Instead of The Beast, I dive into the motorcade vehicle right behind the ambulance, where I point out the windshield. “Follow that fucking ambulance to the hospital!”
Two of my agents jumped in with me, and the driver tries to argue with me. “Sir, we need to get you—”
“To the fucking hospital! That’s a goddamned direct order and don’t make me fucking call Eisenthal!”
Because I fucking will.
The agent punches it, pulling out behind the ambulance and riding about three feet off its rear bumper.
Behind us, agents are scrambling to follow.
I know my detail isn’t happy with me, and I don’t fucking care. Protocol dictates they whisk me away to a secure location, but I’ll be damned if they’ll separate me from Kev and I won’t know if he’s alive or dead.
Another thought hits me. It’s been maybe less than two minutes since the shooting, even though it already feels like an eternity.
I lean over the seat to grab John’s shoulder, the agent who ended up riding shotgun. “Get Portia off the ground and in the air now,” I order. “Send her to Offutt.”
John turns. “Sir, sit back and put your goddamned seat belt on. We got this. You aren’t on The Shift anymore.”
He has a point. I buckle my seat belt. “Where’s the kids? Yasmine? Who has eyes on them?”
The world post-9/11 means the assumption is a coordinated attack, unless or until proven otherwise.
“Yasmine’s in class with Hudson. They’re safe. They won’t be moved unless we know there’s a threat, sir. We’ve already got extra agents inbound to the school. We can’t exfil them like this without putting the whole school on lockdown first and scaring the kids.”
Part of me hates that they can’t go to public school like regular kids. I hate that they are stuck in classrooms with the elite and rich, and that it might later lead to a detachment from what the average person feels and experiences.
Unfortunately, it’s necessary, based on how we lost Charles and Tory, and Lauren. I can’t risk their lives. Tory’s parents can’t raise them—not that they are physically capable of it at their ages—because then the security logistics become a nightmare.
Besides, Charles asked me to take them. And I love them.
Who knew being a parent could be so goddamned scary?
John turns again, frowning. “Sir, are you hurt?” I realize he’s looking at my hands.
At Kev’s blood on my hands.
And I’ve got his glasses and portfolio, which also has blood on it.
“No,” I finally say. “I’m fine. It’s not mine. It’s—” I have to clamp down on it. I can’t say it.
I’ve drawn and tasted his blood before, but not like this, in such copious, terrifying amounts.
Life-threatening amounts.
It’s only my past training that keeps me from bursting into tears.
It feels like forever to reach the hospital, and I’m about to fight my way out of the car because they force me to hold at the ambulance bay until they can clear a small consult room close to the OR suites to put me in and sit on me after a turn through a bathroom to wash his blood off my hands. There’s still some on my jacket, on the cuffs of my shirt, but I don’t worry about that.
If he had anything, I’d have it, too, and so would Shae.
Kev’s alive and rushed immediately into surgery, so there’s that going for him. The paramedics who transported him train for trauma situations just like this.
Another point in Kev’s favor.
He’s in good health and doesn’t smoke or anything.
I belatedly think about whether he’s marked up and realize it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to make excuses even if he is marked.
How did I get from our playfully frisky morning, where he tied my tie for me, to this nightmare?
I reach up to my throat and touch the knot, part of me reluctant to take it off now because he tied it for me.
Sure, it’s silly and superstitious, and I know me removing my tie will have zero impact on the skilled surgeons fighting to save Kev’s life, but still…
I can’t help it.
From left field, my earlier premonition sneaks back into my mind, and I wonder about this.
Why did I work the rope? I wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t in the plan, but I saw the group of kids standing there and wanted to give them a good memory—and give Shae a good optic for the news.
This is what sums up my entire job: PR. I am public relations. I might help a charity or champion a cause, but it’s all public relations for Shae’s administration, the Democratic party, and helping set up Elliot’s run for POTUS.
I slump in my chair. I broke protocol. Had I just gone straight inside, I’d have been okay.
Had I worn body armor, maybe Kev wouldn’t have jumped in front of me.
Had I not veered from the plan…
I close my eyes and, for the first time since I was a kid, I say prayers.
Please don’t take my boy from me.
Chapter Twelve
Longest three hours of my life before the surgeon emerges to brief me and let me know they’ll be bringing Kevin out soon. Meanwhile, Angie has held an emergency press briefing with the basics of what they know, and will conduct a full one at five p.m. in the White House. All other questions are being directed to the FBI and Secret Service.
I refuse to give an on-camera statement because, honestly? I’m not sure I can without crying, and there’s a fine point between moving others to emotions and looking like a guy trying to capitalize on a situation.
Since no one knows about Kev’s true relationship to us, I’m worried Prophet would yell at me for giving a live statement this soon when I can’t control my emotions. My office issues a brief statement through Angie’s office.
Once Kevin’s out of surgery, he’s moved straight into a private room right off the ICU that’s usually an isolation room for infectious cases. Because of the circumstances, I’m allowed in there, with my detail.
I sit there, cradling Kevin’s glasses and portfolio in my hands and unable to believe this turn of events.
That’s when his dick of a father shows up.
I’ve already been warned by the head of my detail that he was inbound, and given the option to keep him out, but I tell them to let him through.
I’m still pissed I have to share this vigil with the man when I know how Kev really feels about him.
And about how basically he’s the main reason Kev and I couldn’t be together years ago.
This is nothing more than optics for the guy, and I fucking damn well know it.
But the optics look worse—for me and Shae, and in turn, Elliot—if I ban him from the hospital.
Keep in mind Kev hasn’t seen his father in person, much less spoken with him, in five years now. Not since the night the fucker showed up at the townhouse a few weeks after Shae’s first election.
Representative Edwin Markos’ bellowing voice precedes him in the hallway, sending the Secret Service detail in the room snapping into alert readiness as he thunders through the door.
He looks at me, a dark glare filling his muddy brown eyes before he hooks a thumb over his shoulder, his meaning clear. “You. Out.”
I tip my head back, looking away from him and back at Kev before I speak. “Fuck you, old man,” I quietly say.
If it wasn’t for the way the four suits step in, two of them directly in front of me, I’m sure the man would have laid hands on me.
Instead, he sneers. “You’re the reason my son’s dying. You and that goddamned bitch wife of yours. Out.”
I don’t raise my voice. “He’s critical, but stable. And I said fuck. You.”
Fuck optics—Kev is my boy. Edwin Markos lost any claim to Kev the night I met him in Daytona and made him mine.
Apparently no one’s ever told him no before, because the old bastard doesn’t give up. “I wasn’t asking—I was telling. Get out. Now.”
“I’
m not going anywhere.”
“I don’t give a shit you’re married to that woman—I’ll have you thrown out of this hospital. You’re not his family.”
The fuck I’m not.
I’m more family to Kev than this bastard is.
I still don’t raise my voice. “I have a notarized durable medical power of attorney that says otherwise, old man. It also means I can have you thrown out. Don’t think I won’t, either, Congressman Markos.”
Game set and match. Under the circumstances, I take little satisfaction in the way his eyes bug and his jaw gapes. “What! I’m his father!”
Yeah? Well, he’s my boy.
That’s not what I say, obviously.
I settle back in my chair and drop my voice, finally looking his way. “Then I guess you shouldn’t have been a dick to him, huh? Maybe you should have made an effort to repair your relationship with him. You haven’t seen him in five damn years. He’s my best friend, my brother. I know your son far better than you could ever hope to, which is why he asked me to hold his power of attorney years ago. You want his attorney’s number? He’ll back me up on this. So I suggest you settle your shit down, right now, and slow your roll before I ask these eager gentlemen to escort you out of the building. Because my wife happens to be POTUS, they’re itching for an ass to beat, and I’m sure she’d issue pardons to all of us for beating your ass.”
John stands closest to the guy, and I watch the way he clenches his fists, almost aching for me to give the word to do exactly that. They’re all upset it’s Kev in the bed and not one of them. They’d love an excuse to rough this guy up as they evict him.
How do I know this?
Because I know.
Because I wish it was me in that bed right now.
Because if my position was reversed with any of the agents in my detail, I would still wish it was me in that bed right now.
These guys probably won’t sleep until Kev turns a corner and is pronounced out of the woods. They won’t sleep until I finally sleep.
And I won’t sleep until he turns a corner.
I know all of this.
I know.
Because they will all be haunted for the rest of their lives by the bullet they should have taken.
Just like I will be haunted by the fact that I should’ve been wearing body armor, and I wasn’t. That I broke protocol, and it was Kev who put himself in harm’s way.
That my boy, who’s had zero protective training, threw himself in front of me, a retired Secret Service agent who worked PPD.
That the man I swore to kill and die for, to love and protect and cherish, took a bullet for me.
A bullet intended for me.
The special agents in my detail will also blame themselves far more than they should because I blame myself the most. I broke protocol to work the rope without giving adequate notice. Had I followed the plan and kept moving, we would have been inside the building. There wouldn’t have been a gap in coverage.
That’s all on me.
Worse, I knew all this shit, and I still went for the photo op because I was thinking ahead to the elections, to help Elliot. I saw those happy, eager little kids, and I wanted them to have a good memory.
Kevin hung back because of me, not wanting to walk ahead of me.
Because he’s my good boy, and according to public protocol, he’s supposed to follow me because he’s Shae’s chief of staff.
It also allowed the asshole time to reach the rope.
We hit an impasse as I stare at the congressman. He was probably very imposing in his younger days, one of those men who’s actually deeply insecure so he’s all bluff and bluster trying to make people bend to his will.
I see through him.
I have nothing to bend.
Right now, my focus is Kev, and I won’t leave his side until he fucking opens his goddamned eyes and I know he will be okay.
The asshole mentally regroups and straightens. “May I have a few minutes alone with my son?”
I wouldn’t put it past him to take a picture of Kev like this and release it to the press in some sort of sick attempt to turn this around to get sympathy for himself.
“No.” I look at the glasses in my hands. “You can find a chair and drag it in here and wait with me, but I’m not leaving.” There are times I feel somewhat guilty that my former coworkers are now in a position of having to protect my ass.
This is not one of those times, because if they weren’t here, I would have already punched the motherfucker in his goddamned mouth.
I’m reasonably sure being the First Spouse won’t give me much legal protection, either. The pardon quip aside, that only works for federal crimes, not state and local ones.
Another impasse. The guy finally looks at one of my detail. “Go get me a chair.”
“No,” I say, not that the agent was about to do it in the first place. “They’re not allowed to leave me. You go find your own damn chair and drag it in here, asshole. They’re not here for you.”
John disguises his laughter as a cough.
I know that’s what he’s doing, because I heard him cough exactly like that more than once when we worked The Shift together.
Hell, I can’t count how often I’ve coughed like that myself.
“Apparently they damn sure weren’t here for my son, either.”
I feel all of them tense again, the very air in the room shifting as they lean in, waiting for the word from me. We’re brothers in this way, and they know I won’t rat them out if they lay hands on the guy.
“Either get your own fucking chair, or get the hell out of here,” I say. “Because you are about to talk yourself into an interrogation session I’d be happy to view the highlight reel of at a later time.” I stand, and that’s when the guy finally realizes I’m two inches taller than him and have at least thirty pounds more solid muscle than him, not to mention about twenty-five years to the younger. “And I’ll be happy to throw your ass out of here personally, Congressman Markos.” I offer a chilly smile. “Just give me a reason.”
After finally processing the expressions on the faces of the men surrounding me, the asshole finally seems to understand the odds are against him. He turns, retreating into the hallway where we all hear him angrily ranting to staff about needing a chair and wanting to talk to a doctor.
They might help him with the first, but they won’t help him with the second. I’ve already left strict orders I am the only one who will receive information about Kev’s condition, and only I will release that information to others.
John leans in as I retake my seat. “Just say the word,” he murmurs. “Please.”
“Believe me, I might.”
* * * *
Shae texts me an hour later.
How is he?
I know this is hard on her, too. She loves Kev as much as I do, but she’s in a spectacularly vulnerable position in terms of PR, not to mention logistics. She has to react as if he’s a beloved family friend and treasured staff, not the third in our bed. We can’t screw things up for Elliot.
I’m guessing she’s probably on Air Force One. As soon as word of the attack blasted over the radios, her heels likely didn’t touch the ground as the agents working The Shift grabbed her and bolted for The Beast to get her to the airstrip and in the air. It’s SOP for situations like this, especially when we don’t know if it’s a one-off attack or part of a larger plan, a distraction.
Although, at this point, it’s looking more and more like an idiotic lone gunman, maybe an FNB die-hard sheeple who probably thinks Fox News is too liberal, if the news reports I’m seeing are close to accurate.
Except they probably aren’t accurate. They rarely are this soon, and I haven’t even been briefed yet.
I have made a point of ignoring the man occupying the other chair in the room, a man who quickly realizes I absolutely meant what I said about not releasing any information—or control—to him.
Still, my thumbs hesitate over my phone�
��s screen before I respond. Said response will be kept as brief as possible. We’re always cognizant that, especially in times like this, someone would love to intercept our personal communications. If that ever happens, we need to make sure they’re as banal as possible.
Unchanged.
Kev would kick both our asses if we blow this over him, I know he would. He’s vested too much of his own energy into this venture with us. Maybe it started with me forcing him into it, but the kiss he laid on me that night when we realized yes, Shae had done it, will forever remain etched in my memory.
My gaze lifts, staring at the monitors marking his life, before settling on his face. On the ventilator tube pumping air into his lungs. The scrape on his forehead where he hit the ground after diving between me and death.
The IV bags dripping fluids and antibiotics and pain and sedation meds into his veins.
My boy.
And, right now, all I want to do is curl up next to him in that bed and sob, and I can’t.
Not even because of Congressman Edwin Markos sullenly glaring at me from less than ten feet away.
But because it would piss Kev off if I break the act and risk Shae’s reputation. Because my boy has, somehow, perfectly encapsulated what a chief of staff to POTUS should be.
Because of him, and the hard work, the sweat and tears—and literal blood—he poured into Shae’s career, she hit the pinnacle.
I mean, professionally, where do you go from here without running for office yourself?
You don’t.
He would kick my ass for jeopardizing things, and I couldn’t even be mad at him for it.
If only he were awake eyes open and able to glare at me for possibly risking everything, I’d gladly take every bit of it and more.
Just to know he’ll be all right.
Because if my boy isn’t all right?
Desire (Determination Trilogy 3) Page 10