David Roswell stood in the White House briefing room, facing a horde of reporters. Jack watched the live broadcast from home, his mother beside him. Despite his anger, he admired David's calm presence. "I appointed Mark Jonas as chief security officer to ensure the nation's safety," David said, his voice steady. "His FBI experience is more important than party politics."
Jack's thoughts raced. David's integrity was the reason he idolized him, but knowing David was his father complicated everything. On TV, a reporter mentioned Senator Hayes, a vocal critic of David's policies, causing murmurs of dissent within the party.
Mrs. Adams wiped a tear from her eye, her hands trembling. "He hasn't changed," she said softly. "Always putting duty first."
Jack frowned. "Mum, why do you still care? He left you."
She sighed, her gaze distant. "Love doesn't disappear, Jack. Even when it hurts."
He turned away, unable to face her pain. At his desk, he skimmed through a news article about David's campaign. He saw a photo of Sarah Mitchell, the journalist from the night of the election. Her sharp questions about Hayes caught his attention. Was she uncovering something bigger?
Later, David called a cabinet meeting, and his aides seemed tense. Senator Hayes, a silver-haired politician with an unsettling smile, questioned David's decision to choose Mark Jonas. "Your loyalists expected one of us," Hayes said, his tone chilling. "Jonas campaigned against you."
David held his gaze. "The nation needs the best, not the loudest. Mark's record speaks for itself."
After the meeting, Mark approached David with a worried look. "Mr. President, the party's against me. I'm thinking about resigning."
David placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're the right man, Mark. The nation believes in you, and so does God. That's enough."
Back at home, Jack and Jack Junior talked about the broadcast. "Dad's decisions are why I admire him," Jack Junior said. "He does what's right, not what's popular."
Jack nodded, feeling torn. David's leadership was undeniable, but his absence as a father hurt deeply. As they talked, David's phone buzzed with a message: "Check Jonas' files. Breach imminent." David's eyes narrowed. Was someone trying to target his team or his family?
Mrs. Adams stared at the TV, her eyes glued to David's face during a pre-speech interview. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched a faded scarf, a gift from David years ago. Jack knelt beside her wheelchair, his heart heavy. "Mum, why does it hurt so much to see him?"
She took a shaky breath. "He taught me how to love, Jack. When I see him, I'm taken back to before the accident, before he left."
A memory flooded her mind: twenty years ago, she and David laughed under a starry sky. His promises of forever warmed her heart. But he was married, and when he left for a naval posting, she ran after him, desperate to stop him. Jack, a toddler at the time, had run into the street. She fell down the stairs trying to save him, shattering her spine.
Jack squeezed her hand. "You paid too much for him. I can't forgive him."
She shook her head. "Don't let my pain become yours, son."
Later, Jack and Jack Junior arrived at the open-field venue for David's speech. Security was tight, with Mark Jonas in charge. Jack noticed a guard adjusting a camera nervously, moving suspiciously. "Something's wrong," Jack whispered, but Jack Junior shrugged it off.
"Let's check the upper rooms," Jack Junior suggested, leading Jack to a restricted area. A guard stopped them. "No entry without clearance."
Mark appeared and waved them through. "Let them in. I'll join you soon."
Upstairs, Jack admired the view, but his unease grew. Sarah Mitchell was below, writing notes. Her eyes darted toward him. Did she recognize him? Their glances met briefly, igniting something unfamiliar.
A loud clap announced the start of David's speech. Jack Junior smiled. "I'm glad you called him Dad earlier."
Jack froze, ready to respond when a gunshot rang out. Screams erupted below. Jack rushed to the window, his heart racing, and saw a shadowy figure running from the security house. Who fired the shot? And why did it feel like a trap?
Chaos engulfed the venue. David Roswell lay bleeding, a bullet in his side. Jack and Jack Junior dashed downstairs, pushing through the terrified crowd. Paramedics rushed David to the hospital, where doctors grimly announced, "The bullet hit his kidney. We need a transplant."
Jack's world tilted. Despite his anger, he couldn't let David die. "Test me," he said, his voice steady. Hours later, he learned he was a match. The surgery saved David, but Jack's recovery was interrupted by Mark Jonas entering his hospital room, a serious expression on his face.
"Jack Adams, you're under arrest," Mark said, showing a tablet. A shaky security tape showed Jack in the security house, holding a gun and firing at David's podium. The footage was unclear, framed awkwardly, as if it had been tampered with.
Jack's heart sank. "I… I did it," he confessed, his voice trembling. "Mum's in pain every time she sees him. I thought if he was gone, she'd be free. But I didn't want him to die—I gave him my kidney."
Mrs. Adams, in her wheelchair, sobbed. David, weak but awake, looked at Jack in disbelief. "Jack, you saved me. Why?"
Before Jack could respond, Sarah Mitchell entered the room, notebook in hand. "I don't believe you acted alone," she said fiercely. "That tape doesn't make sense. I will find out who set you up."
As Mark led Jack away in handcuffs, Sarah's determination stayed with him. Across town, Senator Hayes watched the news, a smirk forming on his lips. "One down," he muttered, glancing at a file labeled Roswell. What was his plan?
Jack Adams sat on the cold metal cot, the prison cell's gray walls closing in. The clang of bars echoed in his mind, a reminder of his confession: he'd shot his father, President-Elect David Roswell, to ease his mother's pain. But the security tape, shaky and suspicious, nagged at him. Had he been set up? The cryptic note from home, "The truth will cost you," burned in his memory. Who slipped it under the door?
His kidney donation left him weak, the surgical scar aching beneath his jumpsuit. He had saved David's life, yet here he was, labeled a traitor. The irony stung. He thought of his mother, Mrs. Adams, her wheelchair a constant reminder of her sacrifice. Would she survive this betrayal?