by Radclyffe
“You probably won’t see much of us,” Dusty said. “We’ll be doing most of our work when the train is stopped, and you’ll be off covering the president.”
Viv frowned and straightened. “Would you let me know when? I can stay behind, at least a couple of times. You’re the story. My story, at any rate.”
Dusty felt a flush of pleasure, a rare sensation and a little disorienting. Putting Atlas through his paces for Vivian had been easy. She loved to work him and loved to show him off for an audience. But there’d been more to it today. She’d been aware of showing off herself a little bit. She liked the way Vivian watched them, both of them, as if they were both special, both interesting. Even the biting cold hadn’t seemed to put her off. The idea that Viv wanted to see her again— Dusty caught herself. That wasn’t really what Vivian had said. She wanted to see Atlas again. It was all about Atlas. “Sure. If you want.”
“I do. Maybe we can have breakfast or lunch on the train. Compare notes and you can let me know a good time.”
“As long as it’s cleared,” Dusty said. “And the shift leader approves.”
“Goes without saying. I’ll talk to the public affairs office tonight, to let them know I’ll be doing some follow-up.”
“So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow or sometime,” Dusty said, feeling awkward and wishing she had something to say that would keep Vivian there a few minutes longer.
“Absolutely.” Viv held out her hand. “Thanks again. It’s been great.”
Dusty took her hand, squeezed gently. “Right.”
“Well. I should go.” Viv stepped away.
Dusty nodded.
Viv took a few steps, halted. “You’re busy now, right?”
“Uh.” Dusty swallowed the sand in her throat. “I’ve got countdown—the advance briefing. For tomorrow.”
“Of course. So, what about tonight?”
Dusty’s breath came a little faster. “I’m sorry?”
“Tonight? Are you working?”
“Not after the briefing.”
“So how about dinner?”
“Dinner?” Dusty was aware she was parroting everything and sounding like an idiot.
“You. Me.” Viv smiled and pointed a finger between them. “Dinner. You can tell me how you ended up in the canine division. Research.”
“Sure. For the article, you mean.”
“That too,” Viv said softly.
“Okay,” Dusty said, aware of venturing into unknown territory. “Okay. I’ll call you, when I’m free.”
“Give me your phone,” Viv said.
Wordlessly, Dusty handed it over. Unexpected pleasure swept through her when she saw Viv push numbers into it.
“There,” Viv said. “You can call me. And it’s Viv, by the way.”
Dusty stared down at the phone, Vivian’s name and number in her contacts. That was the only number on her phone that wasn’t work related. She looked up to see Viv studying her. She swallowed, nodded. “Okay. Viv. I will.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget,” Dusty said quickly.
“Good. I’m looking forward to it.” Viv gave a little wave and walked away.
Dusty stared after her and said softly, “Me too.”
Atlas nudged her leg, and she looked down into his gleaming eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know you’re still the star. It’s just business.”
But the buzz in her middle stayed with her, a strange new feeling she liked.
Chapter Five
Viv parked in the lot reserved for the press and walked the short distance to the entrance to the West Wing, stopping at the guard post to show her press credentials. As always, the pressroom was busy, with some people talking on their cell phones, others working on tablets or laptops, others huddled in small groups drinking coffee and speculating on the newest developments in the political scene. She was relatively new to the White House beat and focused more on op-ed and feature stories rather than straight White House political reporting. Although her editors had been skeptical at first that humanizing the political process was necessary or even possible, she’d pointed to the popularity of TV shows focused on the inside world of Capitol Hill, arguing that the public had a fascination with what happened inside the White House, an institution—much more than just a building—shrouded in secrecy and mystique. They’d assigned her to the beat with a watch-and-see attitude. Now a lot of people were watching.
Her pieces were getting some of the highest hit rates online of any of their Washington coverage, and the power people at the paper were reaching out to contacts to get her deeper and deeper inside. She liked watching the inner workings as much as anyone, and she felt as if she had the best of both worlds. She was there when world-changing events happened, and because of her emphasis on some of the individuals involved—people like Dusty Nash and her dog—her stories brought a special touch to the sometimes cold facts that resonated with readers. Some of the other reporters ignored her completely, relegating her articles to the category of fluff, and she couldn’t pretend it didn’t bother her. She had an ego and ambition, after all, but she knew what she was doing was valuable and good reporting. Her editors knew it too, so she really couldn’t complain about a few arrogant people. Much.
She draped her coat over a chair at one of the communal tables and went for coffee. She’d write up her notes and start outlining the article while waiting to see what else was happening. Something was always happening at the White House. To miss a breaking story was a reporter’s worst nightmare.
And while she worked, she could wait for Dusty’s call.
Dusty Nash. She smiled to herself. What an interesting woman. Viv poured coffee into a ceramic mug and added a little half-and-half. As she stirred, she thought back over the past few hours. She’d gotten some really good stuff, but that wasn’t what occupied her mind and created the almost-forgotten tingle in her middle. She kept seeing snippets of Dusty’s face—her intense focus as she watched Atlas search for the explosives, the quick nod and quicker grin when he succeeded, the brilliant smile as unexpected and breathtaking as the sun breaking through on a cloudy afternoon. And even more surprising, the mild confusion and endearing discomfort in her eyes when anything personal came up.
Dusty had seemed completely unconcerned about making a good impression, or any impression at all, for that matter. She exuded a fascinating combination of confidence and unworldliness, along with an unabashed unsophistication that was a rarity amidst the glitz and glamour and power of the Hill. Most interviewees couldn’t wait to take center stage. Dusty’s disregard for the spotlight was as refreshing as it was charming.
Viv carried her coffee back to the table, extracted her recorder from her coat, and plugged in her earbuds. Like most reporters, she was impervious to distraction and usually able to work anywhere, but she kept needing to rewind while taking notes after losing herself in the soft drawl of Dusty’s voice. She couldn’t place the accent. Texas? No, not broad enough. Softer, lazy almost. Definitely someplace in the South. She’d have to ask her about that. They’d touched on nothing personal during the afternoon. She always injected some personal background into her articles—that’s what gave them the personal flavor readers craved, but this was about more than the article. This was for her. She was curious. More than that. Intrigued.
She’d always been drawn to one-of-a-kind things. She’d been a collector as long as she could remember—bottle caps, stamps, old coins, hand-painted hat pins—matchless things of beauty, elegant in their simplicity and precious in their uniqueness. Dusty wasn’t a thing, not someone to be collected, but she was unusual and altogether fascinating. And it seemed they had a date.
How had she ended up with a dinner date with an attractive, mysterious Secret Service agent? And had she really asked first? How totally unlike her. Viv smiled, shook her head, and rewound yet again.
“Working on something good, Viv?” Gary Williams sat down across from her with his own cup of coffee. Gary w
as a White House regular, putting most of his stories out on the wire services. He was in his early thirties, a little bit older than her, handsome in a smooth kind of way—blue eyes, dark hair carefully cut, a trim body thanks to regular gym workouts. Friendly but not pushy.
“Just getting started,” Viv said. “I miss anything around here this afternoon?”
He sipped his coffee and shook his head. “Everything’s pretty quiet. Just the usual pre-trip stuff.”
“Did we get the itinerary yet?”
He laughed. “We probably won’t get that until we’re climbing onto the plane tomorrow.”
She laughed with him. “I guess you can always hope.”
“Some of us are going out to dinner tonight. You interested?”
Viv hesitated. She was friendly with most of the reporters on the White House press beat. She had to be, spending so much time with everyone. Still, she was careful not to spend too much time with any one guy lest they get the wrong idea. When she’d first arrived, she’d had to pointedly decline a number of dates. Gary had never seemed interested in going in that direction, though. “I would, but I’ve already got plans.”
He raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Something exciting, I hope.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“Well, have fun, then.” He stood. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Right,” she called as he walked away.
She turned the recorder back on to listen to Dusty’s soft, sexy drawl again. Something exciting? Yes, without a doubt.
*
Cam’s cell rang as she was leaving the office she rarely used in the Ops Center for the countdown meeting at the Secret Service command center. She’d missed a lot of the advance team reports while in Idaho, and though she was totally confident that everything was set to go, she needed to hear it herself. Blair and Andrew were not just any protectees, and a gnawing fragment of doubt worried the back of her mind. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, and since she had a few minutes, she took the call. “Roberts.”
“Loren McElroy. Got your message.”
Cam stepped out of the corridor into an empty office to take the call from the undercover agent. “Thanks for getting back to me. Are you doing all right?”
“Not doing much of anything.” McElroy sounded like an all-star sitting on the bench during a playoff game. “We’re in a holding pattern until some of the excitement dies down. A lot of the crew I was with went down during that fubar, and the higher-ups don’t want me surfacing too soon.”
“How about Skylar?”
“She’s up and about and complaining.”
Cam laughed softly. “That sounds pretty good, then.”
“So far the docs say she’s going to be a hundred percent.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that.”
“I owe you.”
“Actually, I owe you,” Cam said. “If you hadn’t contacted the right people when you did, we would’ve been in trouble.”
“Let’s say we both scored points, then. You got Skylar out of there alive.”
“Fair enough. Now I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need to know what you know, off the record, about Graves and the woman who took us. We know her as Angela Jones.”
“I only saw her once before that last night,” Loren said. “When we first set up the exchange, Graves was calling all the shots. Showed up personally to make the deal. Then we got a call that one of his captains was taking over. Turns out it was her and she was pretty antsy about security. She wanted neutral ground, that kind of thing.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Not her name. But she had to be pretty high up and totally trustworthy for Graves to delegate any responsibility to her.”
“What about him? Background?”
“We know he was ex-military,” Loren said. “Special forces. The funny thing is, the trail gets really muddy before Desert Storm. It’s tough even for us to trace military records if black ops are involved, but I don’t think you’ll find anything on him prior to 1990. He might’ve been in the military, but not by that name.”
“Every time we try to run backgrounds on Graves or the major players, we run into dead ends,” Cam said.
“Maybe at this point it doesn’t matter.”
Cam frowned. “How so?”
“Graves is dead. I take it the woman isn’t. The one thing we know for sure about these people is they’re fanatically dedicated to their cause. Whatever Graves was going to do, she’s going to want to finish.”
“And we don’t know what that is.” Technically that was true, but Cam’s gut said Graves and Jones and Jennifer Pattee were all part of a larger plan. And she knew what—or who—their target had been.
“I can draw a few conclusions,” Loren said.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s guesswork.”
“Pretty educated guess. You know more about what’s been happening out there than anyone.”
“Not anyone,” Loren said. “Skylar’s been working this for a long time. You might want to talk to her too.”
“I will if I have to,” Cam said, “but for now I’d rather leave her to concentrate on getting well. If we read her in, she’s likely going to want to start working it from your end.”
“You’re right, so thanks.” Loren paused. “I don’t think there’s anything too complicated about my picture. It’s the old story—follow the money. The militia got an infusion of cash to buy guns from the Renegades. Where’d it come from? Why? Why arm a bunch of crazies if you aren’t planning to use them as your private army?”
“So you think someone was pointing them somewhere—like a loaded gun?”
“Yeah. And there’s nothing around here that needs that kind of firepower. There’s no war happening here. But somebody wanted some kind of violent action somewhere else, to make some kind of statement.”
“I can buy that. But why not go for bombs, like in Oklahoma?” Cam said. “Maximum effectiveness with minimum manpower. A couple of guys and a truck full of fertilizer.”
“Not as personal maybe—sure you get mass casualties, but maybe that’s not the goal.”
“So what were they going to do with a couple hundred automatic weapons?” Cam said.
“Maybe that was for defense after the action. Those are sniper rifles, and it only takes one sharpshooter to do a lot of damage.”
Cam wasn’t old enough to have lived through the assassination of John F. Kennedy by a lone gunman with a sniper rifle, but that scenario was every Secret Service agent’s nightmare. One individual with a line of sight from any of a hundred vantage points getting off a shot. Their job was to find every one of those vantage points and make sure no one else could use them. She had to trust the Secret Service to come out on top if that was the plan.
“Best guess as to where the money came from,” Cam asked.
“Had to have passed through a number of hands to reduce the risk of the militia using it for leverage.”
“Private money, you think?”
Loren was silent for a long moment. “I can’t prove any of this, you understand.”
“Best guess,” Cam repeated.
“Private money with a political purpose. I’d look at who would benefit locally from a major political disruption nationally.”
“You know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” Loren said quietly. “And since you’re involved in this, then I’m guessing I’m not that far off.”
No one knew about the thwarted attempt on the president’s life, and Cam wasn’t about to confirm it. But she didn’t deny it either. “Be careful if you go deep again. This isn’t over yet.”
“I’ll keep your number handy.”
“You do that. Like I said, I still owe you.”
“I want them as much as you. It’s personal now.”
“Yes,” Cam said quietly. “It is.”
*
The maid came into th
e Russos’ dining room just as Franklin and his wife were finishing dinner. “Excuse me, sir,” she said diffidently.
Franklin wiped his mouth on a linen napkin and set it aside. “Yes, Maria?”
“There is a gentleman on the phone, sir. He apologizes but says it is important and insists on speaking with you.”
Franklin frowned. “Did he say who it is?”
“No, sir.”
Franklin sighed. He couldn’t take the chance something had come up affecting the campaign, although he thought Nora would let him know of any problems. Still, with the race for the primaries heating up, he had to be available. At least he’d have an excuse to leave his wife to whatever it was she did in the evening. He rose with a practiced smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. You’ll forgive me.”
She gazed at him almost vacantly, her eyes faintly dulled by whatever medication she’d been prescribed this time. Or perhaps it was just the extra pre-dinner cocktail she probably didn’t think he’d noticed. Her family money and political influence had proven useful over the years, but her usefulness had worn thin. He left her still seated at the table, walked down the hall to his office, and picked up the extension on his desk. “This is Franklin Russo.”
“Hope I didn’t drag you away from dinner,” Hooker said.
Franklin crossed the room and closed the door. “Why are you calling me on this phone?”
“Because you’re not answering the other one.”
“What couldn’t wait?” Franklin snapped.
“How about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
Franklin poured two fingers of scotch and carried the short, heavy glass to his desk. “What are you talking about?”
“I got a call from one of the militia. She says she has the money.”
“Do you believe her?” Franklin sipped the scotch.
“No reason not to,” Hooker said. “It sounds like she wants to bargain. Otherwise, why call? Why not just keep the money and buy a nice cabin on a river somewhere.”
“What does she want?”