
A guard tackled him from the side. They went down hard, Griff's head bouncing off the stage. His vision exploded into stars, but he kept fighting, kept crawling toward her.
The words spilled out without thought, without plan. A prayer ripped from somewhere deep.
"Jesus, please. Not for me. For her."
Another guard piled on, driving him flat.
"Let me reach her. Let me save her this time."
Blood in his mouth, face pressed to the floor.
"I failed Tank. Don't let me fail her."
Through the chaos, he could see Sarah struggling against her restraints, her eyes wide and focused on something above them. But also tracking Pemberton, who was now trying to take charge, shouting orders to confused security.
Every screen in the ballroom flickered. Then went black.
Buckley, between retches, tried to scream: "No!"
Pemberton froze mid-gesture, his face going pale as he realized what was coming.
The cavalry had arrived.
Pemberton was about to discover what happened when you underestimated a woman like Sarah.