Peter's Christmas

by M. L. Buchman

  “You know that the Thais will simply claim it was one renegade Lieutenant or something, gone crazy and acting on his own. When we insist on having the pilot, they will conveniently claim that he was killed trying to escape.” Frank’s voice was grim.

  “Doesn’t change where the U.S. will be placing their voice on the international scene. But first, you’ve got to get me out of this alive.”

  “Not me. It’s up to your girlfriend there.”

  Genny broke for the next group of trees, sprinting like a gazelle. Her legs, impossibly long, flashing from her skirt, her hair flying behind her like a banner.

  “Well, if I’m going to go running after something Frank, it would be hard to find something better than that.”

  Frank clapped him on the shoulder and they sprinted off together.

  Chapter 16

  “There is a stairway there,” Geneviève was pointing at a spot another hundred yards along the escarpment. “Two thousand steps down the cliff face and we will be in Cambodia, far out of the reach of the Thai. Even a parking lot with room for Emily to make her landing.”

  Peter looked out over the edge of the escarpment. “That’s like a two-hundred story building, right?”

  “You have better idea on how to save your life?” Suddenly Geneviève displayed a new side to him. This was a woman out at her limits of confidence, terrified that a single mistake could kill them all.

  “Anywhere you lead, I’ll follow. That’s a promise.”

  She took a deep breath, huffed it out, and nodded once, blinking hard. Geneviève turned to survey the next stretch. “But you should have instead a guarantee made,” she added without turning.

  “Why?” What was she talking about?

  “Guarantee is worth more points.” Then she was gone to peek around the next tree. “Bad news as I expect.”

  “Promise” versus “Guarantee.” No. “Promise” was more Scrabble points. Except “Guarantee” would most likely be played off an “an” so it would use all seven tiles. Their lives were at risk and the woman was browbeating him with Scrabble.

  He started to sidle up beside her, but Frank shoved him to the ground.

  “Two Thai soldiers guard head of stairs.” Her syntax was slipping even more than usual under the stress.

  “Can’t shoot them,” Frank observed. “Too long a shot at this distance with a handgun. But, more importantly, we can’t have anyone else coming to investigate.”

  “You three stay here, but be ready in case this doesn’t work.” Genny pulled off her shoes and took off running in just her stocking feet over the grass and rock.

  “What the hell?” Frank moved up to Genny’s former position behind the tree, which let Peter move up close beside him.

  “Should I?” Beat asked her boss.

  “No,” Frank shook his head. “She’s gotten it right so far.”

  “Help! Help me!” Genny cried out to the soldiers.

  Peter could see her sprinting toward the two guards who had raised their rifles.

  She tumbled and fell to the ground.

  Peter surged to his feet and it took both Frank and Beat to keep him in place.

  Geneviève scrambled back up and kept running toward the guards as if panicked, though now she was weaving and limping.

  The guards had lowered their weapons and were moving toward her, perhaps thinking this was one of the hostages they wanted. Little did they know how true that was. But she was now much closer to them. There was no way to help her. What was she thinking?

  “Please! Help!” Her cries were softer with distance, but she sounded winded as well. What if she’d broken a rib in her fall or…

  Twenty feet from the first guard, she shifted into a clean sprint. At ten feet, she leapt into the air. Even later Peter was never able to fully credit what he saw.

  Genny lifted into the air as if jerked aloft by a steel cable from the sky rather than just a leap with strong legs. A heel struck the first soldier’s chin so hard that his head snapped back cruelly. She used the gained momentum to wrap her legs around the second soldier’s throat in some sort of a scissored headlock flipping him over backwards and smashing him to the ground.

  Frank, Beat, and Peter began sprinting to the scene in unison.

  Even as they did so, he could see her force her knee up and the soldier went limp.

  The first soldier was just sitting up, looking dazedly for his rifle when Frank tackled him from behind.

  Peter saw the man’s neck twist, then break as he rushed by.

  Geneviève still lay with her knees wrapped around the second soldier’s throat.

  “He’s done, honey. You can let go.” The man’s eyes were open but there was no one left to look out through them.

  “No, I can’t.” Her voice was tight. Thin.

  “Are you hurt?” Peter knelt down to check her over.

  “No. Not much. But I can’t.” Tears were starting from her eyes and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Frank came up to them, and slowly unwound her legs from around the dead man’s neck, pulled her skirt into some semblance of order. Beat dragged the corpse clear then began stripping the two soldiers of their weapons.

  Frank squatted down until he was looking right at Geneviève. He wasn’t saying anything, just looking at her. In such a rush since the moment that the first helicopter had been hit, he’d suddenly gone quiet.

  “What was that, anyway?” Peter had never seen anything like it.

  “Việt Võ Đạo,” Frank said softly not looking up from the silently crying Geneviève. “Flying scissor kick.” Then he held a hand out and helped her to her feet.

  When she was standing, he nodded once.

  “Are you okay to continue?”

  She nodded, but clearly couldn’t speak.

  Peter wrapped an arm around her, she was stiff. So stiff. As if she were made of steel not flesh and blood.

  Frank addressed her once more, “Let’s all hope you never have to do that outside of the dojo again, but you did it when it counted. And you did it perfectly.”

  Then he turned to face Peter.

  “She just killed a man to save your life. Not many can do that. Even fewer can stand back up afterwards. I can only hope to God that you never have to try it yourself. You take good care of this one, Mr. President, or I’m going to have to hurt you. We clear?”

  Peter looked into those dark eyes, and didn’t doubt for a second that Frank meant exactly what he said.

  Chapter 17

  “You’ve got to save me!”

  Daniel pretended to hide behind Peter while looking back over the crowd of guests filling the White House State Dining Room. Men in suits, women in elegant gowns. Daniel, as his best man, wore a very smart dark-gray tux which complimented his own black one. Even among the crowd, Peter could easily spot First Lady Kim-Ly Geneviève Matthews, a shining light in the swirl of the people gathered about her.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked without taking his eyes off the vision before him.

  “Genny’s sister Jacqi won’t leave me alone. Keeps talking about dragging me back to her woman-cave, whatever that is.”

  Peter dragged his eyes away from his wife to inspect Daniel and squinted at him for a moment.

  “You’d make a cute couple.”

  “You’re not helping,” Daniel snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one over.

  “She knows you’re married, right?”

  “Sure, even introduced her to Alice.”

  “And…”

  Daniel took a deep swallow from the narrow flute. “Alice and Jacqi are negotiating using me on a time-share basis.”

  “Tell Jacqi that three months is my best offer. Can’t spare you more than that.”

  “I’m not a damned condo.”
<
br />   “Sorry, buddy, best I can do. I have to go and be Presidential.”

  “Meaning you have to go ogle the woman you just married.”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Especially in that dress.”

  Peter didn’t bother to reply as he headed into the crowd.

  # # #

  “Okay if I interrupt?”

  Genny couldn’t take her eyes off Peter as he approached where she stood with Emily and Gram.

  Mrs. Genny Matthews. The sound of it was both intensely foreign and equally perfect. It was a statement of who she had become and where she wanted to be. His black tux and white tie gave him an old world elegance.

  “No,” Em shook her head. “She’s ours. She’ll be yours the rest of your lives. We get her a while longer.”

  Peter slid a hand around Genny’s waist, pulling her tight beside him. He kissed her on the temple and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

  She melted every time he said that.

  “Easy there,” Emily teased Genny’s husband. “The night’s still young and she looks too perfect. No mussing her up yet, Sneaker Boy.”

  “Sneaker Boy?” It was like a galvanic shock coursing through her body.

  “Sure,” Emily nodded toward the man even now threatening to undo Genny’s hair from the elegant coif atop her head. “Tossed him in the Reflecting Pool out on the Washington Mall ages ago. All he could do was whine about his sneakers getting all wet.”

  “Wet and muddy,” Peter clarified as if in his own defense. “And she didn’t mention that they were brand new, too.”

  “Sneaker Boy?” Genny knew she was repeating herself, but it was really too perfect. It started as a smile, but it turned to a giggle. A high one that she just couldn’t stop. Not until she had laughed until she cried and gotten wet spots all over Peter’s lapel when she hugged him, could she finally speak.

  They were all looking at her strangely. Smiles on their faces even though they didn’t know why.

  “Gram, you remember the one I told you about, on the computer?”

  “Yes. The one who plays such good games.” Her grandmother smiled as if she’d known all along. As if there was no question that the world worked this way.

  “Do you want to tell my husband what our shared name means?”

  “Well, if you are Sneaker Boy, of course you had to marry Kim-Ly.” Then Gram poked Genny’s new husband in the ribs to emphasize the joke. “Our name means Golden Lion.”

  Peter simply looked stunned. “All of those games we played on-line at the Scrabble site, and you are the Golden Lion?”

  “It fits her does it not?” Gram suddenly glared at him and he blanched.

  “It’s perfect. Just as she is. Perfect.”

  Gram nodded as if making sure he understood that last point clearly.

  # # #

  Peter kept nuzzling Genny’s neck as they danced around the State Dining Room floor. Though it was a warm day in June, it was their first dance as a couple after all, Peter had made them play a Christmas carol.

  “It is the wrong carol,” she told him though she didn’t really care. “This is not the first one that we danced to.”

  “I couldn’t remember what it was. I could only remember the first time I held you in my arms.”

  She kept her head on his shoulder and let him tease her. It had been such a perfect day. They had married where they met, out by the National Christmas Tree, now just a tall spruce awaiting next year’s decorations. It was a huge affair that had drawn an astonishing crowd of well-wishers. A near-death experience had made the President even more popular. In Thailand, a right-wing faction had been stripped of all power, the left using the excuse of the trumped-up attack to perform a major housecleaning of the ranks. Maybe now there was a chance for peace at Preah Vihear.

  Tomorrow, she would go to her office in the East Wing. Despite Peter’s offers of a role in the Department of the Interior, she had decided to stay with UNESCO. The Director had created a position specifically for her. World Heritage Convention Ambassador to the U.N. Her mandate, to be an advocate for the Heritage Sites with the hundred-and-ninety three member nations’ Ambassadors.

  The First Lady’s office had been converted to a tech center that would let her reach around the world, flying an hour to New York only when essential meetings occurred.

  Maybe when Peter retired, they would move to New York or perhaps Paris, so that she could be near the UNESCO headquarters.

  For now, she simply let herself float in the arms of the man she loved.

  “I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it, until I get you out of that incredible dress.”

  She knew exactly how he felt. Peter looked so glorious in his tux.

  “Well, Mr. President husband, there is only one way that is going to happen.”

  “What? If I deport everyone in the room?”

  “No.” She looked up into those dreamy eyes and kissed him as they danced. She could hear the cameras snapping away and simply didn’t care. She was too happy.

  “No. The only way the President of the United States will get the First Lady of the United States out of her dress, is if they are standing in the middle of the Oval Office.”

  She rested her head back on his shoulder as he groaned quietly.

  Yes, a perfect day indeed.

  About the Author

  M. L. Buchman has over has over 40 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the year” and twice Booklist “Top 10 of the Year,” placing two titles on their “Top 101 Romances of the Last 10 Years” list. He has been nominated for the Reviewer’s Choice Award for “Top 10 Romantic Suspense of 2014” by RT Book Reviews. In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.

  In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world.

  He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife and is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at www.mlbuchman.com.

  Where Dreams Are Born (excerpt)

  Russell locked his door as the last of the staff finally went home and turned off his camera.

  He knew it was good. The images were there, solid. He’d really captured them.

  But something was missing.

  The groove ran so clean when he slid into it. The studio faded into the background, then the strobe lights, reflector umbrellas, and blue and green backdrops all became texture and tone.

  Image, camera, man became one and they were all that mattered; a single flow of light beginning before time was counted and ending in the printed image. A ray of primordial light traveling forever to glisten off the BMW roadster still parked in one corner of the wood-planked studio. Another ray lost in the dark blackness of the finest leather bucket seats. One more picking out the supermodel’s perfect hand dangling a single, shining, golden key. The image shot just slow enough that they key blurred as it spun, but the logo remained clear.

  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it…

  Another great ad by Russell Morgan. Russell Morgan, Inc. The client would be knocked dead, and the ad leaving all others standing still as it roared down the passing lane. Might get him another Clio, or even a second Mobius.

  But… There wasn’t usually a “but.” The groove had definitely been there, but he hadn’t been in it. That was the problem. It had slid along, sweeping his staff into their own orchestrated perfection, but he’d remained untouched. Not part of that ideal, seamless flow.

  “Be honest, boyo, that session sucked,” he told the empty studio. Everything had come toget
her so perfectly for yet another ad for yet another high-end glossy. Man, the Magazine would launch spectacularly in a few weeks, a high-profile mid-December launch, a never before seen twelve page spread by Russell Morgan, Inc. and the rag would probably never pay off the lavish launch party of hope, ice sculptures, and chilled magnums of champagne before disappearing like a thousand before it.

  He stowed the last camera he’d been using with the others piled by his computer. At the breaker box he shut off the umbrellas, spots, scoops, and washes. The studio shifted from a stark landscape in hard-edged relief to a nest of curious shadows and rounded forms. The tang of hot metal and deodorant were the only lasting result of the day’s efforts.

  “Morose tonight, aren’t we?” he asked his reflection in the darkened window of his Manhattan studio. His reflection was wise enough to not answer back. There wasn’t ever a “down” after a shoot, there had always been an “up.”

  Not tonight.

  He’d kept everyone late, even though it was Thanksgiving eve, hoping for that smooth slide of image, camera, man. It was only when he saw the power of the images he captured that he knew he wasn’t a part of the chain anymore and decided he’d paid enough triple-time expenses.

  The single perfect leg wrapped in thigh-high red-leather boots visible in the driver’s seat. The sensual juxtaposition of woman and sleek machine. An ad designed to wrap every person with even a hint of a Y-chromosome around its little finger. And those with only X-chromosomes would simply want to be her. A perfect combo of sex for the guys and power for the women.

  Russell had become no more than the observer, the technician behind the camera. Now that he faced it, months, maybe even a year had passed since he’d been yanked all the way into the light-image-camera-man slipstream. Tonight was the first time he hadn’t even trailed in the churned up wake.

  “You’re just a creative cog in the advertising photography machine.” Ouch! That one stung, but it didn’t turn aside the relentless steamroller of his thoughts speeding down some empty, godforsaken autobahn.