Dark Protocol

Chapter 4

Genevieve

Twenty-three hours and forty-two minutes.

That was exactly how long I had been awake.

Every muscle in my body, from my calves to the ligaments running along my spine, throbbed with a dull ache that warned me I was brushing against the edge of my physical limits. Training had taught me how to ignore sleep deprivation, how to keep my mind razor-sharp on a mixture of coffee and pure adrenaline, but even I couldn’t outrun biology forever.

It was a quarter to four in the morning when Roman Crawford finally dropped the last file onto the Resolute Desk.

The sound cracked through the suffocating silence of the Oval Office.

He rose slowly, his movements heavier than they had been a few hours earlier, his shoulders slightly lowered. He didn’t look at me. He only nodded into the empty room, as if signaling to himself that tonight’s performance was over, then started toward the door.

I followed him in silence, a shadow at his back.

The deserted, dimly lit corridors of the White House echoed only with our footsteps. The air was cold and stale. I escorted him back to his private residence, checking every corner and every intersection with mechanical precision, even though the night-shift agents had already secured the outer perimeter.

When we reached the heavy door of his suite, Roman stopped for a moment. His hand rested on the handle, but he didn’t press it down. His head tilted slightly to the side, as if he wanted to say something.

In the end, only a tired, barely audible sigh left his lips.

He opened the door and stepped into the darkness without looking back.

The door closed soundlessly behind him.

The click of the lock felt final.

“Eagle is in the nest,” I whispered into the microphone hidden in my collar. “Night protocol active. I’ve taken over the inner ring.”

“Copy that, Shaw. Get some rest,” the duty officer crackled in my ear.

The protocol was strict. No agent was allowed to remain on continuous active duty for more than twenty-four hours, because reaction time dropped drastically after that point. Although I was his personal protection agent, during the night I was required to withdraw to the observation room directly beside his suite, separated only by a reinforced security door. I could rest there while remaining close enough to intervene within a fraction of a second if the suite alarms were triggered.

I opened the neighboring door and stepped into my temporary base.

The room was barely larger than a closet. A narrow bed. A metal sink. A small desk with monitors. Dark walls.

No window.

When the door closed behind me and I was finally alone inside the silent, cramped space, the machine abruptly shut down.

The mask I had kept so carefully in place all day cracked into pieces.

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the cold wall. A deep, trembling breath slipped from my throat. The air in here felt heavy, and the walls seemed to press in around me. The icy, familiar fingers of claustrophobia wrapped themselves around my chest at once, but tonight I was too exhausted to fight them with my usual mantras.

Slowly, mechanically, I began removing my armor.

First, the black jacket went over the back of the chair.

Then I unfastened the shoulder holster. The reassuring weight of my Sig Sauer P229 hit the nightstand with a dull thud.

The worst part was the bulletproof vest.

When the Velcro straps tore apart with a sharp rip and I lifted the Kevlar from my chest, my lungs finally expanded freely. My shirt clung to the skin of my back, damp with sweat.

I stepped to the small sink and turned on the cold water.

The rush of the faucet filled the quiet room.

I splashed icy water over my face with both hands, hoping it would wash away the suffocating tension of the day and the feeling Roman Crawford had left behind on my skin.

Then I lifted my head and looked into the mirror.

Dark violet shadows bruised the skin beneath my green eyes. My red hair, which had been pulled into a flawless, severe bun that morning, had escaped in several places and now clung to my forehead in damp strands.

I was pale.

Far paler than usual.

Who hurt you this badly, Girl Scout?

His deep, whispering voice echoed inside my skull as if he were still standing behind me in the cramped room.

I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white beneath the fluorescent light.

I hated that he had seen into the deep, dark abyss I had hidden so successfully from everyone else.

I hated that one look from those blue eyes had been enough to fracture my confidence.

I dried my face with a rough towel, then moved to the narrow bed.

I didn’t undress completely.

I only kicked off my shoes.

In this profession, there was no such thing as deep sleep. Only alert rest.

I lay down on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.

The faint blue glow of the monitors lit the corners of the room. The wall on my right, the one separating me from Roman’s suite, couldn’t have been more than eight inches thick.

I tried to empty my mind.

I imagined a blank white room, just like my psychologist had taught me years ago after…

No.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t let it in.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Then I heard it.

From the other side of the wall came a dull but unmistakable sound.

Footsteps.

Not steady, purposeful steps.

Slow, monotonous pacing.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

I opened my eyes.

My earpiece, which I had set on the desk, was tuned to the emergency channel, so no sound came through it. But the thin wall couldn’t hide his movement.

Roman Crawford wasn’t sleeping.

He was awake, pacing his room like a wounded animal trapped in a cage, unable to find a place for himself in the dark.

A dull thud followed, as though a glass or bottle had been set down on a nightstand.

Then came a deep, muffled cough.

Or perhaps a sigh, distorted by the wall between us.

I lay in the darkness and listened to his footsteps while holding my breath.

Two people, only inches apart, both locked in the night with their own demons.

He was fighting his grief and rage.

I was fighting my past and the crushing pressure of the walls.

Slowly, I turned onto my right side and stared at the dark wall as if I could see through it.

The footsteps suddenly stopped.

Exactly where I was lying.

On the other side.

The silence became heavier.

Thicker.

Did he know I was there?

Was he staring at the same wall in the darkness, aware that only a thin barrier separated us?

My heart struck hard against my ribs, and my hand slid instinctively beneath the pillow, where I had hidden my smaller backup weapon.

Not because I wanted to kill him.

The movement was simply the only anchor in my life that had ever made me feel safe.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

Ten long, tense minutes passed like that as I listened to his silent presence through the wall.

Then, at last, I heard the faint creak of mattress springs as he sat down on his bed.

I closed my eyes.

But despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones, I knew I wouldn’t sleep for even a single minute that night.

The protocol had been activated.

And this mission had already grown far beyond the rules written in any manual.