The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [6]
I was still smiling as the first scream tore through the air. The crowd of drivers scattered—running, dropping, panicking in an instant blur of colors.
“God gave power to the prophets . . .” a man with black buzzed hair and a deep voice shouted from the center of the swirl. His tiny chocolate eyes seemed almost too close together, while his bulbous nose and arched thin eyebrows gave him a strange warmth that for some reason reminded me of Danny Kaye. Kneeling down on one knee and holding a gun with both hands, he was dressed as a driver in a black and bright yellow racing jumpsuit.
Like a bumblebee, I thought.
“. . . but also to the horrors . . .”
I just kept staring at him, frozen. Sound disappeared. Time slowed. And the world turned black-and-white, my own personal newsreel. It was like the first day I met the President. The handshake alone felt like an hour. Living between seconds, someone called it. Time standing still.
Still locked on the bumblebee, I couldn’t tell if he was moving forward or if everyone around him was rushing back.
“Man down!” the detail leader shouted.
I followed the sound and the hand motions to a man in a navy suit, lying facedown on the ground. Oh, no. Boyle. His forehead was pressed against the pavement, his face screwed up in agony. He was holding his chest, and I could see blood starting to puddle out from below him.
“Man down!” the detail leader shouted again.
My eyes slid sideways, searching for the President. I found him just as a half dozen jumpsuited agents rushed at the small crowd that was already around him. The frantic agents were moving so fast, the people closest to Manning were pinned against him.
“Move him! Now!” an agent yelled.
Pressed backward against the President, the wife of the NASCAR CEO was screaming.
“You’re crushing her!” Manning shouted, gripping her shoulder and trying to keep her on her feet. “Let her go!”
The Service didn’t care. Swarming around the President, they rammed the crowd from the front and right side. That’s when momentum got the best of them. Like a just-cut tree, the crush of people tumbled to the side, toward the ground. The President was still fighting to get the CEO’s wife out. A bright light exploded. I remember the flashbulb going off.
“. . . so people could test their faith . . .” the gunman roared as a separate group of agents in jumpsuits got a grip on his neck . . . his arm . . . the back of his hair. In slow motion, the bumblebee’s head snapped back, then his body, as two more pops ripped the air.
I felt a bee sting in my right cheek.
“. . . and examine good from evil!” the man screamed, arms spread out like Jesus as agents dragged him to the ground. All around them, other agents formed a tight circle, brandishing semiautomatic Uzis they had torn from their leather satchels and backpacks.
I slapped my own face, trying to kill whatever just bit me. A few feet ahead, the crowd surrounding the President collided with the asphalt. Two agents on the far side grabbed the First Lady, pulling her away. The rest never stopped shoving, ramming, stepping over people as they tried to get to Manning and shield him.
I looked as the puddle below Boyle grew even larger. His head was now resting in a milky white liquid. He’d thrown up.
From the back of the President’s pile, our detail leader and another suit-and-tie agent gripped Manning’s elbows, lifted him from the pile, and shoved him sideways, straight at me. The President’s face was in pain. I looked for blood on his suit but didn’t see any.
Picking up speed, his agents were going for the limo. Two more agents were right behind them, gripping the First Lady under her armpits. I was the only thing in their way. I tried to sidestep but wasn’t fast enough. At full speed, the detail leader’s shoulder plowed into my own.
Falling backward, I crashed into the limo, my rear end hitting just above the right front tire. I still see it all in some out-of-body slow motion: me trying to keep my balance . . . slapping my hand against the car’s hood . . . and the splat from my impact. Sound was