Gute hund—good dog—told Malcolm he was off duty and could relax and be a dog for a moment rather than a sniffing magician.
It also gave Jim an excuse to let Malcolm approach and really check out the veteran up close just in case he was a Crazy-in-disguise. Even “off duty” Malcolm would respond if he smelled something dangerous.
Nope, guy was clean.
Jim glanced back at his patrol partner and nodded to indicate he’d be stopping for a moment. PSCO dogs never worked the fence line alone. Sergeant Mickey Claremont followed five to ten meters behind him. He was a big guy, looking even more so because of the bulletproof vest over his warm coat clearly labeled USSS Police. The AR-15 automatic rifle that he carried across his chest was part of his primary duty of being backup in case Malcolm did alert to someone. His second job included making sure that nothing slowed Jim’s and Malcolm’s progress. But Claremont had learned that there were certain types of guys that Jim always stopped for.
“You handled dogs?” He asked the wide-eyed vet hovering uncertainly at the fence.
All he managed was a nod back.
“Been out long?”
Head shake…then a grimace.
“Don’t worry about it, brother. The words will come back eventually.”
“You sure?” Barely a whisper and now the guy was watching him.
“Three tours in the Dustbowl. Nothing fancy. A heavy driver on the Kandahar and Kabul run.” A fellow soldier would know what that meant. Hauling heavy loads, desperately needed by the in-country teams, from the port at Karachi, Pakistan, across a thousand kilometers to Kandahar, Afghanistan, or another five hundred clicks to Kabul. And every millimeter past the southern Wesh-Chaman border crossing or the Torkham one to the north had been run in constant fear of being a giant target on a known road. They’d lost a lot of guys, but he’d made it out in one piece.
“Two tours in Baghdad. One in Mosul,” the guy at the fence was back to staring at Malcolm. He reached out a tentative hand as if he was seeing a ghost, but pulled it back before he could test the theory.
“That’s some hard shit, brother,” Jim wouldn’t have wanted that tour any day. “Just give yourself some time.”
The guy nodded, almost desperately.
“Hit the support groups,” Jim dug out a card from the stack he always carried and handed it over. “These guys saved my ass. Gotta get back to work now. Good luck, buddy. Such!” Like soock with a guttural German ck—Seek! And Malcolm went back to sniffing his way along the fence line. Even letting the guy know that there was such a thing as “getting back to work” would help.
Claremont folded in behind him and worked the second part of his job as they passed more tourists.
“Yes, he’s a bomb-sniffing dog.” “No, you can’t pet him because he’s working right now.” “Yes, it’s okay to take his picture but, no, he can’t pose for a picture because he’s working right now.” And so on in an unending litany.
Jim was so used to it that the silence always seemed wrong after the crowds thinned out at night but the patrols continued.
They were nearing their one-hour limit. A dog’s nose only went so long without a break. One hour on, half-hour off. Which was good, that gave him enough time to do the paperwork that was part of being a PSCO handler: patrol reports, daily security briefing, studying the faces of known risk agents and recent threats. A letter writer was usually just that, someone dumb enough to threaten the President’s life and then put their return address on the envelope. A single visit from the Secret Service was usually enough to scare those dummies back under the wire. But it didn’t hurt to have studied their faces in case they transitioned to The Crazies category.
That’s when he spotted the sixth type of visitor to the White House fence—The Newbie.
Reese Carver stood at the White House fence and tried to figure out what had changed.
Actually, she knew exactly what had changed, but she couldn’t reconcile how different it felt. Four years driving for the Secret Service, that last year in the Presidential Motorcade, and still she wasn’t ready for the scale of this morning’s change.
It was the same White House she’d pulled up to a hundred times before.
At first she’d waited outside the gate in one of the escort vehicles.
Then they’d started bouncing her around: press corps van, support vehicles for carrying the staff who didn’t rate a ride in the President’s car or one of the spares, then command and control while the guys in the back handled route logistics on the fly, and even the front sweep car that checked the route out ahead of the motorcade.
Hazmat had been hard on her nerves because she knew nothing about what those guys actually did.
Watchtower—the electronic countermeasures vehicle capable of suppressing remote explosive triggers, and laser and radar detection of incoming threats—had made her feel like she was constantly being irradiated. It was also a mobile cell tower, satellite uplink, and everything else imaginable.
She’d even driven Halfback—the lethal Chevy Suburban that carried the protection detail immediately behind the President’s limo. She’d liked that one. The agents were armed to the gills, including a pop-up-through-the-roof Minigun. Could have used that back on the NASCAR race tracks a few times on some of the assholes who thought ganging up to shut out a female driver was good sport.
With all these different assignments, it had gotten to the point where she’d driven every vehicle except for Stagecoach—the Presidential monster itself, also nicknamed The Beast for a reason—and the ambulance that always trailed along behind.
She’d liked driving the unimaginatively named Spares. The two identical copies of the Presidential limousine played a constant shuttle game with Stagecoach so that a terrorist would never be sure which vehicle carried the President and which was the decoy. Any Spare driver worth their salt dreamed of Stagecoach breaking down and the President shifting into their vehicle—which had happened only five times in the last two decades, so the chances were low.
Then she’d crossed the Motorcade drivers’ “finish line.”
The Secret Service had hundreds of elite drivers, from the San Francisco SWAT team to the Capital Police of the Uniformed Division. The competition to reach the Presidential Motorcade had been fierce.
Just this morning she’d gotten a wake-up call from the head of the Presidential Protection Detail, Senior Special Agent Harvey Lieber.
“Bumping you to driving Stagecoach, Reese. Get your ass in here.” With Lieber, that wasn’t some slur because she was a black woman with an ass that she’d been complimented on far too many times. All it meant was for her to get her ass in there. From him, she’d take that, but not from any other asshole.
That call had changed the world.
A part of her was ready to do a victory dance.
Reese Carver—the first woman to drive The Beast. And a black woman at that. She wanted to do her dance on the heads of every male idiot that said a woman couldn’t do it. Every jerk who’d tried to put her down—even after she’d smeared them off the track. She’d learned the hard way to keep it all inside. Men were expected to brag, but one little smile out of place and it tagged a woman as a bitch. Fine. Whatever.
But the other part of her could only stand and stare at the White House. Next time she drove onto the grounds, it wouldn’t be a matter of escorting the President. Next time his life would be in her hands.
“What am I supposed to feel about that?” She didn’t have a clue.
“First days are always like that,” a deep baritone said from close beside her.
“What?” She turned and looked up at the blue-eyed UD smiling at her. The Secret Service Uniformed Division guys always struck her as a little foolish. Didn’t they get it? United States Secret Service meant Special Agent. Secrecy. Not parading around Washington, DC dressed like a cop. They really should be called something else. Maybe—as they were standing on the edge of the National Mall—they should rename them Ma
ll cops. She liked that. She’d didn’t come up with funny things on her own very often, but that wasn’t half bad.
“Your first day?” He nodded toward the White House in a friendly fashion. His smile said that he was completely assured of his own charm. She’d never yet met a man like that who actually charmed her.
“Not even close,” she warned him off.
“Oh,” his smile didn’t diminish. “You have the look.”
“What look?” She didn’t have a look. No one was supposed to be able to see what she was feeling. She’d learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago. “Like some lost fem in search of a big, strong, handsome man to protect her?”
He laughed. “Like you can see the White House, but it’s spooking the crap out of you worse than a mouse at a cat convention. See that a lot on Newbies.”
“Not.” Keep it short. Make him go away. Nobody saw through her shields like that—so not allowed. She looked away and down into the big brown eyes of a smiling springer spaniel. He was standing there looking up at her with his tongue lolling out. She reached out to pet him.
And he sat abruptly.
Reese froze.
It was the signal that explosive-detection dogs used to alert their handler that they’d found something. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the backup man shift his grip on his AR-15 semi-auto as he moved for a better angle. Tourists continued streaming by as if nothing was amiss.
She straightened very slowly, keeping her hands in clear view.
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About the Author
M.L. Buchman started the first of, what is now over 50 novels and as many short stories, while flying from South Korea to ride his bicycle across the Australian Outback. Part of a solo around the world trip that ultimately launched his writing career.
All three of his military romantic suspense series—The Night Stalkers, Firehawks, and Delta Force—have had a title named “Top 10 Romance of the Year” by the American Library Association’s Booklist. NPR and Barnes & Noble have named other titles “Top 5 Romance of the Year.” In 2016 he was a finalist for Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA award. He also writes: contemporary romance, thrillers, and fantasy.
Past lives include: years as a project manager, rebuilding and single-handing a fifty-foot sailboat, both flying and jumping out of airplanes, and he has designed and built two houses. 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 and receive a free starter e-library by subscribing to his newsletter at: www.mlbuchman.com
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Also by M. L. Buchman
* also sweet version / + also audio
The Night Stalkers
Main Flight
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
By Break of Day
White House Holiday
Daniel’s Christmas+
Frank’s Independence Day+
Peter’s Christmas+
Zachary’s Christmas
Roy’s Independence Day
Damien’s Christmas
and the Navy
Christmas at Steel Beach
Christmas at Peleliu Cove
5E
Target of the Heart
Target Lock on Love
Target of Mine
Firehawks
Main Flight
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point+
Flash of Fire+
Wild Fire
Smokejumpers
Wildfire at Dawn
Wildfire at Larch Creek
Wildfire on the Skagit
Delta Force
Main Flight
Target Engaged+
Heart Strike+
Wild Justice+
Henderson’s Ranch
Nathan’s Big Sky*
Big Sky, Loyal Heart*
Love Abroad B&B
Heart of the Cotswolds: England*
Where Dreams
Where Dreams are Born*
Where Dreams Reside*
Where Dreams Are of Christmas*
Where Dreams Unfold*
Where Dreams Are Written*
Eagle Cove
Return to Eagle Cove*
Recipe for Eagle Cove*
Longing for Eagle Cove*
Keepsake for Eagle Cove*
Deities Anonymous
Cookbook from Hell: Reheated
Saviors 101
Dead Chef
Swap Out!
One Chef!
Two Chef!
SF/F Titles
The Nara Reaction
Monk’s Maze
The Me and Elsie Chronicles
Strategies for Success
Managing Your Inner Artist / Writer
Estate Planning for Authors+
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Copyright 2017 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Published by Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
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Cover images:
Brown Old Paper © gabyfotoart
French bulldog wearing police harness © lifeonwhite
Border Terrier © Deaddogdodge
Couple Kissing © stockasso
Green Grass Backgroud © halina_photo
Declaration of Independence on White House building © izanbar
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Off the Leash Page 18