Mason Armstrong encouraged Terry, following him inside the Sprinter with some difficulty. Armstrong, the chief of internal security for Walcott Global, had a painful, bothersome limp in his left leg, an unwanted memento of his days in the US Secret Service. He had been in the service of President Bill Clinton, a president so peaceful that few people still remembered the 1994 assassination attempt that took place at the White House. Armstrong did, however, because one of the bullets fired on that day by the attacker’s semiautomatic weapon had shattered his femur, leaving him crippled and desk-ridden since he was thirty-one. Despite several rounds of reconstructive surgery, Mason never walked straight again, and every time he put his weight on that leg it was a painful reminder of what a single fateful moment can take from one’s life. None of that pain showed on his face though. Completely bald and clean-shaven, with features that appeared carved in stone, immobile, and free of any emotion, Armstrong was perfectly suited for the high-stress job he had.
