“Am I going to like this?”
Mark shrugged, “Probably not, but what do I care? You won’t let me get you between the sheets, so if I offend you, it won’t make a whole lot of difference in our blissful domestic arrangements.”
His failure in that quest was really bothering him, which was kind of sweet. But she needed him to stay on track so she definitely wouldn’t tell him that his proximity was working on her defenses far more successfully than he knew.
“Okay. What is it I’m not going to like?”
“What if she wants to look endangered? I mean, come on. Who brings a top military pilot in as their personal chef? She could have anyone.”
Before Emily could even work up a halfhearted snarl in defense of her cooking, he cut her off.
“You cook almost as good as you look, which is saying one hell of a lot. But personal chef to the First—well, you know who. That’s world-class credentials. You focus on culinary arts for a couple decades, open a couple of four-star restaurants, and that may earn you a one-in-a-thousand shot at it. You study helicopter operations for those same years, and you ain’t even close. If you’re looking for something that doesn’t scan, that’s it. It’s a setup, and so far she’s called all the shots, some of them literal.”
“You really think she’s the one behind whatever is happening?”
He continued to stare at the tree, nodding slowly. “It’s my current theory.”
They were in sight of the Reflecting Pool. Too many memories of Sneaker Boy on the north side, so she aimed them south. A mess. She was a complete mess. Mark wanted her, perhaps Peter as well. Her career was screwed up. And her life had nearly been screwed up twice now in a very permanent fashion.
Someone had to save her from this.
Someone had to…
Mark made a noise but she raised a hand to silence him.
Someone had said to her… something. She could almost picture it. No image came clear. There was no movie of the brain to connect the line to. No visual—
“Ha! That’s it!”
“What?”
“I was blind.”
“And now you see. Should I break into a chorus of ‘Amazing Grace’ for you?”
She punched Mark’s arm. Hard. With some knuckle in it on the nerve center.
He raised a fist to return the favor. She grabbed it, applied pressure behind the thumb, and twisted it sharply. He dropped to his knees before she bothered to let him go.
“I was blind, still drugged, and in the hospital.”
He staggered upright, massaging his offended hand.
“But I remember Katherine saying to me, ‘I knew you could save me.’ She said it again on the helicopter, the next time we flew together. She knew ahead of time that we’d be attacked. That I could—”
They’d stopped when she dropped him to the ground, and a crowd of tourists now came from behind and had to swarm around them like a herd of camera-eyed ants.
“That’s why I’m here.” Emily half-closed her eyes, trying to see more clearly, but the thoughts came slowly, a word at a time. “That’s why she wanted me.”
“Why?”
“She wanted a dupe who could protect her against her own attempts on her life. Who better than me, a female SOAR pilot?”
“Well, she didn’t actually do them personally.”
Emily started off again.
“But what if she did?”
“How?” That finally stopped Mark from massaging his wrist.
Emily searched in her mind, trying to visualize Admiral Parker’s initial briefing.
“Remember the picture I showed you of the limo?”
“Shattered glass. Little spark-plug porcelain bits on the floor. No shooter found. That’s what you said.”
“Picture it.” She waved her hand at the golden sky as if it were a window. “You’re a shooter standing outside her limousine. You point and fire. Those fragments cause an intensely reactive shattering of the glass. Where are the little fragments of porcelain going to end up?”
“Outside on the ground.” Mark’s voice was soft as he got the image.
“But they didn’t. They ended up inside. Katherine shattered the window herself, from the inside, maybe just by throwing a handful of porcelain chips.”
“And was injured by the unexpected reaction of the glass’s violent shattering.” Mark nodded as the piece fit. “But what about the plane?”
They paused and stared across the Tidal Basin at the Jefferson Memorial, awash in floodlights overpowering the evening.
“They never found the radio controller. They never found who launched it. Some accomplice lets it fly from well outside the fence, beyond the main cameras. Then he or she drives up to the White House gate. Perfect alibi. He’s chatting with gate security as the First Lady flies the plane directly at her own window. If someone had thought to look in her desk drawer after the attack, they’d probably have found the controller. It was planned as a dud. Designed not to explode on impact with her office window.”
Mark grabbed her upper arm, dragged her about, and began heading north.
“Where are we going?” She dug in her heels.
“FBI. Or Secret Service. I don’t care, but we have to tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
Mark stumbled to a halt.
“The highest-profile attacks in the history of the White House, actually occurring inside the grounds, and we’re going to claim that they were staged by the most popular First Lady since Jackie O.? That some accomplice ‘unknown,’” she made quote marks in the air with her fingers, “fired a light weapon at her helicopter, dropped it on the ground, and walked into the back door of the Executive Office Building?” She turned away and continued their progress toward the Lincoln Memorial.
“To make matters worse, only seven people in the world know why I’m here, and only two know about you.”
Mark harrumphed. “Then who is the unknown? Vice President Zack Thomas? Kath—”
Emily nudged him in the ribs.
“She,” Emily emphasized the word, “certainly flirts enough with him. Do we claim that they want to kill off Peter and take over the big white home? No one would believe a word.”
Emily could feel the world spin. As if she were the center, standing directly on a new pole of rotation, carrying them all in a circular orbit except her. Somehow she’d stepped right into the middle of the mess.
“But I don’t get why she’s doing it.”
“Who cares? Let’s get you out while we still can.”
Chivalrous of Mark, really. Mr. Alpha Male protecting the poor, helpless female.
More of the spinning pieces clicked into place. Were beginning to fit.
“Or we could just wait. She’ll reveal herself eventually. Make a mistake.”
Mark huffed in exasperation. “I’m not a huge fan of that option.”
“Not your operation.”
He sighed again. “Well, at least I’ll have more time to work my wiles on you. You have to give in at some point. I’m a pretty charming guy, you know.”
“Dream on, big boy.”
Even though she was there, she couldn’t figure out how Mark did it.
One moment, they had wandered into the eeriest of the Washington monuments, the Korean War Memorial. Full dusk had arrived, the surrounding trees plunging them into a premature night. Only the faintest of lights broke the darkness. Life-sized bronze foot soldiers were frozen in midstride. Rifles to the ready, ponchos draped fitfully over battle gear. Eyes watchful for the enemy. And then, your eyes focused on the wall behind the soldiers. And the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men marching forward out of the etching into the graveyard of war.
These were the men she had chosen to join. They had died in the tens of thousands, now nameless except to those who once loved them.
Would she one day be part of such a memorial? Would her name be carved on the Night Stalker memorial in front of Grimm Hall for her mother to visit a
nd touch once a year?
The next moment, Mark had her pressed against that wall, his mouth on hers, one hand at the small of her back and the other sliding inside her jacket and over her breast. And she wasn’t complaining.
She leaned her head back, exposing her throat, hoping he would ravage it. Just take her. And he did. His hands explored in ways that sent shivers of heat coursing up her spine as her pulse thundered into her brain. Rolling her head to the side, offering him more of her neck, she saw the images carved in the marble. All of those legions of soldiers.
With a sharp shove, she managed to force a breath of space despite her body’s scream for anything but distance.
“Not here. Not now.”
Mark growled and didn’t back off. He leaned in again, but as the hunger had momentarily left his eyes. She could see them focus past her at the dead who marched from the marble.
He swore violently and strode away until he stood frozen among the bronzed figures on patrol. Lost in the shadows. Head hanging. Little more than a statue himself.
Emily took a deep breath, seeking a strength she didn’t find, then rearranged her clothes and moved to his side. This time she did tuck her hand around his elbow and hold it close.
He nodded slowly, once. Twice. Then they moved off together without any further word.
Her head cleared a little as they moved back toward her old buddy Honest Abe. Cleared until Mark’s kiss wasn’t the only thing she could feel. Until the memory of his lust-clouded eyes wasn’t the only thing she could see. She did her best to pick up the conversation where they’d left off.
“Waiting around wouldn’t be my first choice either. If we’re right, I’d rather avoid the risk of dying in whatever game she cooks up next. They’re a little on the hazardous side for my taste.”
Mark’s voice sounded rough as he too fought for control. “Then let’s do something simple—find out why she’s doing it. If you find the reason, the motive might prove the actions.”
“That’s where we need to look. What is she getting out of it?”
Chapter 48
The First Lady had just whisked off to visit a friend in Colorado for a weekend and taken Daniel along. Beale’s father had insisted that he’d known Zack Taylor for twenty years and there was no possibility of his being involved in Katherine’s plans. Once again they were stalled.
Mark found himself at loose ends and didn’t like it. Beale was making him completely stir-crazy. He understood her refusals. Even inside the protective shell of the Secret Service, there wasn’t the privacy, the freedom. Her kitchen far too public, her tiny apartment too claustrophobic. This crazy place was pressing in on his brain so hard that he wanted to scream.
They’d gone for a walk through the White House gardens together just to have something to do. They walked in silence, Emily so distracted by her own thoughts that she’d have walked into a tree if he’d let her.
They turned up the next path and Mark froze.
Agent Frank Adams stood not a dozen feet away scowling at him.
Emily practically jumped out of her skin.
“Didn’t mean to spook you.”
“Sure you did.” Emily recovered her voice quickly.
His smile for her was easygoing, even friendly. “Okay, you caught me. Surprised it worked.”
Mark was pretty surprised, too. Beale was normally unflappable.
“Thinking deep thoughts. Where you headed?”
“I’m just off shift, heading to the gym. Want to join in?” Agent Adams was completely ignoring Mark. So whatever this was, it wasn’t about him.
“The gym?” Beale was rolling some idea around on her tongue.
Mark looked back and forth between them. There was a subtext going on here that he was missing. Clearly they weren’t talking about a workout.
“Sure,” Emily answered her own question. “The gym, as long as Marky can come. It’ll give us a chance to find out.”
“Find out? What?” Adams waved for her to lead him down the garden path toward the east entrance.
Who’d be standing afterward, of course. They were talking about a sparring match. Against this guy? She had to be kidding. Mark was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to try taking on a top Secret Service agent. He needn’t worry; Adams wasn’t any more interested in him than a bug.
Beale didn’t bat an eye as she answered the agent.
“Why, who’s prettier of course.”
Adams grunted. “Damn. Lost that race before we even got out the gate.”
***
The Secret Service headquarters was a short six-block walk away. Emily did her best to keep the talk light. She and Adams were both D.C. kids in a city of transients. Discussing the changes in architecture, monuments, and most significantly, the mood of the city, was fun. The blacksuits’ headquarters was an imposing, block-long megalith of brick and glass in the midst of a long row of imposing buildings of brick and glass. Even so, it stood out.
As they entered the doors, she leaned over to Mark and whispered in his ear, “Remember who you aren’t.”
He startled slightly and then smiled at her, “Uh, right. Sure, babe.” Good thing she’d reminded him.
Adams signed them in and led them into the complex and down a broad marble-and-granite corridor tastefully lit from the recessed edges of false columns of black stone. Clearly designed to absolutely humble any guest.
“Nice,” she managed, with the word completely sticking in her throat.
“Shooting range down those stairs.” He indicated a double-wide staircase off to the right. Several agents moving up and down the treads.
“How long were you in SOAR?”
“I am,” she hit the word hard, “in SOAR. Two years, if you include training. Seven flying for the Screaming Eagles before that. And I will be in SOAR after you’ve retired and they’re wrapping wet nappies around your butt.” Damn it! She was still a pilot. Just on some kind of screwed-up, unwanted sabbatical that now had her hunting ghosts behind every presidential portrait.
“Touchy. Touchy. So, you’re saying I probably don’t want to shoot against you.”
She clamped down on her tongue. This was a senior blacksuit she was facing. “Um, tell you what. I’ll take you on, automatic weapons .50 caliber and above. Especially weaponized vehicles.”
He grunted and continued down the hall. “Okay, that wouldn’t exactly be something we practice much down in the basement.”
“No. But I’ve taken a fair number of your snipers out on the Fort Benning range. And they learned how somewhere.”
Adams laughed and turned down a short hall. “It’s hard to remember from minute to minute that a beautiful young woman like you is also a highly trained soldier. Today, though, we’re going to see just what the Secret Service has that you helicopter jockeys don’t.”
“Yeah, squat. Squat and diddly.”
All he did was point at a door marked for gender.
“Through there. You’ll find clothes for guests over in the far-right corner. See you inside.”
Chapter 49
Most of the black T-shirts had a big “USSS” logo. Mark couldn’t find one with no logo.
Agent Adams merely grunted when Mark pulled it on inside out so that the logo didn’t show. He’d been trying to figure out how to play this for the whole walk over while Beale made nice-nice with Adams. Clearly some grudge match going on here and his role was to be invisible. He was surprised they’d let him in the building at all, even if only to the gym. It said something of how highly they thought of Beale. He could play it as jet-setting playboy-wimp, but the Secret Service had surely drilled past that facade by now. So, Mr. Paramilitary-cocky-as-can-be stud. He could get into that role.
He scared up some shorts and figured his sneakers would be good enough.
The door on the far side of the locker room led to a true wonder. SOAR did a lot of cross-country running; the worse the weather, the better the workout. A SOAR gym consisted of a set of free weights in
the corner of a hangar. Volleyball and hoops were common pastimes. The three battalion headquarters had serious setups, but with the current operational tempo they were almost never parked there.
The Secret Service gym dedicated whole sections to different equipment. A banked track encircled the massive room. Eight lanes wide with a couple dozen agents spread out around the course. Rings, bars, and horses. Clearly, agility mattered. Weights, cycles, steppers, every machine imaginable.
Everything in excellent repair, all showing signs of active use. And in the center of the room a broad, clear area, heavily padded with bright blue mats. Wrestling, grappling, sparring, martial arts. Seventy people could take a class there, though right now only two couples and one threesome were using the mats.
“Cool setup.” He did his best to sound casual.
Adams grunted at him again, making it absolutely clear that he didn’t care in the least what Marky Herman thought.
Then Beale came out the next door over. Somewhere she’d found a T-shirt marked “Army” that clearly no one knew was there, or it would have been purged or used for target practice. It was a size or two small and made his insides quiver like Jim’s stupid squirrel dog that had caught the scent. The black running shorts exposed miles of beautiful, well-toned leg. He didn’t have to pretend for a second to be blown away by how good she looked.
“Let’s warm up a bit first.” Adams’s voice sounded just a little bit rough, and Mark couldn’t blame him. After a quick set of stretches on bars conveniently located nearby, they all set off at a slow jog.
Adams let Emily set the pace, and Mark dutifully followed along.
She opened up a bit after the first kilometer.
By the second kilometer she hit her stride. Mark knew it well as they often trained together. At this pace she could run with little change for two hours without water. Six with water. Ten with water and energy bars. It wasn’t especially fast, but it was a mile-eater nonetheless. He wanted to push ahead, show Adams a thing or two about field training, but Emily caught his gaze and gave a short shake of her head.
Night Is Mine Page 23