CHAPTER 49: The Fugitive Part 20

CHAPTER 49: The Fugitive Part 20

THE OVAL OFFICE - WASHINGTON D.C.

The afternoon light, golden and serene, spilled into the Oval Office, illuminating the symbols of earthly power. President Bush, his face lined with the fatigue of a long day, signed documents with an automatic hand. Beside him, his secretary, the impeccable and ever-efficient Mrs. Carter, stacked folders with military precision.

"Mr. President," she said, handing him a simple manila envelope, no logos, no return address. "This came through the priority channel. Hand-delivered by an anonymous courier. Scanners detected no explosives or biological agents, but..."

Bush took the envelope with a skepticism born of years in office.
"No return address? This smells like the start of a very, very bad low-budget spy movie."

He tore the envelope open. Inside, a single sheet of white paper. As he unfolded it, his expression of annoyance froze, transforming into pure disbelief.

"Adam?" he read aloud, the word sounding absurd in the sanctuary of world power. "Who the hell is...?"

The roar wasn't that of any ordinary gunshot. It was a dry, ultra-fine crack, like the sound of a bone breaking at a great distance, followed by the whistle of a projectile that pierced the armored window glass as if it were sugar. It passed inches from the president's temple, grazing his earlobe with terrifying precision before embedding itself in the noble wood paneling of the wall behind him.

The pain was instant and sharp. Bush cried out, more from the shock and the violation of his inviolable space than from the wound itself. Blood began to drip down his neck, staining the impeccable starch of his shirt.

"PRESIDENT DOWN!!" roared a Secret Service agent, lunging at him.

Chaos erupted. The room filled with agents in dark suits and drawn weapons, forming a human shield around Bush as the White House alarms wailed, a sound not heard in decades.

"My ear!" Bush shouted, touching the wound with trembling fingers. "I've been shot in the damn Oval Office!"

"Alpha Team, evacuate the principal to the bunker! Bravo Team, cover the flanks!" orders were shouted over radios.

As they dragged him away, Bush, in an act of pure obstinacy, clenched the letter even tighter in his hand.

"This is insane!" he yelled, his voice rising above the sirens. "Who is this Adam?! And how did he do this?!"

The evacuation was a whirlwind of moving bodies, staccato shouts, and the crunch of soles on polished marble. But then, a new layer of horror superimposed itself on the physical chaos. A voice arose in their minds. It wasn't a sound; it was a presence, cold, clear, and impossible to block.

«Well, well...» Adam's voice was a silken, mocking whisper resonating inside their skulls. «All this drama over a little scratch. Isn't it a bit... overkill?»

The agents stopped dead, looking at each other with confusion and primal terror. Bush brought his hands to his head.

«Yes, it's me. The one who just proved your security is a joke. Relax, George. I didn't come to kill you. That would be... trivial. Like squashing a particularly irritating ant.»

The voice dripped with contempt. The agents resumed moving, faster now, their faces pale.

«Look, I'll give you some advice, free of charge. Stay out of my way. Hide in your hole in the ground like the scared rat you are, and maybe... just maybe... I'll let you exist a little longer.»

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The agents looked at the walls, the ceiling, searching for a source that didn't exist.

«Ah, and one more thing, George...» The voice took on a tone of malicious amusement. «I know you're thinking of calling you-know-who. Go ahead. I'd love to see him try to stop me... again. It'll be hilarious. For me, of course.»

The mental silence that followed was more terrifying than the voice itself. The group reached the heavy bunker door and collapsed inside. Bush, panting, slumped into a leather chair, the crumpled letter still in his fist.

"What... what was that?" he asked, his voice a thread.

His security chief, his face ashen, responded with what was left of his professionalism.
"That, Mr. President... was the devil."

Bush closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Then, with a determination reborn from pure terror, he looked at his team.
"You know what to do, gentlemen."

Enid was immersed in the universe of numbers and graphs on her monitors, the outside world reduced to a distant hum. The sunset tinted her office in orange hues. The discreet ringtone of her secure line pulled her from her concentration.

"Enid," she answered, not taking her eyes off a spreadsheet.

The voice on the other end was a thread of static and contained panic.
"Miss Enid? This is... President Bush. Of the United States."

Enid slowly put down her pen. She showed no surprise.
"Mr. President. An unexpected honor. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's a nightmare!" Bush exploded, his voice cracking with adrenaline. "This... Adam! He appeared out of nowhere! He speaks in our heads! This is... this is...! It makes no sense!"

"Calm down, Mr. President," said Enid, her voice an oil slick in the midst of his storm. "Describe the situation."

"They shot in the Oval Office! It grazed my ear! And then that voice... those threats! He said to call 'you-know-who'! He knows about you! He knows I might call you!"

"I see," murmured Enid, taking a notepad and writing "Adam - White House - Demonstration of Force." "I understand your... dilemma. My organization has experience in containing threats of an... unconventional nature."

"I need your help!" Bush's voice was almost pleading. "My men aren't prepared for this! He said if I hid, he might leave me alone!"

"Of course we can help, Mr. President," said Enid, her tone sweet but relentless. "The logistics, however, are extremely complex and require considerable resources. Given the unique nature of the threat and the target's profile... our consulting fee would be seven hundred and fifty billion dollars."