Genevieve ducked into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway. The rough brick wall scraped her bare shoulder as she pressed herself flat against it, hiding from the main street.
She pressed her hand against her chest. Her heart hammered wildly. The adrenaline of the escape was slowly mixing with the freezing night air, making her limbs shake.
The sound of screeching tires echoed nearby. Genevieve peeked around the edge of a rusted dumpster. A black SUV was slowly patrolling the street. Cletus's men were already searching for her.
She shrank back into the shadows. The damp, gritty asphalt chilled her bare feet. She couldn't just run home. Clinton was waiting there. Carolynn was waiting there. She had no proof of their crimes, only memories of a future that hadn't happened yet. She needed power. She needed a shield.
Genevieve closed her eyes. She forced her panicked mind to sort through the timeline of her past life. She desperately sought a point of leverage.
A specific memory flashed in her mind. The news headlines from this exact night in her previous life. They had dominated every network for weeks.
The assassination attempt on Senator Ardath Harrington.
It had occurred at a political fundraiser just three blocks from her current location. Genevieve remembered the details vividly. The Senator survived the gunshot but was left in a permanent coma. It severely weakened the political faction that opposed the Reynolds' corporate expansion.
More importantly, she remembered Colten Dawson. The White House Chief of Staff. The Senator's adopted son. Colten spent years hunting the assassins, tearing Washington apart to find whoever hurt his mother.
A bold, incredibly dangerous plan formed in her mind. If she saved the Senator tonight, she would secure the ultimate political shield against Clinton and her family. Colten Dawson would owe her a life debt.
Genevieve checked her immediate surroundings. She spotted an oversized trench coat wrapped tightly around a sleeping vagrant huddled under a fire escape. It was a massive risk, but she had no other choice. She crept forward, her bare feet silent on the damp asphalt. Holding her breath, she carefully slipped a hundred-dollar bill from her concealed thigh purse-a habit from her socialite days-and tucked it into the man's grimy palm. With agonizing slowness, she tugged the coat free. He grunted but didn't wake.
She grabbed the grimy coat and quickly threw it over her conspicuous emerald silk gown. The heavy, dirty fabric hid her identity and provided much-needed warmth against the biting wind.
Stepping out of the alley, she moved with calculated purpose. She avoided the bright main streetlights, sticking close to the shadows of the historic D. C. buildings.
The distant sound of police sirens wailed in the night. It added a layer of suffocating tension as she navigated the grid toward the historic Mayflower Hotel.
Genevieve spotted the hotel's grand entrance from a block away. It was heavily guarded by private security and men with earpieces-Secret Service agents.
She analyzed the perimeter. She couldn't walk through the front door looking like a barefoot vagrant in a filthy trench coat.
She slipped down the service alley beside the hotel. The heavy smell of culinary exhaust and frying oil filled the air. She searched for a secondary entrance.
A catering staff member propped open a heavy metal side door for a smoke break. Warm, bright light spilled out onto the wet pavement.
Genevieve waited in the dark. The moment the worker turned his back to cup his hands and light a cigarette, she darted past him. She slipped silently into the bustling hotel kitchen.
The chaotic noise of clattering pans and shouting chefs masked her entry. She grabbed a discarded white catering apron from a counter. She tied it rapidly over her trench coat to blend in with the staff.
She grabbed a large silver tray loaded with empty water glasses. She held it up slightly, using it to shield the lower half of her face. She marched confidently toward the swinging doors and pushed through into the main event hall.
The political fundraiser was in full swing. It was a sea of dark tailored suits and expensive evening gowns. The air was thick with political chatter and heavy perfume.
Genevieve scanned the massive room. Her eyes darted past lobbyists and congressmen. Finally, she spotted Senator Ardath Harrington standing near the main podium at the front of the room.
The Senator was smiling, shaking hands with a wealthy donor. She was completely unaware of the historical tragedy about to unfold in mere minutes.
Genevieve began moving through the crowd. Her bare feet were completely silent on the thick hotel carpet. Her eyes scanned the upper balconies, searching for the shooter.
She remembered the news report. The shooter fired from the lighting catwalk above the left side of the stage.
Her gaze snaps upward, piercing the shadows of the heavy rigging. She caught the faint, unmistakable glint of a rifle scope catching the light from the chandelier.
A tiny red laser dot appeared on the Senator's chest. It danced slightly as the sniper adjusted his final aim.
Genevieve dropped the silver tray.
The heavy metal and breaking glass crashed against the floor. The sharp noise drew the immediate attention of the nearby crowd and the security detail.
Ignoring the screams of the startled guests, Genevieve broke into a dead sprint toward the podium. Her eyes were locked entirely on that dancing red dot.
