Wills Walker slowly put the phone down, his expression heavy with helplessness. Across from him, his wife Laura looked at him with hope in her eyes—but he could only shake his head.
He was retired now. No longer Indiana's top military commander. Despite making several calls to former colleagues and contacts, all he got in return were polite refusals, each cloaked in the phrase "nothing we can do."
And he understood why.
After all, this was the White House under terrorist siege—the seat of American power. Not even a state-level military commander, current or former, could influence a response to that. Even if he could somehow mobilize a force, they wouldn't be able to get within miles of Washington.
But none of that mattered to him.
He was just a father, worried sick about his son's safety. All he and Laura could do now was stay glued to the TV. They clung to a fragile hope—either to catch some glimpse of George on the news, or, paradoxically, not see anything at all. Because sometimes, no news really was the best news.
Laura was anxious to the point of desperation, saying she wished she could grow wings and fly to Washington herself. But Wills knew better. Indiana to D.C. spanned half the country. A crisis like this wouldn't last more than 24 hours. Even if they took a military plane, they'd be too late.
…
Owen, meanwhile, was seriously regretting letting George Walker sing that god-awful song earlier. If he could turn back time, he'd have stuffed a sock in the man's mouth.
He didn't know whether Jennifer had heard it—but the nearby terrorists definitely had.
They were now swarming the area, closing in from all directions. Staz's men had narrowed down the escapees' location and were blocking every passageway in and out. More than once, Owen and Walker barely escaped being caught.
In one corridor, Owen quickly dispatched a sudden group of enemies with a few clean shots. At this range, in bullet-time, no one was faster. But the gunfire gave away their position. They had to move again—fast.
Minutes later, Staz arrived with his team, finding yet more of his men lying dead. Fury boiled in his chest—how many times had this happened now? Less than two minutes had passed between the gunshots and their arrival, and yet, the president and his mysterious protector had already vanished.
"Everyone listen up—the guy protecting the president is highly skilled. He's one of us," Staz said into his radio. "All search teams, report your progress."
"Boss, west side fifth floor—clear, no signs."
"Fourth floor, clear."
"Ground floor, clear."
"Third floor, clear."
That left only one level unsearched: the second floor—where Staz currently was.
"They must be here. Everyone, converge on the second floor."
Owen heard everything over the radio—and his heart sank. Footsteps echoed both ahead and behind. He had no choice. He yanked Walker into a nearby room and quietly shut the door. Moments later, footsteps passed just outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of doors being opened one by one.
Inside the room, Owen shot Walker a glance. Walker gave him an awkward, apologetic smile.
Owen rolled his eyes—seriously, the bad luck only multiplied when these two were together.
The search outside was methodical and quick. They could hear boots hitting the floor and men speaking softly as they moved room by room. Their room was next.
Owen scanned the room desperately. Then—his eyes lit up.
…
Inside a narrow chimney duct, both men held their breath. They remained perfectly still as boots thudded into the room below, followed by the sounds of someone poking around. Then, the team moved on.
Only after the footsteps faded into the distance did Owen and Walker dare to relax.
That had been way too close. But by sheer dumb luck, they'd managed to hide in time. Owen had noticed the old fireplace, and sure enough, the duct above it was just wide enough to squeeze into.
Walker started moving to climb out, but Owen stopped him with a hand. He pointed to his ear.
Walker held his breath and stilled. After a few seconds, he heard it—faint voices.
Owen pointed upward, then began to climb quietly. Walker followed.
They climbed roughly the height of one floor, twisting through narrow bends in the duct. The voices grew louder. There were people talking—softly, with occasional sobbing.
Finally, they reached a flat section just above the furnace room. Smoke used to curve through here before entering the main flue. From this perch, they could hear everything clearly.
The voices weren't loud, but Owen could make out what was being said.
They were all White House staff—men and women. Judging by the sound, about twenty people were in the room. At least one terrorist had to be guarding them; the women spoke in hushed tones, clearly afraid.
"He'll come for me. I know he will…"
"Honey, don't be scared. We'll be fine. You're just in shock…"
"No. I'm not. I know his voice. That was him…"
From their hiding place in the chimney, the women's words carried perfectly. Owen glanced at Walker—only to see the man nearly vibrating with emotion. Even under a layer of soot and ash, his bright eyes and wide grin gave him away.
Walker mouthed something silently. Owen studied his lips for a second.
"Jennifer."
Owen blinked. What were the odds? Out of all the places they could have gone, they'd stumbled upon Jennifer's hiding spot first.
He gestured for Walker to be absolutely sure. If they were wrong, they might expose themselves—and end up dead. But Walker nodded with complete conviction. Just as Jennifer wouldn't mistake his voice, he'd never mistake hers.
Then, a female voice came through clearly:
"Alright, Jennifer, let's move over there. That Middle Eastern guy keeps staring at you—better be careful."
Owen panicked slightly. Were they about to move her?
He decided to take the risk.
"Jennifer," he whispered. "I was sent by Walker to rescue you. Keep doing exactly what you were doing. Don't let them notice. If you can hear me, cough once."
The words were so soft even Owen himself doubted she'd hear.
They both waited, hearts pounding.
Then—a single cough.
Both men grinned in the darkness, white teeth shining through ash-covered faces.
Walker tried to squeeze farther forward, but Owen pulled him back. This wasn't the time for emotional reunions. They had more work to do—and Owen wasn't about to risk Jennifer's safety on a sudden outburst.
"Good job, Jennifer," Owen said gently. "You're doing great. Remember that hijacking a few years ago? You even got to meet the president. This—this is nothing compared to that. Now, tell me—how many guards are around you right now?"
He kept his voice low, calm, like they'd been trained. Step one: stabilize her emotions. Step two: gather intel.
(End of Chapter)
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