“Let me find something to cover up with,” she said instead. “And I’ll come with you.”
“Not so fast.”
Josslyn froze in place, her ponytail swirling behind her as the helicopter lifted off again turning the rooftop into a wind tunnel. Spinning slowly on one heel, she turned to meet the exasperated glare of Christian Sumner, an old family friend of her brother-in-law’s and a colossal pain in Josslyn’s ass.
“Tell me again where they park those things,” she quipped. “It must be one hell of a garage.”
Christian shook his head in disgust. “Is there nothing you take seriously, Josslyn?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. Not so much as a defensive move but more to keep her nemesis from getting an eyeful of the cleavage he once so desperately wished to possess. Of course, he never really wanted Josslyn herself. Just the alliance with her powerful family that a marriage to her would bring.
“And here I thought nothing I could say or do surprised you, Christian. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you’d gotten married and given up following me around.”
He snorted before closing the distance between them. “In case you forgot, I’m now the Undersecretary of State for Africa. I don’t need an excuse to be here. And I never followed you around.”
It was Josslyn’s turn to snort because both knew he was lying about the last part. “The word under in your title makes you sound so small and powerless.”
Definitely a cheap shot given Christian’s sensitivity about his five-foot-seven height, but the medics were long gone with Trevor and Josslyn needed an exit strategy from the embassy and the clutches of the American government. Christian’s sudden appearance meant Hugh had been correct to worry that her time in Zimbabwe might be cut short. But she wasn’t ready to leave yet. Not until she knew the names of the suppliers.
Only this time Christian was proving himself to be a formidable opponent. He didn’t so much as flinch at her insult. In fact, his shoulders seemed to rise up an inch. Or two. He was on a power high and confident he had the upper hand in their current standoff. The thought put her even more on edge.
“You’re in my house now, Josslyn. And you’ll show both my staff and me some respect. Rescuing you and your merry band of animal rights do-gooders from angry rebel militia wasn’t on anyone’s agenda today. As usual, your little stunt will cost the American taxpayers a small fortune. Let’s hope it doesn’t cost your boyfriend his life.”
Former boyfriend. Not that the change in their relationship status meant she didn’t care about Trevor’s survival. She did. But she also didn’t want to give the man standing in front of her any more ammunition than he already had. She couldn’t deny his accusations either because, well, she had been guilty of abusing her family’s power a time or two. Today wasn’t one of those times, though. In this operation, it was best for everyone involved if no one knew who she was. Explaining it to Christian was pointless, however. He was just another one of her family’s hired watchdogs.
“As usual, it’s been nice catching up with you,” she lied. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go check on my team now.”
“The only place you’re going is back to Washington. Immediately.”
His pronouncement had Josslyn halting in her steps. “Excuse me?” A trace of unease ran up her spine.
Christian’s expression suddenly turned merciless as if to say “check-mate.” “There’s a C-one thirty taking off in fifty minutes. You’re to be on it if I have to drag you on board in restraints. I’m under orders from the commander in chief. You do remember him, Josslyn, don’t you?”
Damn. After using the nuclear option and calling in the marines, Josslyn knew she eventually had no choice but to go back to the States and play nice. But she’d thought she’d at least have a few days to follow up on leads and locate Ngoni. Clearly, her brother-in-law had other ideas.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, she stared past Christian, allowing the beauty of the African desert to wash over her. They were out there somewhere. Brutal men and women who would kill a baby rhinoceros for its foot, selling it later as a damn pencil holder to some sick individual around the world. She was determined to stop them, one by one if she had to. But apparently not today. Sometimes her goals felt like a mirage she’d never be able to reach. If only she could give in to her impulse to just turn on her heel and march away. She could then live her own life the way she wanted to, righting the wrongs against animals and protesting the injustice in this world.
That was easier said than done, however, when her brother-in-law was the president of the United States.
Chapter Two
“Well, Doc, what’s the verdict?”
Secret Service Agent Adam Lockett tried to sit patiently in the leather exam chair waiting for the neurosurgeon to respond to his question. But his patience was in short supply. It had been nearly four weeks since the accident and, frankly, the sniper was more than ready to get back to his job commanding the Secret Service’s elite Counter Assault Tactical Team. The headaches were gone—mostly. And he could finally tolerate the daylight again. If he was forced to endure another minute of peace and quiet in the darkness, Adam wasn’t sure he wouldn’t go stark raving mad. He’d never been able to sit still. Just ask any one of his teachers. And the darkness, well, he had lots of reasons to want to avoid that.
“Considering the severity of your head injury, you’re progressing quite well, Agent Lockett,” Dr. Mark Kozinn replied.
Adam could barely curb his enthusiasm. “So I can go back on active duty?”
“I don’t see why you can’t return to work.”
“That’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.” Adam jumped from the chair eager to suit up and show the rest of his team he hadn’t lost his aim or his mojo; he still reigned as the number-one sharpshooter in the world.
“Hold on there, Agent Lockett,” White House Secret Service Director Worcester said from behind Adam. “Can you elaborate on what you mean by ‘work,’ Doctor?”
The adrenaline surging through Adam’s chest lurched into his throat, nearly choking him. Leave it to his boss to need a freaking doctor’s note before reissuing Adam’s rifle. As much respect as he had for the director, the man could certainly be a major buzzkill with his strict adherence to the procedure manual.
Adam was, by nature, a man of action. He played within the rules—for the most part—but he didn’t get bogged down by them. In his line of work, decisions were often made in a split second. He and his team did whatever it took to ensure the safety of the president of the United States. Even if it meant taking a bullet meant for him. Or, in Adam’s case, jumping in front of a would-be assassin wielding a lead pipe.
“By all means, let me clarify.” Dr. Kozinn eyed Adam warily.
Adam didn’t like the look one bit. It resembled the exasperated expression his father had always worn when Adam accidentally spilled some milk. Or dropped a ball in the outfield. Or forgot to tuck in his shirt. Fill in the blank with any number of petty childhood transgressions, but the look was always the same.
“I think it would be best if you ease back into your duties, Agent Lockett,” the doctor announced.
“But you just said—”
Dr. Kozinn held up a hand. “I said you could go back to work, but you’re still not quite recovered enough to be aiming a high-powered rifle accurately, much less leading the CAT team.”
“The hell I’m not! I didn’t miss a target at the range yesterday,” Adam argued.
He left out the fact that he’d had to wait several minutes between shots to let his eyes regain their focus, but it was the first time since the accident he’d aimed a rifle. His vision was bound to improve with practice.
The doctor shook his head, not bothering to admonish Adam for heading to the rifle range before he’d been given the okay. The look on the other man’s face said it all. Swearing under his breath, Adam slumped back down into the chair.
“CTE can be debilitati
ng,” Dr. Kozinn explained as though Adam was a kindergartener and not a thirty-one-year-old trained in special ops who, despite a “debilitating” concussion, could still kick this guy’s ass a thousand ways from Sunday. “Your brain needs time to heal. Exposing it to exacting tasks could be too taxing at this point.”
“How long?” Adam managed to grind out through his clenched jaw. “How long do I have to sit on my thumbs in the dark?”
The doctor sighed. “I realize this has been frustrating for an adrenaline junkie like you, Agent Lockett. But there’s no reason for restrictions that severe any longer. As I said, you can return to some form of active duty. In fact, it will help us better assess your cognitive skills if you’re doing something constructive. I’m sure there is a job less physically demanding you can perform within the White House until you’re one hundred percent.” He arched an eyebrow in question at Director Worcester.
“We can certainly find Agent Lockett a detail that won’t be too taxing,” the director replied.
Adam swallowed a groan. The only protective detail he could think of that would qualify as not “too taxing” was babysitting the president’s father-in-law, an octogenarian crippled with Alzheimer’s.
“How long?” he repeated. “How long until I can return to my actual duties?”
“Given how well you’re progressing and if you keep up your therapy, I should be able to give you the all clear at your next appointment in a few weeks,” the doctor replied.
A few weeks.
It sounded to Adam like a life sentence. Especially since the president and First Lady were leaving on a two-week world tour in a couple of days. He hated having to hand over the helm of the CAT team to his rival. The idiot led by intimidation and swagger. Not only that, but he couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Adam bit back a few choice swear words before reminding himself he was a survivor. He’d been through worse before and come out the other side hungrier and more focused.
Failure is never an option.
“Fine.” He stood and made his way to the door. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Doc.”
“And I’ll see you at the Crown at seven thirty tomorrow morning, Agent Lockett,” the director called after him.
Adam didn’t bother responding. His training as a cadet at West Point combined with years in the army’s elite special forces ensured he never broke rank. Both Adam and the director knew he’d be at the White House—or the Crown as the agents referred to the presidential mansion—bright and early the following morning ready to be assigned a boring protective detail. It didn’t mean he had to like it though.
*
Adam took a long swallow from his cup of coffee. He had a feeling he’d need the caffeine to get him through the tedious day looming ahead. The sun was just beginning to peek out over the horizon on the crisp October morning, but he’d been up for over an hour, getting himself ready to return to duty by jogging the familiar route through the streets of his Capitol Hill neighborhood. It felt good to finally be able to resume most of his normal activities.
The key word being most.
“Hey, now that you’ve returned from zombie status, maybe you could open some of your mail?” His roommate since their days at West Point, Ben Segar, shoved a stack of envelopes across the kitchen counter toward Adam. “Assuming you can still read after Professor Plum bashed you on the skull with the lead pipe in the billiards room.”
Adam glared at his asshole buddy. “Can still read. And can still kick your ass.”
Ben chuckled as he popped a breakfast burrito into the microwave. “I’d say we put that statement to the test, but you look so GQ in your suit, I wouldn’t want to muss you up on your first day back.”
Here was another thing that felt good—getting back to the familiar bantering with his friends. Ben and the third member of their trio of West Point brothers in arms, Griffin Keller, had been treating Adam with kid gloves for the past several weeks. While he appreciated their concern more than he’d ever let on, Adam wasn’t used to the hovering and nurturing. Hell, he hadn’t been mothered since he was ten. The loss of his mom had seen to the end of his childhood.
“I could take you without wrinkling the crease in my pants, but then I’d have to hang around helping you fix your glasses, and I don’t want to be late for my first day on the drool detail.” Adam grabbed the keys to the dull four-door sedan he’d rented until he was cleared to ride his Ducati motorcycle again. He missed the feel of straddling the sleek bike. Hell, he missed the feel of wrapping his legs around a woman, too. At least the doctor hadn’t put any restrictions on sex. The pretty physical therapist in the neurosurgeon’s office had been coming on to Adam for weeks. She’d be a convenient distraction while he waited out the rest of his mandatory recuperation.
“You’re seriously going to ignore all those letters?” Ben asked before Adam could make a clean getaway. “Whoever they’re from seems pretty adamant about getting in touch with you. They’ve been coming two or three a week since you were attacked.”
Adam glanced down at the pile of envelopes at Ben’s elbow. The top one was postmarked Leavenworth, Kansas. He had no doubt the ones beneath it were as well. The chicken scratch on the front of the letter wasn’t hard to recognize. It hadn’t improved any over the past two decades. More than likely, the false promises and apologies on the inside hadn’t either.
“Toss ’em,” Adam said without a shred of guilt.
His friend studied him speculatively. It was the touch of pity flashing in Ben’s eyes that had Adam turning for the door. He was fairly certain, in Ben’s capacity as the Secret Service’s number one cyber asset, his housemate knew exactly who the stack of mail was from. Knowing how much his friend loved to solve puzzles, Ben had likely long ago put together the pieces to Adam’s backstory. Adam was reminded what a solid friend the other man was for not pressing him on it.
Until today.
He didn’t bother standing around trying to figure out the reason for Ben’s change in tactic.
“Have fun playing with the expensive toys in your lab. I’ll catch up with you tonight.”
“Sure,” Ben replied. “But I may be late. Griff and I are going to look at tuxedos for his wedding. Apparently, the best man is required to give some input into the decision.”
“Really?” Adam looked back at Ben incredulously. “When did you get the green light as best man?”
Earlier that fall, Griffin had done the unthinkable and proposed to Marin Chevalier, the White House executive pastry chef. Adam and Ben began jokingly jockeying for the position as their buddy’s best man as soon Griffin had shown them the ring. While he was disappointed to not be chosen, Adam consoled himself by the fact he’d avoided having to endure an actual shopping experience.
“What do you mean?” Ben asked. “Griffin told us about his decision the night before you left for New Orleans. Don’t you remember?”
No.
The fact was, Adam didn’t remember anything about the days leading up to his head bashing. Not that he was going to share that information with Ben or anyone else. The way they’d been mollycoddling him, they’d turn his amnesia into an epic situation. Adam was confident his memory would return one of these days. And if it didn’t, did it really matter? He shrugged and picked up his travel coffee cup.
“I knew it.” Ben slapped a hand onto the countertop. “You do have some residual amnesia.”
Realizing too late he’d been tricked, Adam let loose a string of obscenities. “Damn it, Ben. I should have known Griff would never pick you as his best man.”
“Yeah, well that remains to be seen, Humpty Dumpty,” Ben said as he came around the counter, his pointer finger aimed at Adam’s chest. “But you, dude, need to be honest with yourself. And the doctors. A brain injury is nothing to take lightly. You need to be taking it easy. I mean, it’s not like you have that many brain cells up there anyway.”
While he appreciated his friend couching his concern inside a dig, Adam had had enough of everyone te
lling him how he needed to be careful. He was fit enough to take care of himself, thank everyone very much. And despite not having a super-sized MIT-grade brain like Ben, Adam knew if he didn’t get back to any type of work soon, his brain would go to mush. So the drool detail it was.
“Relax, Grandma,” Adam drawled. “I’m on ‘non-taxing’ duty, remember? At least I’ll have something in common with my protectee.” He tapped his forehead. “We’re both a little light on our total recall right now.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but Dr. Benoit’s amnesia is caused by Alzheimer’s. Don’t let yours be the result of being a dumbass.”
“I’ll be watching over an old man who puts his dog in a stroller when he takes it for a walk, for crying out loud. There’s no chance of even a rise in my blood pressure much less any further strain on my brain.” Adam gave his friend a salute before heading out the door.
*
Two hours later, Adam felt like his head was going to explode. Despite his earlier boast, he could feel the blood shredding the veins at the base of his skull as his blood pressure likely approached DEFCON levels. At any moment his brain would be gushing out of his ears, staining the carpet of the West Sitting Hall of the White House.
And, yet, somehow, he was able to maintain the blank expression necessary of Secret Service agents everywhere, trying to appear invisible despite the family drama playing out around him. President Conrad Manning shrugged into his suit jacket seemingly unfazed by the theatrics. First Lady Harriett Manning sat on one of the sofas next to her father, the only tell that she was aggravated, the frantic tapping of her foot.
At the center of the room, moving like a whirling dervish, amid the shower of sunshine beaming through the giant half-moon window, was the She-Devil incarnate. Josslyn Benoit. Adam tried unsuccessfully to blink away the image of the woman with the silky black hair, pale gray eyes, and porn-star breasts who was stomping around like a frustrated toddler in front of him. But every time he raised his lids, she was still there. And still gorgeous.
Shot in the Dark Page 2