Off the Leash

by M. L. Buchman

  Thor tried to lift his head, but in the process, the chef’s hat slid down to his neck. He began shaking his head trying to free himself as the crowd began laughing.

  He lay there for a moment, focused on just how amazing two-inch heels made Linda’s legs look. The muscles in her calves were accentuated wonderfully, especially as he knew exactly how they felt when wrapped around— The past. Again!

  She helped him back to his feet with a strength that was now very familiar. Except it was attached to a woman he barely recognized. Once he was stable, she moved forward and plucked his hat off Thor’s head and handed it back to him.

  At the crowd’s applause, Thor wagged his tail.

  The only thing that Clive could think to do was bow and then retreat back into the dining room. He was not, however, so addled that he failed to drag Linda along with him.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  He looked down at her and couldn’t speak.

  Linda Hamlin in a dress. He’d never thought to imagine such a thing. The black dress clung to her and told him just how lucky he was…had been…to have a lover with a body like that. The jacket accentuated the color of her hair and brought out a slightest hint of deep red in the brown that he’d never noticed before. Her casually ragged cut had been transformed to accentuate all of her features and Linda was a woman with many, many fine features: bright eyes, wide mouth, pert nose…

  “You changed your hair.” Which was perhaps the dumbest phrase ever uttered by man.

  “And I’m wearing a dress,” her voice laced with deep chagrin and just a bit of the humor that he’d forgotten how much he missed.

  “I noticed. My god, Linda. I can’t begin to tell you…” how much I’ve missed you “…how incredible you look.”

  She grimaced, then scowled at somewhere near the center of his chest.

  Just as she opened her mouth, the head of the PPD strode into the dining room.

  “Hamlin. We aren’t paying you to chat up the chefs. Now get a move on.”

  And without another word, he strode back out.

  “What was…”

  “Senior Special Agent Harvey Lieber hates me,” Linda patted his arm. “But he’s right. The trouble in Lafayette Square isn’t over. I think it’s hitting the fan tonight. Here at the reception if I’m right.”

  “Have you…” No, of course, she hadn’t tasted one of his appetizers. She was in her focused-soldier mode. He swiveled to a passing tray and snatched a salmon bruschetta and handed it to Thor, who scarfed it down in a single bite. That delayed Linda just long enough for him to place a Pocky stick bouquet in her hand. “Try this. Please.”

  Then, though it nearly killed him to do so, he turned her around and pushed lightly against her shoulders to send her back into danger. Because that was a part of who she was and it wasn’t up to him to keep her close and safe—no matter how much he wanted to.

  Courtesy of her stupid heels, Linda practically did a Clive-style pratfall at his light push. It was either that or her weak knees. Whichever it was, she managed to keep on her feet by only the narrowest of margins. Even standing before him for just those few moments had stirred up things she didn’t understand until she was nearly swept under by vertigo.

  But few heads turned as she stumbled out into the long hall once more.

  East. She’d been moving east along the north side of the hall when she’d run into Clive.

  So she continued east and let Thor lead the way. She was a professional and could guide him, but she didn’t feel up to leading at the moment. Only as she passed a small group of senators talking with Vice President Daniel Darlington did she remember to look at what Clive had given her. A tiny bouquet of multi-colored Pocky sticks in the colors of chocolate and the American flag wrapped in the golden ribbon bearing the Vermont state motto: “Freedom and Unity.”

  She nibbled on one while she focused on getting her mind out of the kitchen and back into the hall. The chocolate was so good, even sublime compared to the samples he’d given her a lifetime ago in his chocolate shop.

  A senior aide, who she couldn’t place at the moment—the head speechwriter?—stopped her to thank her and Thor for the fine work in Lafayette Square.

  The blueberry one took her back to her childhood in Vermont—back before she’d understood that her family was a nightmare. There’d been a big blueberry bush in the backyard—might even still be there—and she remembered every summer, standing out in the sunshine, picking and filling her mouth as fast as she could. The little blue Pocky burst with the flavor of nostalgia so richly that she wondered if the speechwriter thought that it was his thanks that prompted her misty eyes.

  She was halfway back to her original starting point when she ate the final red one. It wasn’t strawberry as she’d expected. Instead it was an explosion of Macintosh apple. Vermont in the fall slammed into her senses. Then she crunched down on the biscuit center and the flavor of maple syrup washed over her like the cusp of winter-to-spring when the maple tree sap was flowing but there was still snow on the ground.

  Clive had made a treat of the seasons of Vermont.

  She looked around and saw that they were the first items being swept off the trays that the waiters were carrying guest-to-guest. It seemed that everyone was holding the little golden ribbons. He’d made a treat for the reception that was the clear favorite.

  That wasn’t right. Yes, it was a clear favorite, but how many people would understand that it was the seasons of Vermont? And Clive had said he was from San Francisco and had worked in LA, New York, Virginia… He’d never once mentioned Vermont.

  She’d said nothing beyond the fact that she’d grown up there.

  From that single clue, Clive had developed this magnificent treat for her alone. She had said such awful, unforgivable things to him, and he had given her back the best parts of her childhood. He’d fed a treat to the elite of Washington, DC, that was designed just for her.

  “Are you okay?”

  She could only shake her head and she focused on the man who had come up to her. Tall, lean, a tousle of light brown hair—Secretary of Defense Archibald Stevenson III and former major of the 160th Night Stalkers.

  “You’re Dilya’s father.”

  That earned her a surprisingly cheery, lopsided smile. “You’ve met her?”

  “She helped me buy this dress. Jacket. Shoes.” Could she sound any more like a driveling idiot? “Told the salon how to do my hair.” Yes, apparently she could. Because her hair was exactly the sort of thing that the Secretary of Defense would care about.

  “Allow me to say that she did a damn nice job. And that would make you Sergeant Hamlin and Thor. I was briefed on the work you did. Thank you for that.”

  She considered alerting him that it wasn’t over yet, but the head of the Presidential Protection Detail had deemed it need-to-know only, so she kept her mouth shut.

  “What happened to your friend?” Not her smoothest subject change.

  “Friend?”

  “You were, uh,” she’d dug the hole and couldn’t figure a way out of it. Fine. Might as well dig it deeper. “What did you do with Secretary of State Mallinson’s body?”

  “Excuse me?” He didn’t sound offended, merely surprised.

  “You weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye earlier. You’re the man left standing, so I figure you won or you did him in. Should I start checking behind the potted palms?”

  His smile was more of a grimace.

  “He has always been stubborn man, but tonight he was being stupid to the point of irrationality. It was as if none of his thoughts were connecting. Made me positively twitchy.”

  “I’ll definitely start checking behind the palms.”

  “Don’t bother. He just left. Said he had a meeting to get to.”

  “Oh, well. It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.” The prime minister of Vietnam came their way and she decided it was best if she bowed out.

  She checked her watch—the pretty feminine on
e that Dilya had insisted that she buy to replace her favorite Luminox Blackout military one. At least she’d been able to read that one. She squinted for fashion. Never again.

  Twenty-six more minutes to the reception. Then down to the East Room for the dinner. She had been so sure that whatever was planned was going to happen at this reception, but nothing looked out of place.

  They were nearing the end of service for the reception. Clive was arranging the last of his Pocky treats. Next up would be to race down the narrow spiral stairs that connected the kitchens: the Second Floor kitchen, the pantry close by the State Dining Room, the main kitchen on the Ground Floor, subbasement storage, and finally the second subbasement dishwashing room. The sous chefs should have the white chocolate-pomegranate baba ghanoush of the first course ready, but he wanted to check each plate himself while the diners were finding their seats.

  Seeing Linda had given him such hope. Miss Watson had been right. He shouldn’t give up, no matter what. One look at her and he’d known. Okay, two. The first look had been him trying to comprehend what a stunningly gorgeous woman it had been his good fortune to find. But with the second look he’d seen the pain clear in her eyes. He knew for an absolute fact—as surely as dark chocolate and strawberries were a perfect match—that the real woman inside Linda-the-soldier was the one with the giving heart, not the automaton.

  He wanted to see her again, right now.

  But, she’d said there was danger here at the reception and that meant she was working. Special Agent Harvey Lieber’s furious reminder must mean that the danger was imminent and somehow Linda and Thor were the key to finding it.

  Hadn’t Miss Watson said something about Linda being added to the guest list?

  To the guest list. Not the agent list.

  That meant that she wasn’t here as an agent, yet the head of the Presidential Protection Detail had made it clear that she was. And if she’d merely been a guest, she probably wouldn’t have brought Thor.

  Linda with Thor.

  That’s what was going on out there while he was in here making chocolate doodads. He looked down at the last tray of Pocky stick bouquets and felt more useless than ever before in his life. More useless than a young boy unable to attract his father’s attention. More useless than holding his mother’s hand as she died and unable to do anything to stop the process.

  But there’d been a moment when he’d done something important. Maybe even more important than chocolate. Just a few days ago in Lafayette Square, he’d somehow managed to help Linda. A path that had led her here tonight.

  Well, he couldn’t help her from here in the dining room. And he’d be of even less use from the downstairs kitchen.

  He returned to finishing up the last tray. This one he would carry out into the hall personally. If there was any way that he could help Linda, he wasn’t going to cower in the kitchen just because it was dangerous.

  Out of ideas, Linda had sought out Dilya.

  She had nothing but a hunch that anything was going to happen tonight and she now doubted every assumption that had led her here.

  But she’d still be happier if she could at least send Dilya out of harm’s way, even if she couldn’t justify clearing the room. The threat wasn’t credible. A block of C-4 in a diplomatic pouch didn’t mean anything. That had been outside the security bubble that enclosed the White House. It was nearly impossible to bring anything lethal through that barrier.

  She found the teen near the center of the hall. It was only after she stepped into the conversation that she really focused on the man Dilya was talking to.

  Former President Peter Matthews.

  He was tall, handsome, and graying at the temples. He looked ten times as impressive in real life as he did on television.

  Dilya still had Zackie beside her and she was arguing with the former President. “She is not hopeless. Her only problem is that she hasn’t been trained to be more than a pet.”

  “And you’re going to make a military dog out of Anne’s Sheltie?”

  “Sure,” Dilya told him blithely. “And Linda promised to help me,” Dilya turned to her.

  She had? Well, to escape the dress store and then the shoe store and then the salon, she may have made any number of promises. “I’m glad to.”

  “But that dog has a brain the size of a peanut.” As if to prove his point, the President tossed a stuffed shrimp on the floor in front of Zackie, who barked at it rather than eating it. “I win.”

  Dilya sighed. “Thor’s smart though, isn’t he?”

  “At least around food.” Linda snapped her fingers, then pointed at the shrimp. Thor—who’d been sitting patiently beside her—lunged in, snapped up the shrimp, and returned to his position to eat it happily.

  “He’s well behaved,” the President bent down to pet him.

  “Trained at a ranch in Montana.”

  “Henderson’s,” he acknowledged. Then he froze, half bent over, before straightening slowly.

  At first she was shocked that he knew the origin of her dog. But that didn’t explain why he was startled to be caught with that knowledge.

  The only reason that she could think of for him to be surprised was if Henderson’s Ranch was more than it seemed. What if it was…

  “WHPF,” Linda said to him.

  “What’s that?” But his poker face sucked. Even she could read it.

  “White House Protection Force, sir.”

  Captain Baxter had said that the former President had certified the WHPF personally. Somehow, her dog and the WHPF were linked to one another.

  He sighed, then shrugged his complicity.

  Now it was Dilya’s turn to say, “What’s that? What’s WHPF? And what does Major Beale’s ranch have to do with it?”

  “Hush, half pint,” the former President looked down at her. “Keep your mouth shut on this one. Not even your parents.”

  Dilya nodded, but it was clear that she wasn’t going anywhere.

  The former President sighed again. “Always have to have your nose in it, don’t you, Dilya?”

  “Survival instinct,” Dilya answered flatly and Linda knew that it was true, even though it made Dilya blush to be caught telling a real truth.

  “I wish I could have done more,” President Matthews sighed, apparently missing the depth of Dilya’s statement. “Not a lot of things for an ex-President to do. I’m not exactly the kind of guy who sits around in some consulting think tank. The WHPF has a good purpose behind it. I liked it and Emily agreed to set it up for me.”

  Emily Beale. Major Emily Beale, formerly of the Night Stalkers. Linda had met her once, sort of. The Night Stalkers 5th Battalion D Company had transported her Ranger unit into a strike zone five years ago. There was no question that the reason they’d escaped the horrendous battle so unscathed had been largely due to the pilot of the team’s DAP Hawk, one Major Emily Beale—rumored to be the best pilot they’d ever had.

  Now she’d created the White House Protection Force, which had earned Baxter’s and Lieber’s absolute respect. And the WHPF had been the one to make sure Linda was assigned to this duty—undercover protection of the President, who was presently standing not twenty feet behind the former President.

  “Be all your dog can be.” The flyer in her DD 214 discharge packet had somehow come from Henderson’s Ranch.

  “Emily’s dog trainer uses that phrase all the time,” the President explained. “Ex-SEAL, quite a character.”

  A SEAL dog trainer at a ranch run by the Night Stalkers’ best pilot who had set up the White House Protection Force and then managed to get Linda assigned right into the center of it.

  No pressure.

  Of course Linda was a former sergeant of the 75th Rangers. Pressure was what she ate for lunch.

  She scanned the room again. These were hers to protect, but she didn’t know how. The Secretary of Defense was now talking to a short, very buxom woman with a blonde streak in her Asian dark hair. The woman stood as Dilya might indeed descri
be a boardroom-street-walker—she looked sharp, classy, and just maybe a bit on the hustle. And quite pregnant. When she went up on tiptoes to kiss the Secretary, that confirmed her as Dilya’s adoptive mother.

  There was no way Linda could get them out of the room without raising the alarm. And Linda wasn’t going to allow Dilya to lose another set of parents. She’d been orphaned at eleven, the same age Linda herself might as well have been. The girl had been fortunate enough to find new parents, a gift beyond any measure.

  She had to solve this.

  The contrast of Dilya’s mom beside Secretary Stevenson versus Secretary of State Mallinson was startling. One content to stand quietly while her husband rested a testing hand on her mounded abdomen—the other near to raving.

  But Mallinson had left for a meeting.

  A meeting.

  Lieutenant Jurgen had used exactly that same excuse to get away from her after she’d nailed his training course—back then she had trusted the instructor to not be the agent of destruction. An oversight that still made her grind her teeth whenever she remembered it.

  But no one set up a meeting during a State Dinner. And then to attend only half of the reception? What had Mallinson been trying to get away from?

  The itch between her shoulder blades bloomed to life.

  “Excuse me,” she walked away from the former President in midsentence of teasing Dilya and strode over to Harvey Lieber, lurking in his shadow. “If he’s still here, don’t let Secretary of State Mallinson off the property.”

  “What?”

  “Do it! Then have them check him for a trigger of some sort.”

  To his credit, whatever he thought of her, Lieber didn’t hesitate to raise his wrist mic and send out the instruction.

  His eyes unfocused as he listened.

  “Nothing. Nothing,” he echoed the reports for her. “Got him. Treasury Building tunnel—unusual exit for him. Pissed as hell. Making a lot of threats.” His eyes refocused on her. “No trigger on him. Not even a cell phone. You sure about this, Hamlin?”