The motorcade, tightly guarded by Special Service vehicles, let out a piercing screech of tire friction, accelerating fiercely like an arrow released from a bowstring, rushing through the dangerous crossroads, leaving any possible follow-up shots behind.
Inside the car, the agents' bodies remained tense, blocking Little Bush from the windows like a wall. Only after confirming temporary departure from the danger zone did they slightly relax, but their hands still rested on the gun holsters under their arms.
"Mr. President, are you okay?" The agent's voice carried a barely detectable tension.
It must not go wrong.
Three years!
Several presidents have died in the past three years...
One of them was even shot dead by their boss, which brought a lot of criticism to the Special Service, with many thinking that even a dog would be more useful.
The Special Service is not looking good.
You work, work, the leader dies, and not being disbanded is considered fortunate.
