Lying here atop the White House roof, much of his view was of the big white oaks on the White House lawn. A manicured reminder of the oak, maple, and Norway pine forests of home. As evening settled over the city, he tried to imagine himself setting up camp under a lean-to alongside a fast rushing stream thick with dinner still swimming in the cool water.
Fernando’s double click over the microphone had his attention swinging before he even wholly returned to D.C. A little more circumspect, he kept his rifle close to hand and slipped out his binoculars.
Again, there was no mistaking her. She’d been inside the bubble of the White House for a full day, which he knew to be exhausting, but she was still going a mile a second.
Halfway to the gate, she glanced back over her shoulder and slammed
