Tessa stood frozen, clutching my watch in one hand and the encrypted phone in the other.
“Dad…” she whispered. “Who are these people?”
I looked at her.
“People I haven’t seen in a very long time.”
The motorcycles stopped in perfect formation along the edge of the grass.
Their riders dismounted.
Black leather vests. Silver insignias. Weathered faces. Men and women who looked like they had lived through things most people couldn’t imagine.
At the front stood a massive man with a gray beard and a scar running from his left eyebrow to his jaw.
He removed his helmet.
“President,” he called out.
The entire group fell silent.
I hadn’t heard that title spoken aloud in eleven years.
The man walked toward me, ignoring the stunned crowd.
His name was Marcus Hale.
My former vice president.
The man who had stood beside me through eleven years of dangerous operations, long nights, and decisions that had nearly cost us everything.
