by Radclyffe
A muscle in Tom’s jaw bunched, and Cam wondered if she had lost a friend. She’d worked closely with Tom when she’d been in charge of Blair’s protection detail and would continue to work closely with him as long as he headed PPD. But duty trumped friendship. Duty trumped everything except one. Except Blair. Where Blair’s life and happiness were concerned, Cam suspected she would do anything necessary to preserve them. Anything except betray what meant most to both of them, and because she knew Blair would never ask that, she never worried about what she might need to do.
Finally, Tom spoke. “I’d like to think I would’ve made the same call.”
“You would have,” Cam said quietly. “And I probably would’ve been just as pissed as you are now.”
He smiled wryly. “Yeah. I think you would have.” His shoulders relaxed as he turned toward the sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Silence fell over the room until, a moment later, Lucinda arrived, followed by Paula Stark—the chief of Blair’s protection detail, Evyn Daniels—another PPD agent, and Wes Masters—the chief of the White House Medical Unit. Paula, Evyn, and Wes had all been part of the detail that apprehended Jennifer Pattee, a nurse in the WHMU who had been part of a plot to assassinate the president. She’d been captured a few days earlier with a stolen vial of avian flu that had been genetically mutated to enhance its transmission from human to human and was, even now, being studied at a Level 4 lab in Bethesda to ascertain all its properties. They didn’t know who was behind the plot or how far the leak penetrated into the upper echelons of White House security, but Lucinda had appointed Cam to find out. This meeting—the entire operation—was off the record, because the records were no longer trustworthy.
Lucinda wasted no time. “The president is planning to embark on a cross-country campaign trip mid-month. He’ll land in Chicago for a fund-raiser first, then travel by air and train throughout the Midwest, where the opposition’s influence is the strongest right now. He’ll be on the ground most of the time, and he’ll be doing a lot of hand shaking.”
Cam pictured the crowds, the impromptu photo ops, the last-minute itinerary changes. The president would be exposed, vulnerable, and Blair would be right by his side in the hot zone. When Kennedy had been assassinated, the governor of Texas, sitting in the same vehicle, had been wounded too. During the attempt on Reagan, the White House press secretary was shot and permanently paralyzed.
If Cam ordered Blair to remain behind, the president would support her decision, even though Blair had been a powerful, positive influence in his first election campaign. Family was always an important part of any platform, but never more than now when Russo was running on a family values ticket. The president’s family was his daughter. She was smart and popular with voters of all ages, but especially with the young and women—critical segments of the electoral population. Andrew was often typecast as being part of the liberal-white-male elite, despite the fact that his personal wealth was far surpassed by Franklin Russo’s. Blair helped humanize him, and the president needed to be seen as a man of the people.
Cam wouldn’t demand that Blair stay home—couldn’t—for any number of reasons. The choice wasn’t hers to make, and even if it had been, the one thing she would never do was cage Blair to ease her own fears.
Blair said, “What are we going to do about his security?”
“Evyn will lead the advance teams, and we’ll do exactly what we’ve always done,” Cam said. “We’ll know every inch of his route and be prepared to divert to secondary routes. We’ll keep his exact movements among the people in this room. No one else will know more than they need to until right before we deploy.”
“What about possible follow-up to the bioterrorism? Are we sure there isn’t more of that stuff around?” Paula Stark asked. The chief of Blair’s detail looked younger than her thirty years with her cap of dark hair and smooth regular features. She wasn’t young in experience, having come under fire and been recently wounded. Recovered now, she was intense and focused. “He’s going to be surrounded by hundreds of people every day. That would be a perfect time to release one of these agents.”
“We’ll interview the people at the lab where the agent went missing,” Cam said. “Find out if we have everything they lost.” She glanced at Wes Masters, a navy captain and the president’s doctor. “I’m scheduled to fly down there tomorrow. I want you with me on this.”
“Of course,” Wes said.
“I’ll also be interviewing Jennifer Pattee again,” Cam said. “So far, she hasn’t given us anything. Maybe a few days behind bars will have changed her mind.”
“We have to assume secondary targets,” Stark said quietly.
Cam’s chest tightened. If the president was invulnerable, assassins would likely shift to secondary targets, and the most high-profile secondary target would be Blair. “We’ll have to limit the number of people at potential risk and exclude them from the hot zone, especially when—”
“Don’t even think about including me in there,” Blair said as she sipped her coffee.
Stark wisely said nothing.
Cam said, “How about you wait a few weeks—”
“No,” Blair said. “My presence with the president on these trips is expected, and any deviation from the expected is only going to let the other side know we anticipate something more is coming. We need them to think they still have the upper hand.”
Cam couldn’t argue. Blair was right. She’d been involved in this game since she was a teenager. She understood not only the politics but the strategy of those who were opposed to her father, politically and ideologically.
“I agree,” Lucinda said, placing her cup and saucer onto a two-hundred-year-old end table. “We’ll continue the public information releases as usual, but hold back what we can. I’ll handle that. Director Roberts will be in charge.” She walked to the door and paused, her smile polite as ever but her eyes hard blue stones. “Everyone knows what needs to be done. Enjoy the rest of the holidays.”
*
The redhead wanted her to believe she was Skylar Dunbar.
Loren hadn’t stayed alive by trusting other people. She’d survived in Iraq and Afghanistan and with the Renegades by never believing what people said. Instead, she watched their eyes, searched for physical tells, hunted for the little inconsistencies that marked their words as false. She had no reason to believe this woman. What bothered her, what gnawed at the animal part of her brain, was that she wanted to trust her. She could still feel the heat of the redhead’s fingertip tracing down the center of her T-shirt, as if the woman had stroked bare skin.
Loren wasn’t easily seduced, even though she was no stranger to the casual touch of a woman. She didn’t indulge often, and she didn’t give sex much thought. When she’d been deployed, there hadn’t been all that much opportunity, and even when there had been, stealing a private moment when the slightest lapse in concentration might get you dead sapped the pleasure from a casual encounter. She’d decided when she’d arrived in Silver Lake and the first members of the Renegades had sauntered into her garage for a look-see that she’d play things as close to the truth as she could. So when the opportunity’d arisen, she’d let it be known she liked women. In some strange way that bought her credibility, made her more like them. Still, she was careful. Careful not to get in between any of them and a woman. She didn’t want to compete, not that way, and there hadn’t been anyone she was willing to risk her standing in the club for. If she trusted this stranger, she’d be risking a lot more than just her position in the club. She risked her life every day, but that was for a purpose, a goal. Not for pleasure.
“Let’s just say I believe you,” Loren said, “and you know something about me. What are you doing here?”
“Look, I don’t know about you, but it was a short night for me and I could use some coffee.” Sky pulled her thick hair back and twisted it into a knot, a quick unconscious move Loren found unexpectedly sexy. “There’s a diner a couple mi
les down the road. Why don’t we go there and talk.”
Loren couldn’t see any downside to the suggestion, and the room was starting to feel stifling. Not from the trickle of warmth from the pinging baseboard heater, but from the closeness of the redhead who, even clothed, sent off waves of sexual heat. “So what do you want me to call you in public?”
Sky smiled. “How about baby?”
Loren laughed. “Not before the first date.”
Sky’s eyes widened a little, and her lips parted as if she was about to say something and then thought better of it. “Why don’t you call me Red. Not very original, but I’ve heard it a lot.”
“Okay. Red. Let’s get coffee.” Loren pulled on her jacket while Sky put on boots—low-heeled riding boots, not the biker-chick ones from the night before—and shrugged on the fitted black leather jacket.
Outside, the emerging sun filled the deserted parking lot with thin gray light. Loren glanced up at the blanket of clouds. “Snow’s coming.”
“There’s a news flash.” Sky grimaced. “Does it do anything else here?”
“Not between November and May.” Loren nodded to the bike. “Extra helmet’s hooked on the back there. Where you from?”
Sky hesitated as she pulled the skull cap off the rack and strapped it on. “I move around a lot.”
“How about originally?”
“Texas,” Sky said, surprising herself when she answered with the truth. Now, why would she do that? She never gave out personal info, even in personal situations, and for sure not when on the job.
Loren straddled the bike and Sky climbed on behind her, wrapping her arms around Loren’s waist. Loren was lean and solid. Sky ducked her head down against Loren’s back to keep the wind out of her face. Loren’s body was hot despite the cold winter air, but that had to be her imagination. Sky closed her eyes.
“Hold on.” Loren kicked up the stand and started the engine. Sky’s arms tightened around her waist, and Sky’s cheek pressed to the back of her shoulder. Ignoring the wave of heat that pulsed through her belly, she pulled out onto the highway and headed to the diner.
A few trucks dotted the unpaved lot, framed in dirty piles of snow. Condensation painted the inside of the plate-glass windows of the low-slung metal structure and ran down the streaked glass in uneven trails. Inside, the hot air hung heavy with the scent of cooking grease, fried meat, and eggs. Loren pulled off her jacket and slung it over her shoulder as she strode down the narrow aisle between the red-vinyl-topped stools on one side of the diner and the Formica tabletops in the booths lining the opposite wall. None of the booths were occupied, and she picked one well away from the men at the counter hunched over cups of coffee and white crockery plates heaped with bacon, eggs, and potatoes. A minute after they slid onto the stiff seats, a brunette in tight black jeans, a frilly white nylon blouse cut low and tight across her generous breasts, and a short black apron approached. She had a pad in one hand and a pen in the other. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast,” Loren said.
“Make that two,” Sky said.
The waitress scribbled and left without comment.
Loren eased back in the seat and stretched her left arm out along the top. “So, you were about to tell me what you’re doing here.”
Sky had the uneasy feeling she was being handled, and she didn’t like it. McElroy was a smart, seasoned operative, and she’d been under a long time. Sometimes an operative lost sight of their objective and became so integrated into the culture of the world they had infiltrated they had a hard time getting out. It was a matter of pride for her that she’d never lost an agent, physically or psychologically. This one wasn’t going to be the first, but she wasn’t entirely sure how far she could trust her. “I’ve already told you who I am.”
“So you said. If you’re here under one false identity, why not two?”
Sky smiled. “Not a bad idea. A double-double.”
Loren nodded.
“But there is the little fact that I’ve got your number.” Sky smiled.
The heat in Loren’s belly tightened. It was just a line, and not even true. No one had her number. No one knew her. Being known could get her killed. “Both of us being here is dangerous.”
“Only if we make a mistake. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make mistakes.”
“What do you think you can accomplish?”
“Look—” Sky waited while the waitress slid their coffee cups in front of them. Once alone, she leaned forward. “If you go deeper, then you need someone closer in case you need extraction.”
“I’ve never needed to be retrieved. I won’t now.”
“We wouldn’t send an unarmed soldier into the mountains without backup. This isn’t any different.”
“And you think you’d be enough to get me out?”
“Me and everyone at my disposal.”
Loren blew out a breath. “Things are heating up here. We can’t afford to raise suspicions.”
“Then we won’t. My cover is good. And if you get friendly-like, we’ll have all the more reason to be seen together.”
“Friendly,” Loren said. The heat spiked up into her chest.
“The club members know you’re interested in women.” Sky smiled. “So go ahead and be interested.”
“There might be a problem there. Ramsey is interested too.”
Sky’s eyes hardened. “Not happening.”
“Maybe not, but there’s no way I’m getting in his road.”
“I’ll handle him. You just do your part.”
“And you’ll be playing a part with me too?” Loren didn’t know why she’d asked. She knew the answer.
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Loren said. “It’s all a game.”
“Then we understand each other perfectly.”
Chapter Five
Augustus Graves drove his Humvee through the barbed wire–topped gate into the FALA compound, eight hundred acres of undeveloped forest, invisible from the air and unapproachable by ground except for a single unmarked, double-track trail carved out of the dense mountainside. The sentries, a man and woman in fatigues carrying assault rifles and sidearms, saluted as he passed. Some of his forces lived full-time on the compound. Others lived off-base, maintaining important outside contacts who could be called upon for munitions and other supplies. And then there were those special ones spread farther afield—the ones who had been groomed since birth for the most important missions of all.
Each time he drove through the gates and saw the training courses, the barracks, and the armory dotting the wooded encampment, his chest swelled with pride and satisfaction. His loins tightened and his heart beat harder. After the massacres at Waco and Ruby Ridge, he’d purchased the tract of land in the unpopulated Bitterroot Range via a series of shell companies with funds contributed by ardent Second Amendment rights supporters across the country as well as some highly positioned politicians who needed him to push the agendas they couldn’t embrace publicly. He’d known sooner than some of his fellow militiamen that a defensible, secure haven to train and plan was essential. And he’d been planning for thirty years, ever since he’d jumped on the last helo out of Saigon as the U.S. forces turned tail and ran in disgrace from the Communists. The U.S. government, and the castrated military that bowed down before it, had failed the nation and wasted the lives of his brothers-in-arms. He’d arrived home with a clear and certain vision of his mission, and at last, victory was at hand.
He’d never wanted public approval, wasn’t interested in the adulation of faceless masses like the politicians who supported him. He wanted to see the conviction burning in the eyes of the men—and now the women—who believed as he did in a free and powerful America, and who were willing to place their honor and their lives on the line to restore the nation to its rightful glory.
A hundred troops occupied the compound at any one time, but he had five times that many at his immediate command throughout
Idaho and neighboring states. He didn’t contemplate outright war. His was a guerrilla action, carefully planned strikes designed to maximize destruction and destabilize institutions believed to be unassailable. Violent actions sent a message the public could not ignore: the government was corrupt and had been undermined by those who’d lost sight of the basic principles of the Constitution and Bill of Rights. The evidence was plain—every year saw a further erosion of a man’s basic right to control his own destiny, but the complacent masses refused to acknowledge the dangers. His goal was to change that, to force the truth on those who refused to see. Blood was hard to ignore.
He parked next to the one-story wood-framed headquarters building and jumped out. He could outrun and out-bench-press most of the men half his age. Striding quickly across the snow-packed ground, he dashed up the steps to the timber-floored porch and inside. A beefy corporal with buzzed blond hair and windburned cheeks sat behind a simple gray metal desk, a computer by one hand and a phone by the other. His khaki shirt stretched tight across his linebacker shoulders. Williams—ex-high-school football star, a plumber’s helper before Graves had elevated him in rank and given him a full-time job. He was loyal, fervent, and happy to take orders. A perfect soldier.
“Morning, sir,” Williams said, saluting smartly.
“Anything to report, Corporal?” Grave saluted and unzipped his green nylon flak jacket.
“No, sir. Nothing at all on the news about the…incident.”
Grave’s stomach curdled when he thought about the failed mission in Washington. He’d relied too heavily on mercenaries—men he hadn’t trained, go-betweens who didn’t have the discipline and courage to risk their lives for a just cause. When the plot to release a deadly contagion that would cripple the nation’s leaders had been discovered and foiled, he’d lost not only the element of surprise, he’d lost one valuable asset and had a second severely compromised. Years of careful planning had been wiped out all because of the cowardice of a few key agents. Agents who would pay.