Dénouement
Greg was confused. The car’s jolting seriously unbalancing him, the rifle had fired with no conscious action on his part : he had felt the kick against his arm. Then had followed the short, breakneck journey, unexpected and unplanned. A nauseous feeling entered the pit of his stomach ; something devastating had gone wrong, surely not to do with him ? At the hospital, unaware of the President's condition, while other agents rushed off Greg stayed with the car, placing the Colt out of sight on the floor. It was then he found the spent cartridge ; it reinforced his nightmare ; Dear God, what had he done ? He picked it up to put in his jacket pocket ; alone with his thoughts, the inner dread grew.
Events had occurred so quickly that nobody knew details ; not the media, not parade members, not the Secret Service, not even Greg's fellow passengers ; they knew only that the President had been shot. Concern spread that this might be only one of several attacks aimed at higher echelon officials.
Mark snapped out orders : “Take the VP and his wife to a secure room and stay with them.   Stay with the President ; seal the area. Call the AG on the landline, warn him what’s happened and tell him there's been an accident ! Keep the line open and stand by the 'phone”. Although uncertain of facts, he had a suspicion : the second and third shots were too close together (which may, or may not, mean anything). After five minutes inside he could do no more and must wait on events, something else demanding his attention. Outside he found a haphazard of motor-cycles, ambulances, cars, a mass of people, hospital staff, police, reporters, a cacophony of noise. A fine, warm day.
Mark called Greg over : “Did you fire ?”. Greg could not speak ; weary and woeful, he had not yet come to terms with the fact and consequence of his accidental shot. Unable to answer he turned his anguished face away to gaze at unsympathetic milling crowds and blue sky.
"OK ! Go back to the car. Count how many shells you’ve got, put the rifle in its box, put the box in the trunk, lock it, then report back”. Relieved to perform this simple task Greg headed for the car.
Taking a two-minute break from the on-going drama Mark sat on a bench, his eyes closed, the breeze wafting his hair, the sun warming his face. Greg returned. Mark looked at him - “Well ?".
And Greg, quietly - “Nine shells left”. They both knew there should have been ten.
Mark frowned ; he knew it : an accidental discharge ! “And you didn't know ?".
“No”.
Mark had assigned the Colt to Greg and knew him well enough to know that he was telling the truth. A shake of the head, heavy breathing out, a slight pause.
In an undertone – “Stay with the car now. Keep the rifle locked up, drive to O’Dell
Five and wait here". The airfield was two miles distance.
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