Dark Protocol

Chapter 3

Genevieve

The Oval Office was a different place at night.

Once the sun went down and the noise of tourist groups, buzzing press rooms, and endless political chatter faded from the halls, the White House transformed into a vast, silent mausoleum.

It was ten minutes past eleven.

The heavy gold curtains had long since been drawn across the bulletproof windows, shutting out the darkness and the steady rain that drummed softly against the glass. The only light came from the reading lamp beside the Resolute Desk, casting a warm amber glow across the room.

I stood in the shadows beside the door.

I’d been on duty for sixteen hours. The last four had been spent standing perfectly still in this room while Roman Crawford worked behind the massive desk inherited from generations of presidents.

Or at least pretended to.

Our confrontation in the stairwell that afternoon still lingered between us like an unspoken declaration of war.

Since then, Roman hadn’t spoken a single word to me.

He hadn’t looked at me.

He hadn’t given me a single instruction.

He simply behaved as though I didn’t exist.

I knew exactly what he was doing.

It was another psychological test.

He had probably driven his previous bodyguards insane with this suffocating silence and deliberate indifference. Most people eventually cracked. They shifted their weight, cleared their throats, or worse…

They tried to make conversation.

I wasn’t most people.

Silence had always been my greatest ally.

My training had taught me how to slow my heartbeat, empty my mind, and become part of the wallpaper.

I was a statue.

One that only moved when someone needed killing.

The scratching of his pen suddenly stopped.

Roman tossed it onto the mahogany desk, the sharp crack echoing through the room.

He sighed, leaned back in the leather chair, and loosened his black silk tie.

His suit jacket had disappeared hours ago, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled carelessly to his elbows. In the soft light, the muscles and veins along his powerful forearms stood out beneath his skin.

No matter how much I despised the man, one objective fact remained impossible to ignore.

Roman Crawford was the embodiment of raw physical power.

Slowly, he lifted his head and looked directly into the shadows where I stood.

“Leave, Shaw.”

His voice was rough with exhaustion, but the order was unmistakable.

“I can’t do that, sir.”

My answer came instantly.

Calm.

Emotionless.

“I’m reviewing classified files. I don’t need you watching me.”

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removed a heavy crystal tumbler and a bottle of bourbon, and poured himself a drink.

“You can guard the door from outside like normal agents do.”

“The threat level has remained elevated since last night, sir. Protocol prohibits the President from being alone in an unsecured room with multiple access points during nighttime hours.”

The amber liquid splashed softly into the glass.

Roman took a slow sip before setting it back down.

Then he stood.

“The protocol,” he repeated with open contempt, as though the word itself tasted bitter.

He walked around the desk and headed straight toward me.

“You actually believe all that bullshit they drilled into your head during training?” he asked quietly. “You think a bulletproof vest and an earpiece can protect you from what’s inevitable?”

I didn’t move as he approached.

His footsteps were completely silent against the thick Oval Office carpet.

“I don’t believe in anything, Mr. President,” I replied. “I believe in orders and statistics. My presence reduces the probability of a successful assassination attempt by sixty-seven percent.”

He stopped directly in front of me.

Again.

The suffocating closeness.

The same dominance game he’d played in the hallway.

Except this time we weren’t rushing anywhere.

We were alone.

The middle of the night.

The most heavily protected room in the world.

For several long moments he simply studied me.

His gaze traveled slowly across my face.

This time there was no wildfire of unpredictable rage burning behind those blue eyes.

Something colder.

Sharper.

Analytical.

He looked at me like a complicated lock he was determined to pick.

“You never relax,” he observed quietly, almost to himself.

He lifted one hand toward my head.

His fingers stopped just short of touching me.

“You stand so rigidly you’d think someone shoved a steel rod down your spine. Your hair is pulled back so tightly you’re probably living with a permanent headache. Even your suit is one size too big so it hides your figure.”

Every word struck with surgical precision.

My expression never changed.

Neither did my breathing.

“My appearance serves tactical efficiency, sir.”

A dry laugh escaped him.

Once again there wasn’t a trace of genuine amusement in it.

He leaned closer.

The sharp scent of alcohol and menthol surrounded me.

“A machine,” he murmured.

“That’s what you want me to believe.”

He lowered his voice even further.

“That’s what you want everyone to believe.”

“A perfect… emotionless machine.”

His blue eyes never left mine.

“But do you know the problem with machines, Shaw?”

“If you put enough pressure on them…”

“They crack.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“And there’s a crack in you.”

“I can see it in your eyes.”

The heartbeat I’d controlled so perfectly for hours stumbled.

Just once.

One powerful beat.

Enough for me to feel it in my throat.

I locked my emerald gaze onto his frozen blue eyes, refusing to let him glimpse even the smallest flicker of uncertainty.

“I don’t have any cracks, sir.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

“Everyone does.”

His voice became dangerously soft.

“And I enjoy finding them.”

He paused.

“Who hurt you this badly, Girl Scout?”

The question hit so suddenly… so personally… that my breath caught for the briefest instant.

It felt like he’d driven a knife between my ribs, striking the exact place I’d buried deepest.

The locked chest of memories inside my mind trembled.

Darkness.

Narrow walls.

The crushing helplessness.

Control your body.

I met his stare without blinking.

When I spoke, my voice was colder than the northern wind.

“No one gets close enough to hurt me, Mr. President.”

I held his gaze.

“And I’d advise you to remember that.”

Something flashed across Roman’s face.

There it was again.

That same dark spark I’d seen in the stairwell.

Challenge.

For an entire year he’d done nothing but drink and destroy everything around him because everyone had allowed it.

No one told him no.

No one dared stand against the grieving monster.

But I wasn’t another person offering sympathy.

I was a wall.

For one endless second we stood barely four inches apart.

The air practically crackled between us with unspoken words and unbearable tension.

The warmth radiating from his body pulled against my cold discipline like a magnet, trying to melt the ice I’d spent years building around myself.

Then, without warning…

He stepped back.

The spell…

Or perhaps the curse…

Was broken.

He returned to his desk, picked up his glass, and finished the remaining bourbon in one swallow.

When he looked back at me, the exhausted beast had returned.

“Fine, Shaw.”

His voice was cold again.

“We can play this game.”

He set the empty glass onto the desk.

“Stay in your corner and stand at attention all night if that’s what makes you happy.”

A faint, dangerous smile appeared.

“But don’t fool yourself for one second into thinking you’ve won.”

I didn’t answer.

I simply remained where I was, standing perfectly still as he sat back down behind the Resolute Desk and opened another classified file.

Silence settled over the Oval Office once more.

But it wasn’t the same silence as before.

It was heavier.

Sharper.

More dangerous.

Roman Crawford was no longer just the man I had sworn to protect.

He had become a hunter.

And I was the prey in his sights.