He shifted in his seat, trying to get a look outside. The President grinned. The wheels bounced over a clanging metal plate that sounded like a loose manhole cover.
Boyle scratched even more at his chest. A baritone rumble filled the air. All that was left was the big entrance. The runway in the Daytona airport was actually connected to the racetrack. There were no red lights to run.
No traffic to hold back. Instant American frenzy. With his arms crossed against his chest, he never stopped studying the President. Some had backpacks. Some carried leather satchels. All had sunglasses. And one was speaking into his own wrist. Secret Service. Like any other first-timer in the limo, Calinoff was practically licking the glass. Outside, the drivers were already angling for Presidential position.
The door right next to him. In , when President Bush arrived with legendary driver Bill Elliott in his motorcade, Elliott stepped out first and the crowd erupted. Even Presidents can use an opening act. With a click and a thunk, the Detail Leader pushed a small security button under the door handle which allowed him to open the armor-lined door from the outside. Within seconds, the door cracked open, twin switchblades of light and Florida heat sliced through the car, and Calinoff lowered one of his handmade cowboy boots onto the pavement.
Cue crowd going wild. Just behind Calinoff, the President hopped out of the car, his right hand up in a wave, his left hand proudly patting the NASCAR logo on the chest of his windbreaker.
He paused for a moment to wait for the First Lady. As always, you could read the lips on every fan in the grandstands.
There he is… There he is… There they are… Then, as soon as the crowd had digested it, the flashbulbs hit. President, over here! I stepped out last. The sunlight forced me to squint, but I still craned my neck to look up, mesmerized by the two hundred thousand fans who were now on their feet, pointing and waving at us from the grandstands. Two years out of college, and this was my life.
Putting his arm out for a handshake, Calinoff was quickly enveloped by the waiting crowd of drivers, who smothered him with hugs and backslaps. Approaching the drivers, the President grinned. He was next. I was still smiling as the first scream tore through the air. The crowd of drivers scattered—running, dropping, panicking in an instant blur of colors. His tiny chocolate eyes seemed almost too close together, while his bulbous nose and arched thin eyebrows gave him a strange warmth that for some reason reminded me of Danny Kaye.
Kneeling down on one knee and holding a gun with both hands, he was dressed as a driver in a black and bright yellow racing jumpsuit. I just kept staring at him, frozen. Sound disappeared. Time slowed. And the world turned black and white, my own personal newsreel. It was like the first day I met the President. The handshake alone felt like an hour. Living between seconds, someone called it. Time standing still. I followed the sound and the hand-motions to a man in a navy suit, lying face down on the ground.
Oh, no. His forehead was pressed against the pavement, his face screwed up in agony. He was holding his chest, and I could see blood starting to puddle out from below him.
My eyes slid sideways, searching for the President. I found him just as a half dozen jumpsuited agents rushed at the small crowd that was already around him.
The frantic agents were moving so fast, the people closest to Manning were pinned against him. Swarming around the President, they rammed the crowd from the front and right side. Like a just-cut tree, the crush of people tumbled to the side, toward the ground. A bright light exploded. I remember the flashbulb going off. All around them, other agents formed a tight circle, brandishing semi-automatic uzis they had torn from their leather satchels and backpacks.
I slapped my own face, trying to kill whatever just bit me. A few feet ahead, the crowd surrounding the President collided with the asphalt. Two agents on the far side grabbed the First Lady, pulling her away. The rest never stopped shoving, ramming, stepping over people as they tried to get to Manning and shield him. I looked as the puddle below Boyle grew even larger. His head was now resting in a milky white liquid. Picking up speed, his agents were going for the limo.
Two more agents were right behind them, gripping the First Lady under her armpits. I was the only thing in their way. Sign Up , it unlocks many cool features! The Book of Fate is a novel written by Brad Meltzer. In it, a year-old code invented by Thomas Jefferson reveals a modern-day conspiracy that.
The Book of Fate Luckily, Meltzer's latest bestseller has Brick, a solid veteran narrator who reads every word as though he believes it, adding fresh nuance. Now, eight years later, Boyle has been spotted alive. Trying to figure out what really happened takes Wes back into disturbing secrets buried in Freemason. The Book of Fate, is about a young presidential aide, a crazed assassin, and the year-old code created by Thomas Jefferson that ties them together.
Download for offline reading. If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed.
Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to fiction, thriller lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Great book, The Book of Fate pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone.
0コメント