The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
The White House is intended to be one of the most secure buildings on the planet. Common sense says it would have to be, considering that it houses the most powerful person in the Free World. Yet, two would-be infiltrators from the militia group, the National Freedom Alliance, have managed to infiltrate the Oval Office. The men, one of them armed with an H&K P-10 pistol and the other with a Mac 10 submachine gun, train their weapons on the back of the president’s chair. They think they have the president right where they want him.
The pistol-toting infiltrator speaks up. “All right, Mr. President, you’re gonna listen to our demands or we’re blowin’ this building sky high.”
No response comes from the man in the chair. The two men look at each other in exasperation, agitated by the president’s seeming disregard for the threat they pose. The second man reaches over to turn his chair around.
“Hey, listen to the man when he’s talkin’ to…you…”
The militia man’s voice shrinks to that of a preadolescent boy as he discovers that the person sitting in the president’s chair is actually Secret Service agent Terrell Morrison. The men stare at him dumbfounded. Morrison responds to their obvious shock with some levity.
“What? You were expecting someone a little lighter and thinner?”
They quickly compose themselves and fire their weapons. Before the first bullet can pierce his body, Morrison converts his six-foot, eight-frame from flesh into solid steel.
The bullets tear through his clothes but ricochet off his steel skin. Without hesitation he quickly grabs the submachine gun from the man closest to him, and flips it around to the butt end. He delivers a devastating blow to the infiltrator’s left temple. The impact knocks the man unconscious. The second man, being the wiser, makes a beeline out of the room, but not before letting off a few rounds as he retreats. When he reaches the exit, to his mortification, he’s greeted by three Secret Service agents. The agents waste no time tackling him to the ground and clasping handcuffs around his wrists.
Morrison converts his body back to its natural state, gleaming steel skin recedes to reveal warm flesh and blood. He frantically pats down his suit.
“What’s wrong?” his colleague Jeff Garner asks.
Morrison reaches into his right breast pocket and pulls out a gold wedding band with the engraving: “T&D.”
“There it is,” Morrison says with a smile.
He kisses the ring and puts it back on. Then he looks at the remains of his suit and laments. “I paid over two grand for this thing. What a waste.”
“Next time, you might want to leave the Dolce and Gabbana at home,” Garner comments.
Feigning shock at his friend’s lack of designer-brand savvy, Morrison says, “It’s actually Kenneth Cole.”
“Sorry,” Garner replies with eyebrows raised, as if to say, “Excuse me.”
Morrison smiles and quickly changes the subject. “Did you guys get all the audio on that?”
“Yes, we did. Those idiots won’t see the light of day for a long time.”
“What about the planted explosives?”
“We retrieved and deactivated all of them.”
“Good. Tell Stiles he can bring the president back in from the safe room now.”
“Copy that.” Garner taps his earpiece lightly. “All clear, let the eagle out of the nest.” He shifts his attention back to Morrison.
“So, are you ready for your big press conference today?”
Morrison lets the corners of his mouth betray a warm smile. “Yeah, but not until after I get a bite to eat. I’m starving like you wouldn’t believe!”
All characters copyright and trademark Paa-Kofi Obeng