Saving Liberty (Kissing #6)

by Helena Newbury

  There was another side to it, too. The Vice President was promising a massive increase in surveillance, with facial-recognition cameras on every street. We would all become permanent suspects: watched, judged and, where necessary, spirited away to secret detention centers. There were very few checks and balances—anyone suggesting adding more was accused of being on the side of the terrorists. So the people watching the cameras would quickly become as corrupt as the goons on the streets. You’d find yourself dragged into a van, screaming and helpless, a bag over your head, because some guy at a monitoring station disagreed with something you’d said... or, terrifyingly, because you met him in a bar the night before and turned him down.

  It was terrifying. But the scariest part was why Kerrigan was doing this.

  Before he took office, the Vice President was CEO of Rexortech: the world’s largest private military contractor and surveillance company. They’d get the contract if this whole thing happened: every security officer, every camera. Rexortech would make billions of dollars and Kerrigan would return to them and become a billionaire. That was one reason. It was sickening, but it wasn’t the worst one.

  The worst reason was something you only got a hint of if you were around Kerrigan long enough, as I had been. Just occasionally, when he looked away from the cameras and dropped his smile for a second, you’d catch a glimpse of something... vicious. A child’s cruel anger. Something must have happened to him when he was young: maybe he was bullied, maybe the prom queen laughed at him when he asked her for a date, I don’t know. But someone had made him feel small and he’d never moved past it. I figured the Guardian Act was his revenge: if it went through, he and Rexortech would have total control over everyone in the country.

  Fortunately, he was facing off against my dad. And the look on my dad’s face said it all: no way was he going to let Kerrigan turn America into—as he put it—a goddamn police state. His hand landed on my other shoulder, warm and possessive. Kerrigan’s hand slid away, leaving my skin clammy under my blouse.

  We both watched him walk away. With every step he took, I felt a little better. I had to resist the urge to shudder. “You can’t let him push his bill through,” I muttered.

  My dad pulled me into a hug and then kissed the top of my head. “I won’t,” he told me.

  Except it wasn’t as easy as that. In theory, the VP should support the President. In practice, my dad needed him: his youth and tech-savvy was the whole reason my dad put him on the ticket when he ran for election. And Kerrigan’s rose-tinted vision of an ultra-secure America sounded good to a lot of terrified voters. They couldn’t understand why my dad wasn’t jumping on board.

  My dad drew back and looked at me. When he saw the worry in my eyes, he pulled me into the Oval Office and pushed the door closed behind us. “I have to humor him a little,” he said. “That’s the climate, right now. But I’m not going to let him turn this country into a prison, especially not one guarded by his private goon squad.” He squeezed my shoulders. “Not on my watch.”

  I smiled and relaxed a little. Of course he’d never let it happen. And I was aware that part of the reason I was so focused on Kerrigan was because it took my mind off the freezing, dark fear that rose up every time I thought about going out in public.

  “You sure about tonight?” my dad asked.

  I nodded quickly. “Absolutely.” I kissed his cheek and ran off to get ready before I could change my mind.

  ***

  A few hours later, I was sitting in the back of a limo with my dad, gliding through the DC streets. Sitting across from me was my new Secret Service bodyguard, Daniel “call me Dan” Hudson. Technically, he’d been assigned to me for a month, ever since Hale had been shot, but this was the first time I’d been out. He seemed nice: serious and yet friendly, but…

  ... but he didn’t make me feel protected the way Kian had. I could feel the panic churning inside me, ready to explode, and looking at Hudson did nothing to calm it.

  Beside Hudson was Harlan Tate, my dad’s chief bodyguard since the day he took office and the chief bodyguard of two presidents before that. Harlan reminded me of a big, solemn, utterly faithful Labrador. Of all the Secret Service, I liked him the most. He almost felt like an uncle.

  But even his presence didn’t make me feel safe. The closer we got to the John F. Kennedy Center, the more I tensed up. I could feel the freezing black water rising by the second, threatening to drown me, and I couldn’t stop it no matter how hard I tried. I had my heels pressed against the floor of the limo to stop them from shaking and the tendons in my legs felt like they were straining so hard they were about to snap. I knew the limo was bulletproof but, the second I’d stepped outside the White House, I’d felt like I was an ant again, crawling across a tabletop, waiting for the fist to strike. We’d have no warning….

  The limo came to a stop. I knew the exit order because we’d been through it a thousand times. Harlan first, then my dad. Then me, then Hudson behind me. Easy.

  I watched my dad step from the limo. I swung my legs out so that I was facing the red carpet and heard the constant clicking of the cameras for the first time.

  It’ll be fine.

  I pushed myself upright and the scene turned white as the cameras turned towards me and a hundred flashes went off at once.

  It’s all fine.

  I took a step forward, cautious in my heels. I was still a little shaky without crutches but I could do it if I concentrated and I was determined to prove I was back to normal. One foot in front of the other.

  The cameras went clickclickclickclickclick.

  And, suddenly, it wasn’t fine at all.

  Emily

  It started with the pain in my leg. It had been a dull ache when I stepped from the car but now it was heating and blossoming, turning scalding red and sharp-edged. I stopped walking and focused on maintaining my smile: I didn’t want the headlines to be President’s daughter bravely battles injury. I wasn’t brave; I was a coward for being scared.

  But stopping didn’t help. The pain grew and grew, cutting deeper and sending jolts up and down my leg. What the hell is going on? I looked down at my leg, expecting to see fresh blood welling from the wounds, but the scars were just the familiar dark circles under my nylons.

  Clickclickclickclickclick

  I tried to take another step but now it wasn’t just the pain that stopped me: I was rooted to the spot, just as I had been when the first shot rang out in the park. I looked ahead of me to the crowd: twenty-deep on each side, held back by flimsy red ropes. Everyone was smiling and cheering but that was irrelevant, like telling someone the water’s warm when they can’t swim.

  I can’t move. And it felt as if the whole world was rushing in towards me: photographers and the public, police and cars and barriers and buildings, all sliding inward to press into my mouth and ears and lungs and—

  I can’t breathe. Something was around my neck, crushing my windpipe invisibly and silently. I couldn’t draw air.

  I put my hand out to the side, grabbing for something... someone. I didn’t know who, at the time. But they weren’t there.

  There was a gentle push on my back. Hudson. I turned to him, eyes huge, and he blinked at me as if to say, what’s the problem? It wasn’t that he didn’t look concerned. It was that he didn’t look concerned for me. It was his first night properly on the job and he wanted everything to go well.

  “—get out,” I croaked. I couldn’t even manage a complete sentence.

  He tilted his head to one side and smiled blankly. Come on, his expression said, be a good girl. Play your part. He put his hand on my back and pushed a little harder.

  My feet didn’t move. I swayed in place and almost fell.

  Hudson frowned and he couldn’t stop just a hint of frustration from showing. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be inside in a sec’.”

  I stared at the gaping black maw of the John F. Kennedy Center. A building wasn’t safer. It meant shadows where people cou
ld lurk, people who wanted to hurt me. Only the White House was safe.

  I spun around to face the motorcade and tried to walk forward, but hit Hudson’s strong chest. “Whoah,” he said, slightly panicked. “Wait…”

  I still couldn’t pull in air. My heart was thumping faster and faster and every thunderous beat ratcheted the fear higher and higher in my chest.

  The press noticed first. As I cast frantic glances around me, a ripple went through them. Cameras and video cameras swung my way, capturing my pale skin and the dark “O” of my mouth.

  I pushed at Hudson’s chest, which was like pushing on a brick wall. I have to go, I have to get out of here, I wanted to say. But it came out as a hysterical, fractured shriek. “Go!” Whose voice was that? It wasn’t mine.

  Hudson was genuinely panicked, now, and looked around for assistance, unsure of what he should do. That only made my own panic worse. There was one tiny part of me that was still calm: it seemed to bob above the whole scene like a balloon on a string, watching my freak-out with dismay as it tried to claw back control. But any second, I was going to lose that, too. I was sinking into that black, icy fear: it was up to my shoulders, my neck, flooding in through my lips and drowning me—

  When I glanced back over my shoulder, Harlan had picked up on what was happening. He looked torn: my dad was moving and he had to stay with my dad no matter what. But I was clearly going into full-on meltdown before his eyes. I’m sorry! I thought. I don’t know what’s happening!

  I tried to sidestep around Hudson but he blocked me as if I was drunk and he was trying to stop me walking into traffic. “Whoah,” he said again, and then he spoke for the benefit of his radio. “We have, um….a problem here with Emily.” He was flustered enough that he didn’t use the Secret Service codeword for me, which is Liberty.

  “Emily?” My dad’s voice. I twisted around and saw that he’d stopped just before the building’s doorway. That was bad. That was really bad. We’d all been drilled that the President mustn’t dawdle on that walk from the car to the building: every second he was exposed put him at risk.

  I was putting him at risk. Guilt joined the fear, I was putting everyone at risk because of some stupid... whatever the hell this was. And the press were right there recording it all: not just stills cameras but TV cameras broadcasting all of this live. I needed to snap out of it, right now. But I couldn’t.

  My heart wasn’t just racing, now. It was a constant stream of beats, barely discernible. I was beneath the black water, drowning fast. I hadn’t gotten air for what felt like hours and the world was going dark around the edges, narrowing down to a tunnel. The pressure was building and building: my chest ached with it, screamed with it.

  I ran.

  I bolted so fast that I took Hudson by surprise. I shot along the side of the motorcade, searching for a gap between the vehicles where I could race across the street to where my animal brain said it was quieter, safer.

  Absolute chaos erupted. The Secret Service had prepared for every possible threat... but not for me to go psycho and try to evade them. Was procedure to evacuate the whole family or just me? And how do you evacuate someone who’s trying to escape?

  A Secret Service agent the size and shape of a linebacker stepped in front of me and tackled me, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me clear of the ground. I flailed and kicked, catching him in the knee with the point of my shoe, and he gritted his teeth. The crowd, which had been clapping and cheering, grew eerily silent. I could imagine hands going to horrified mouths, lips being bitten... and a thousand camera phones clicking.

  Harlan took control. “Liberty to Castle, go!” he snapped. Castle was the White House.

  The White House. Safety.

  I was bundled headfirst into the limo. The interior should have been dim but it was being lit up almost continually by the flash of cameras from behind me. I felt the bodyguards pile in alongside me and then we were screeching away from the curb. I looked up through the rear window and saw my dad being bundled into the car behind me. No! He was having to leave, too. The whole evening was ruined because of me!

  “Emily?” said Hudson. “Emily?”

  The darkness at the edges of my vision closed in... and I passed out.

  ***

  Two hours later, I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom with my ear pressed up against the door. Dr. Thorpe, a psychiatrist, had left me in my bed doped up with a sedative but I needed to know what they were saying about me so I’d staggered over to the door to listen.

  I could hear my dad’s hushed voice in the hallway outside, demanding answers. My mom was there, too. My emergency consultation with Dr. Thorpe should have been private, of course, but things like that go out the window when it’s the President asking.

  The first thing I heard was post-traumatic stress disorder. Which was ridiculous because that was something soldiers got, after being shot in Iraq. I didn’t have any right to have something like that. Just grow up, Emily! Get over it!

  “—not uncommon.” Dr. Thorpe was saying. “We can make progress, given time. But we should have started treatment much sooner after the event.”

  I heard my dad sigh. “We didn’t know. We thought she was okay.”

  I closed my eyes as the first hot tears rolled down my face. I wanted to be okay. I wanted to be the dutiful girl I’d always been, on hand for photo opportunities and interviews, supporting him. I was messing everything up.

  “—a sedative,” said Dr. Thorpe. “She’ll sleep now. But she needs to start seeing someone to address this.”

  A concerned question from my mom, too low to hear.

  “Months. It’s harder because she’s under so much pressure. Everything is harder when you’re doing it in public view.”

  I could imagine my parents nodding understandingly. I couldn’t hear their parting words but I could guess at them. We’ll give her as much time as she needs.

  I didn’t want more time. I wanted this thing out of me. I wanted me back.

  I put my head in my arms and wound up falling asleep like that, wet-cheeked and hunched up against the door.

  ***

  When I woke, fourteen hours had passed. It was the first uninterrupted night’s sleep I’d had since the shooting. My mind was full of half-remembered nightmares that I’d been too drugged to wake from but at least I was rested. It gave me enough energy to make a decision.

  I had to beat this thing.

  Therapy might help and I’d try that, too, but I knew myself and I’d watched this thing progress over the last month. The longer I hid away, the worse it was going to get. I had to get out there and face my fears: that’s what a President’s daughter should do, no matter how much my mom and dad tried to reassure me it was okay. Me being weak weakened them.

  What I needed was to feel safe. What would make me feel safe?

  I ran a deep, hot bath, climbed in and sat there with my knees bent and my arms wrapped around them, staring down into the water. I kept reliving the previous night. Clearly, crowds were a trigger. So were the press and their cameras. But what I kept remembering was that point just before the panic had fully taken hold, when I’d reached out for someone.

  I’d reached out for Kian.

  That’s stupid. I’d met the guy for the sum total of less than ten minutes. I knew almost nothing about him. And yet, at my darkest moment, it was him I’d wanted.

  He made me feel safe.

  Oh, get real! I pushed the thought away. Come up with a real solution!

  Medication, maybe. Millions of people were on some pill, for something. There was nothing wrong with it. But I had the horrible feeling that that would just disguise the problem, not fix it. Maybe I’d be able to sleep through the nightmares, as I had the night before, but they’d still be there. I’d still wake up each morning with the sick feeling that I’d died in the night, over and over.

  Kian. Even back in the park, as soon as he’d covered me with his body, he’d made me feel safe. And yes, I wasn’
t denying there was attraction there, too, deep and powerful. But it was more than that. I felt safe in the White House because of the thick walls and security but Kian made me feel protected, like an animal guarded by her mate.

  I squeezed my arms tighter around my knees. This was no time for infatuation. I needed a proper solution. My dad had asked if I’d be more comfortable with a female bodyguard, someone I could talk to. But I’d never had a problem with the men before—I didn’t in any way blame Hudson for what had happened, it was all on me. The Secret Service were fine: they looked after me.

  But they didn’t make me feel protected.

  Shut up, Emily!

  There was only one force on earth that did, right now. Whenever I thought of him, the fear receded a little. I remembered that whiskey-and-rock voice telling me it was going to be okay... and I believed it even now.

  Kian O’Harra.

  And finally, I just stood up, the water sluicing down my naked body, and said, out loud, “Okay.”

  If that’s what it took for me to get back to being me, if that was really the only option, then I’d do it.

  I dried off and dressed, went to my computer... and started hunting down Kian O’Harra.

  Kian

  I was nursing my fourth drink.

  Four is one too many, the tipping point. Three and the memories stay walled up. Four and they start to ooze out. Then I tend to need five to drown them out: sometimes six. And going down that path too often leads to problems.