by RJ Blain
The worry in Randal’s voice amused me so much I flashed a grin at him. “That would be telling.”
“Ignore her, Agent Randal. I’m certain she’s merely exploiting an opportunity to tease. It’s something women are very adept at, and it’s a specialty of feline species. Add in the fact she’s a Siberian, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to authorize a raise in your pay for the duration of her time as your principal. Honestly, I feel rather guilty my wife coerced you into accepting your detail.”
“It’ll be a memorable conclusion to my career, sir.”
“Don’t tell my wife, but she is the prettiest woman with a protective detail at current. Maybe they are jealous.”
To their credit, not a single one of the Secret Service agents reacted to the First Gentleman’s commentary, instead watching the crowd while we rode through Charlotte. “I think they’re doing their job,” I suggested. “And since I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do if something does go wrong, Agent Randal is pretending he’s my shadow. But we could go with the jealousy theory. I just thought I’d maim anyone who bothered me. I’ve been told Siberian tigresses have a tendency to maim people.”
I skirted the truth; no one had told me about such a tendency, but I recognized my shortened temper and my knee-jerk reactions, which usually resulted in violence. Anatoly had suffered from my temper, but he was the only one I had any desire to actually bite.
I hoped I adjusted—and controlled—that urge before it caused me a great deal of trouble—trouble Anatoly wanted, if his insistence on invading my personal space meant anything. Remembering his challenges annoyed a soft huff out of me, and I joined the security detail in watching out for anything suspicious.
A fight would serve as a suitable outlet for my frustrations.
Unfortunately, no one seemed hostile to the First Gentleman. Most watched with open curiosity, clearing the street without the detail having to lift a finger. Before Starfall, the Secret Service had had a harder time protecting the President; guns and their lethal ammunition killed from a distance. Mystics could, as could an archer, but both types of attacks were easier to counter.
While arrows could fly far, they were obvious. Blow darts could inject lethal poison, but accuracy mattered, and a breeze could mean the difference between a hit or a miss. Anatoly had dodged sedation or death at the cost of a good horse.
I wondered how Todd and Anatoly fit into everything. Why them?
Gentry, Henry, and I would have been better targets for anyone who wanted the Hope Diamond, and I couldn’t imagine anyone needing a good horse going after Todd. Controlling a shifter took a lot of leverage, something I doubted anyone could get on the stallion guild master.
I felt like I was trying to assemble a puzzle without any idea of what it pictured. No matter how long or hard I thought about it, nothing made sense. Nothing fit together, but there were too many coincidences for them to be totally unrelated.
We made it to the National Archive without incident, and I itched to work off my growing tension. I dismounted and thrust the mare’s reins into the hands of a waiting stableman.
The First Gentleman chuckled. “You look like you’re itching for a fight. Rematch on the mat tonight?”
I sighed at my slip and straightened, forcing myself to cease fidgeting. “If you promise you won’t electrocute me again, I’m game.”
“It’s a deal. No electrocutions.”
I thought about his offer. “You’re trying to rile Anatoly up, aren’t you?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“No, he’s just easy,” I muttered.
“Single male tiger. What do you expect?”
“Dignity?”
“From a shifter hunting for a life-long mate? Are you serious? The stories I could tell you about trying to convince a grizzly a little, harmless bunny was good enough for her and her family. Stereotypes exist for a reason. I’m pretty sure Gentry sometimes pulls out his fancy swords and sharpens them to remind me of my species’ tendency to roam. I think he’s crazy, personally. It’s hard enough for me to keep up with a woman like Steph. Why would I want two?”
“Remind me to thank Madam President for her sacrifice,” I muttered.
The First Gentleman’s glare promised hell later.
The National Archive remained closed to the public, but unlike my visit with Randal, no one questioned the First Gentleman’s presence; the guards opened the doors without a word. One of the older men in the Presidential detail announced his arrival at the location.
“Blueprints first,” he ordered, gesturing to me.
I sighed and led him to the fourth floor, went to the back, and entered the room where the blueprints of Federal buildings resided, which was tucked in a corner hidden behind a bunch of shelves. I went to the drawer marked as the National Archive and pointed at it. “Blueprints.”
“Okay, now I’m very disturbed. There are blueprints for the mayoral palace here, too. And the White House.”
“Well, before it sank. I suppose you could rebuild it if you really wanted.” I pulled out the file containing the National Archive blueprints and started paging through the two-inch thick mess. I located one of the pages noting the ducts and held it out to the First Gentleman. “Your mystery is no longer mysterious, is it?”
The First Gentleman took the paper, headed to the single table in the center of the filing room, and spread it out. “Can you explain the notations?”
Setting the file on a chair, I pointed at one of the ducts, which was marked in a different color from the rest of the floor plan. “These lines, sir.” Since I couldn’t resist the urge, I directed his attention to the corner of the page, which contained a legend of the colors and more standard notations, something most blueprints didn’t offer. “It even comes with a legend for your use, sir.”
“I can see how that would be helpful for someone learning to read blueprints without a formal education.”
“Fancy,” I agreed, leafing through the rest of the blueprints for anything of interest. A schematic of the camera installations caught my attention, and I inspected it, frowning at the lack of surveillance in many of the rooms. “Have the recordings of the hallways already been checked?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t mind seeing them again. It’s a good way to verify who was in the building at the time.”
I gathered the blueprints and returned them to their rightful place.
The First Gentleman turned to his detail. “I want a copy of the White House blueprints delivered to the mayoral palace. It might come in useful for our expansion plans.”
One of the men nodded, stepped back a few paces, and relayed the order.
“Come along then, Runs Against Wind. I think you’ll find the surveillance room interesting.”
Our destination was on the third floor, hidden in the maze of hallways surrounding the main library. I heard the room long before we arrived; the hum of electronics and fans buzzed in my ear, the sound grating on my every nerve. By the time we reached the room, I was reduced to agitated hisses.
“It’s not pleasant for bunnies, either,” the First Gentleman admitted. The detail opened a large, metal door, and the sound intensified. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t do something embarrassing, like roaring at the presence of machines.
I’d gotten too used to the still quiet of the roads between towns and the tech-limited city of Cheyenne.
“Please tell me you’ve used a computer before.”
“I write with a pen like a sane person. I’ve seen them used. I just haven’t used one myself. I’ve been taught how, but the techs use the computers. I just hand in slips. No one has asked me to use one on any of my routes.”
The First Gentleman’s eyes widened. “Phones?”
“I’m not completely deficient in the tech department. I’ve used a phone.”
“Television?”
“Once or twice,” I admitted.
“Where the hell have you been living for the past ten years? Unde
r a rock?”
“Cheyenne.”
“Right. Close enough. Damn. This will complicate things. Just try not to roar. You could damage something if you roar.”
“Roar?” a man asked from inside the room. “Are you bringing that insufferable tiger in here again, sir?”
“Worse, an insufferable new tigress who has a gap in her education regarding tech, apparently.” The First Gentleman marched into the room. “I want to look over the footage from an hour before the shift change prior to the Hope Diamond’s theft.”
“Of course, sir. Please, make yourself comfortable. It won’t be long.”
Randal placed his hand on my back and gave a gentle push forward. “Nothing in there bites. It’s just very noisy, but you’ll get used to it in a few minutes. It’s too cramped for more than a few people in there at a time, so we’ll be on guard in the hallway.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, stepping into the room.
Ten large displays clung to the wall on metal brackets too narrow for my comfort, as I imagined the screens smacking into the floor and breaking into thousands of tiny pieces. The hum came from a tall case full of wires and flashing lights, which filled the rest of the room.
The young man seated on a stool worked at a trio of keyboards, his attention focused on the central—and largest—of the displays. Tousled, black hair stood out against skin in dire need of exposure to the sun. I stared at the displays, which showed parts of the National Archive, and a streak of movement captured my attention.
The center screen showed men and women moving through the National Archive’s lobby, the angle implying the camera was mounted in some out-of-reach corner.
“Dude. She’s native.”
I jumped and opened my mouth, but the First Gentleman clapped his hand across the lower half of my face. “No roaring. Sorry, Kyle. She’s really bad at controlling her instincts, and when she’s startled, she roars. She’s an honorary native. I’m not actually sure what her background is beyond that. She’s from Cheyenne. Her name is Runs Against Wind. Have you compiled a list of everyone who was confirmed in the building during the theft?”
“Yes, sir.” Kyle jabbed one of his keyboards with a finger, and several moments later, a printer whirred to life, spitting out two sheets of paper.
“I think it’s polite to say I’m biracial,” I offered, thinking about my aunt’s hereditary background, which included Mexican and Native American, which meant I had some native blood at least. “I have at least some trace amounts of Native American. I’m more Caucasian than anything else.”
The Blade Clan had a very diverse bloodline, but few African or Asian descent women were willing to enter into a contract with the clan, as far as I was aware, which resulted in higher percentage of Caucasian blood with my mother being a rare exception.
Either that, or something about the clan’s magic made everyone come across as Caucasian with a hint of something else, something closer to Native American than European.
Then again, a grizzly being willing to enter into a contract with a weapon clan probably counted as the most rare of exceptions, second only to Anatoly’s sister gambling at age ten on spending the rest of her life bound to someone in the Blade Clan—me. For the first time in my life, without regret, I was grateful I had chosen to become a woman instead of a man.
“Now, Madam President, she’s biracial; she’s got those earthy tones of a native, and her eyes are all from south of the border. Doesn’t look like there’s anything biracial about you, ma’am. You look like one of those feather wearers out from the mountains.”
Kyle’s casual talk startled me so much my mouth dropped open without a single sound emerging. The First Gentleman kept his hand clapped over my face, tense as though expecting me to let loose with my loudest roar. The way he held me didn’t prevent me from speaking, but it took several swallows before I managed to croak out, “Feather wearers?”
Kyle grimaced. “That was a bad way of phrasing that, wasn’t it?”
With a strained laugh, the First Gentleman lowered his hand from my face and gestured to the white bald eagle feather clipped to my hair. “That feather summoned a Cheyenne totem spirit, Kyle.”
“Crap.”
“The woman wields a Blade Clan sword.”
“Double crap.”
“She dropped me on the mat yesterday, too.”
“Aw, man. I’m gonna get beat, aren’t I?” If the young tech was worried, he showed no sign of it, turning to his keyboards and tapping in a few commands. “So, here’s the clips you want, sir. What data do you want on the display?”
“Timestamps should be enough,” the First Gentleman replied, taking a moment to close the door before hovering over Kyle’s shoulder. The hum intensified, and I rubbed my ears with a grimace. “Come on over here, Runs Against Wind. I need your eyes on this.”
“Why me?”
“From my understanding, it’s highly likely you’ll be very good at this sort of work.”
“Better than them?” I asked, pointing over my shoulder at the door with my thumb.
“Not only better, but quite possibly a lot more loyal and a lot less likely to twist the truth on me.”
Kyle spun on his stool to face us. “That doesn’t sound promising, sir.”
“We figured out the method, and we know it was an inside job. So, I need you to verify who was, without a doubt, inside the building at the time of the theft. That’s one thing I know you have locked down; no one gets in or out of this building without it being spotted on one of the cameras. Right?”
“Sure thing, sir. All exterior walls are monitored, the roof is monitored, and I even have a few cameras tucked away in the sewers in case anyone gets any shitty ideas.”
A groan slipped out before I could stop it. “That’s disgusting.”
“True, though. All right. I already made a list of everyone who was in and out and when. You still want to review it?”
“Yes. Runs Against Wind, watch the entire sequence with me. If you spot anything, I want to know. Even if it’s something about the lighting, I want to know. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, straightening and focusing my attention on the display. A timestamp appeared in the lower left corner, and I settled in to watch the flow of people entering and leaving the building. According to the clock, Kyle played it four times faster than real time, which amused me so much I kept staring at the numbers rather than the people.
A few minutes into the viewing, one of the Secret Service agents entering the building captured my attention, his body a little tenser than everyone else, his head ducked a bit more than the prideful stride of his fellows, something off about his bearing. “Wait.” The film halted, turning into a still picture. I pointed at the agent. “Who is that?”
The First Gentleman stared at me, and both of his eyebrows rose. “Before I answer that question, I want to know why you want to know.”
“Can you turn that thing backwards a bit?”
Kyle laughed. “Of course I can. How far back do you want me to go?”
“Right before he comes into view?”
“Easily done, ma’am.” Within a few seconds, Kyle had the video where I wanted. “I’ll play this back in real time.”
The act of watching people—real people, not actors—moving on the screen intrigued me. I picked one of the normal Secret Service agents. “See this guy here? Look at how he’s walking.”
“It looks normal to me,” the First Gentleman replied, his tone doubtful.
“Exactly. He’s proud, doing his job, getting a good look around him as he goes inside. He’s scoping out the place, right?”
Both men stared at me. Kyle paused the video. The First Gentleman’s brows rose even higher. “Scoping? Did you just say scoping?”
“What’s wrong with scoping?”
“You didn’t strike me as the type who’d be into gun handling. I usually only hear that from military types who’ve gotten to go into combustion zones.”
&nb
sp; I blinked. “Oh. I’ve fired a gun before. And archers do it, too—lots of them like to think they’re as good as a gun.”
“You’ve fired a gun. Now you’re really surprising me. What sort of gun?”
I scowled and shrugged. “It didn’t work all that well.”
“Guns typically don’t. You’re just full of surprises. Did you actually fire it, or did the trigger just jam on you?”
“Combustion zone,” I replied. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the complete truth, either. For me, anywhere could be a combustion zone if I really, really wanted it enough. The gun I had fired during a tribal remembrance ritual couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at point-blank range, and I blamed the weapon’s age. The tribe had a few ancient rifles from when their lands were invaded at the dawn of American civilization—if anyone could call the slaughter of so many people civilized. I couldn’t. The ceremony reminded the tribe of what they had endured, their survival, and their bloody, sad history. “Anyway, he’s scoping out the place. He’s looking for anyone who might be doing something they shouldn’t be doing. He’s acting like your stereotypical Secret Service agent. Simmons and Randal do the same thing, as do the people on your detail.”
“He’s being attentive.”
I huffed and pointed at several other agents also in the picture. “These people are all doing the same thing. They’re attentively checking the whole place over.”
The First Gentleman sighed. “I’m going to ask an archer if he scopes anything out, and if I’m laughed at for using a gunslinger term on an archer, I’m going to drop your ass on the mat so hard your boyfriend tries to maul me.”
My face flushed. “Boyfriend?”
“That’s typically what women call men they’re interested in.”
I hung my head and rubbed my brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Your boyfriend, the young man I spent a good portion of the day chasing through Dawnfire to assault on behalf of my beautiful wife so she could give him to Gentry as a present. That boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe because he said I had to challenge the entire Blade Clan if I wanted him?” The instant the words left my mouth, I regretted them, and I slapped my hands over my lips to keep anything else embarrassing from spilling out.