Philip Murdock gave into the righteous feeling, letting it build inside him as he barreled through the Oval Office door into the West Wing proper.

Oh God! Candace Hart, his sweet old assistant lay slumped across her desk, eyes staring wide, her first bit of morning PB&J hanging out of her mouth.

Special Agent Wilcox had fallen just behind Candace, mouth and eyes open, earpiece squawking. As Phil ran down the hall he saw Gabriel, Tony, Francis and Dave, dead. They must have all been watching by the electronic confetti of iPhones and blackberries on the floor.

Phil kept running, anger filled his lungs.

“Stop, Mr. President! Stop!”

Suddenly a group of black suits in dark sunglasses stepped out and enveloped him like a quill in ink.

“Out of my way agents!”

“Mr. President, please desist.”

Phil channeled his rage and glared into the nearest mans eyes. Stiffening like a squirrel on a live wire he dropped to the ground dead. Grabbing Phil, they covered his eyes.

“Let me go!”

“Come with us, Mr. President.”