A deafening blast echoed through the grounds, but neither Walker nor Owen had the luxury of paying it any attention—they were too busy clinging tightly to the handles inside the car. When the Cadillac had struck the shooter, it barely shuddered. But the real heart-stopper came next: the limo charged up the front steps of the White House.
Thankfully, Owen's calculations were spot on. Amid an earsplitting screech of metal against stone, the Cadillac managed to climb the steps. Miraculously, the terrorist's body didn't get flung off—it stayed lodged in the grill, carried all the way up the steps, through the side door, and finally smashed against a wall inside the entrance hall.
Dust billowed everywhere as the limo came to a stop. The doors burst open and Owen and Walker stumbled out, looking as if they'd been thrown in a blender. That crash had rattled them hard. If not for the seat belts, they might've been visiting heaven right now.
"Move! Hurry!"
Owen urged Walker to get going—they didn't have much time. The enemy would definitely be closing in.
Sure enough, just minutes after they left, a rush of footsteps echoed through the corridor. Soaking wet, Staz and his men arrived on the scene, their eyes locking on the now-empty presidential limo. Frustrated, Staz kicked the door and then noticed bloodstains on the passenger side—left behind by Owen's wounded arm.
"They got away… but someone's injured. Looks like Martin's intel was right about the president being hurt…"
Muttering to himself, Staz led his men onward, tracking the blood trail.
…
"Do you even know where your girlfriend might be?" Owen asked as they ran through the halls.
Walker shook his head solemnly. "I only know she works in the Press Office—third floor, west wing."
"Then that's where we'll start."
There were hundreds of staff in the White House. Owen couldn't save them all. He had to focus on the ones who mattered most right now.
…
Elsewhere in the corridor, Gantt and Lucas were standing guard. After killing several hostages earlier, their side had forced the U.S. government into a temporary compromise. The terrorists' demand—$500 million from the Federal Reserve—had been accepted. Their team in New York reported the funds were being loaded onto vehicles for delivery to a location they'd specified.
Five hundred million dollars. That meant a sizable cut for each man. They all knew they'd never set foot in the U.S. again, but with that kind of money, who cared? Lucas couldn't help but fantasize about living the high life in South America.
Gantt, on the other hand, dreamed of running a ranch. He'd buy a huge piece of land, stock it with cattle and sheep, and hire cowboys with helicopters to help manage it.
"Hey, Lucas—what if we bought houses next to each other?" Gantt joked. "That way, I wouldn't need a chopper just to come over for a drink. Haha!"
As they approached a corner, Gantt was still chuckling—until Staz's voice crackled over the radio.
"All units be advised: the president is confirmed in the west wing. He's injured. We don't know how many are with him. Report immediately if spotted."
"Copy that. Gantt out," he replied, but then noticed Lucas hadn't said anything. In fact, he'd come to a dead stop.
"Lucas? What are you doing? Why aren't you responding to Staz?"
Gantt moved around him, only to freeze in shock—Lucas had a knife buried in his forehead.
Suddenly, a dark blur lunged at him from the other end of the hallway. Gantt instinctively raised his arms to shield himself. The attacker had jumped into the air—if Gantt hadn't blocked it, the guy's knee would've shattered his ribs.
But that was all he managed.
In the next second, a fist—shaped into a deadly point—smashed into his throat, crushing his windpipe. Gantt collapsed, gasping in agony. The damage wasn't instantly fatal, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His nerves short-circuited. He knew as a trained soldier: he was done.
And then—snap.
His neck was broken.
So Gantt and his buddy Lucas wouldn't be living next to each other in South America after all. But they had ended up in the same place.
"All clear! Let's go!" Owen called out briskly.
He waved Walker out from his hiding spot. The man caught the pistol Owen tossed his way, and together they sprinted down the hall.
Owen reloaded on the move. He'd run out of ammo during the hostage extraction earlier.
…
"Lucas, come in. Lucas? Respond!"
Hearing no reply, Staz immediately knew something had gone wrong. He and his team rushed to the scene, only to find two bodies.
"Shit…"
Staz slammed his foot against the wall, seething. There was no way the president could've taken out two Delta Force veterans on his own. Someone was helping him. But who the hell was it?
They didn't get far before a strange voice crackled through the White House's PA system—a nasally, croaking voice belting out a familiar tune.
Staz stopped in his tracks, listening closely.
It was a man singing "My Heart Will Go On"… and it was terrible.
…
Outside the broadcast room, Owen winced. He let Walker sing for a few more bars, then figured they'd milked the moment long enough. He rushed over and yanked the mic out of his hands.
"Alright, Walker. That's enough. We need to move."
Walker looked like he wanted to keep going, but Owen dragged him out.
About a minute later, Staz and his men arrived. The audio and equipment made it obvious—this was where the singing had come from. But once again, they were too late.
…
Walker's godawful voice had echoed not only through every corridor of the White House, but also into the ears of the military outside—and straight into millions of American homes via live media broadcasts.
In a luxury villa in Indiana, Wills Walker and his wife Laura sat watching the latest news coverage of the White House crisis. Suddenly, that grating male voice started singing through the TV speakers.
Wills frowned. The voice was terrible, but oddly familiar. Before he could say anything, Laura gasped, "It's George! Oh my God, it's my George!"
Wills froze. He now recognized it too. That awful singing—was their youngest son George.
What the hell was he doing inside the White House—and during this?
…
Elsewhere in a White House banquet room, hostages sat nervously. The sudden burst of singing had thrown them into confusion—even the terrorist guards looked bewildered.
Except for one young woman.
Her eyes lit up. Tears welled up silently.
Jennifer tried her best not to react, but the tears fell anyway. And she was smiling as she cried.
That awful voice… she'd teased him about it countless times before. That was her George.
And she knew, without a doubt—this was his way of telling her:
He was coming for her.
(End of Chapter)
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