His fingers closed around the chrome lip of the trunk.
The limousine surged beneath him.
For one violent instant, the agent’s feet left the pavement and swung behind the car.
The road blurred inches below his shoes.
His shoulder struck the rear panel, nearly breaking his grip, but he held on and dragged his body upward.
The First Lady was still outside the passenger compartment.
She had climbed onto the rear deck without appearing to understand the speed of the car or the danger surrounding it.
Her gloved hands moved across the metal as though searching for something she could not bear to leave behind.
The agent did not call her name.
There was no time.
He planted one knee against the bumper, caught the edge of the trunk with his other hand, and hauled himself closer.
Wind tore at his jacket.
The engine roared.
Behind him, the rest of the motorcade scattered through the plaza in a confusion of motorcycles, open doors, shouted warnings, and drivers trying to decide whether to stop or accelerate.
No one knew whether the shooting had ended.
That uncertainty made every exposed inch of the limousine feel like a target.
The agent reached the First Lady and placed one hand against her shoulder.
“Get down.”
She did not respond.
Her attention remained fixed on the rear deck.
Shock had narrowed her world to the wounded man behind her and the terrible thing she believed she needed to recover.
The agent pulled harder.
Her body resisted for only a second.
Then the motion of the car shifted beneath them, and she lost her balance.
He caught her before she could slide sideways from the trunk.
The driver accelerated again.
The agent used the sudden force to guide her backward into the passenger compartment.
She fell against the seat beside the president.
He climbed in after her, twisting his body so that his back faced the open air.
Then he covered them.
He stretched himself across the rear seat, one arm braced against the side of the car and the other shielding the First Lady’s head.
His shoulders rose above the edge of the limousine.
If another shot came from behind, it would reach him first.
He did not know whether that position would be enough.
He only knew it was the last protection he had left to give.
The plaza disappeared behind them.
Buildings became streaks of stone and glass.
The cheering crowds along the route had not yet learned what had happened.
Some people still waved as the limousine raced past.
Their smiles vanished only after they saw the agent spread across the back seat and the First Lady bent beneath him.
A motorcycle officer drew alongside, looked into the car, and immediately turned away to clear the road.
The agent heard fragments of voices from the front seat.
A hospital.
A direction.
A command repeated twice because the first attempt had been swallowed by the wind.
He did not answer.
His entire body had become an answer.
Stay down.
Keep moving.
Do not let another bullet reach them.
Beneath him, the First Lady tried to rise.
He pressed her gently but firmly back toward the seat.
“No,” he said.
“Please stay down.”
Her eyes moved toward the president.
The agent followed her gaze only once.
