Standing facing the crowd and behind the hard–politicking Ritter, he was the only one in the room who could see it. King's gaze had turned in the direction of the new sound, and then the new sight, something totally unexpected. A few more minutes and they'd be on to the next town, where the handshakes, sound bites, baby kisses and face reading would continue. Then his gaze flitted to the clock on the back of the wall. Still, he mumbled a few words into his mic, telling others of his concern. Assassins tended to favor bulky clothing and small handguns. They looked like potential trouble, although each wore a short–sleeved shirt and tight pants with no place to conceal a weapon, which dropped them several pegs on the danger meter. He keyed on two men in particular, ten feet away, on the right. That's what he spent all his working life doing: reading the hearts and souls of men and women through their eyes, their physical tics. Faces didn't lie, not for those trained to read them, and King could read a face as well as he could shoot a gun. There were people here who hated Ritter and all he stood for. Ritter answered the jibe back with his own bit of humor, and the crowd laughed good–naturedly, or at least most did. Someone called out from the rear of the space. And all the time King silently watched the crowd, keeping his hand on Ritter's soaked shirt and looking for threats. Ritter's routine never varied: shake hands, wave, smile, nail a sound bite in time for the six o'clock news, then pucker up and kiss a fat baby. He couldn't very well stand in front of the man, for the candidate belonged to the people. The palm of his outstretched hand rested lightly on the candidate's sweaty, coatless back, so that he could pull him down in an instant if something happened. In response, King moved closer to Ritter. The crowd drew closer, right up to the velvet rope stanchions that had been placed as a line in the sand. Yet the little ones just kept coming and Clyde kissed them all, and ulcers seemed to form in King's belly as he observed this potentially dangerous spectacle. King hated this because the babies could so easily shield a gun until it was too late. There were more than a few infants being thrust toward the smiling candidate. It was muggy in the large room filled with excited people waving "Elect Clyde Ritter" pennants. Standing behind his protectee, King scanned the crowd while his ear mike buzzed sporadically with unremarkable information. They were on the campaign trail at a nondescript hotel meet–and–greet in a place so far out you almost had to use a satellite phone to reach the boonies. It only took a split second, although to Secret Service agent Sean King it seemed like the longest split second ever. Split Second by David Baldacci, now you can read online.
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