“What was the pilot’s name?” She wasn’t sure why she asked. She’d only ever met one pilot years before, but the woman had left an indelible impression. A female Army helicopter pilot. Reese hadn’t even known there were any. Reese had spent a really fun one-week stand with her gunner—a macho Latino named Tim Maloney—but it was the woman who stuck in her memory.
“Emily Beale. Most impressive woman I’ve ever met.” Then Jim turned to face her and that Mr. Charm smile was back. “So far.”
Chapter Two
Reese really didn’t need this shit. She strode off along the short length of hallway remaining to reach the Secret Service Ready Room. It was the largest office in the entire West Wing, roughly twenty-five by ninety feet: about three times bigger than the Oval Office. If size implied power, the Secret Service were it.
She’d only been inside a few times. Normally the Motorcade assembled in the garage beneath the Secret Service headquarters five blocks east of the White House. She’d been on the grounds dozens of times, but almost always in her vehicle.
Jim and Malcolm veered off toward one of the jam-packed desks that filled a whole end of the room without even a glance in her direction. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he topped up a water bowl, played with Malcolm for a moment, then gave him some treats before directing him to a doggie bed. The guy sat at the desk and pulled out some paperwork.
Reese felt kind of irked. First no proper introduction, then—she’d thought—they’d been having a nice moment together with Dilya. Only to be followed by him turning all smarmy and now walking away from her as if she was nothing.
She hadn’t been too weird, had she? She’d tried to be normal—but since she wasn’t, it was hard to pretend. She’d managed a couple of friendly moments… And now the cold shoulder.
Fine!
Because she was female? Or black? Or… Didn’t matter to her. No reason to care anyway what some dog handler thought.
She turned her back on him, walked through the briefing area that could seat thirty agents, and headed for the small side-by-side offices at the far end. They defined the dual nature of the Secret Service.
To the left, Captain Baxter, head of White House Detail for the Uniformed Division and Jim the dog boy’s boss. To the right, Senior Special Agent Harvey Lieber, head of the PPD—the Presidential Protection Detail. He’d been her boss for over a year now, but with her promotion to driving Stagecoach this morning, their relationship had just changed. She was now his right-hand woman for all things Motorcade. Actually, his left-hand woman, as he always rode in the front passenger seat in any vehicle the President was aboard.
Reese knocked discreetly and waited at the threshold.
No response as he stared at his computer screen.
“Good morning, sir.”
Harvey grunted but didn’t look up. He was a good-looking guy. Tall, good shoulders, brown hair and eyes almost the same color as the springer spaniel’s—easy bet he wouldn’t appreciate that comparison. Rumor said he was single, but imagining a woman being up to his demanding standards was hard to do.
Though she did like a challenge, there wasn’t any spark there for her. Besides, he was her boss and she wanted Stagecoach. He didn’t push her hot button any more than mall-cop-turned-dog-walker Fischer.
He’d ridden with her several times, first out at the James J. Rowley Training Center and later in the Motorcade sitting with her in a Spare rather than with the President. At the time she’d thought it was merely odd, not getting that she was being tested to take over the helm of Stagecoach from Ralph McKenna when he retired.
He didn’t look up from his screen as he reached out and pounded the flat of his palm against the wall. Not in anger, more as if… Oh, the shared wall with his Uniformed Division counterpart.
“What?” Captain Baxter stepped up close behind her. He was a crew-cut, gray-haired, one-man-army who was a White House institution. He was now on his fourth President as head of the White House UD.
Reese tried to move aside, but the office wasn’t big enough to fit the three of them unless she sat down in the one open chair. And Harvey hadn’t invited her to do that.
“We—” Harvey finally looked up and blinked at her in surprise. “Where the hell did you come from, Carver?”
“I’ve been standing here. Knocked and everything, sir.”
“Sass.” He looked past her at Baxter. “You’ve seen it?”
“I’ve seen it.”
Reese hadn’t, but figured that they’d know that and kept her mouth shut.
“Who the hell thinks these things up?” Harvey continued grousing.
“Not me.”
“Doesn’t make me feel any better.”
After two years in the Secret Service, Reese was used to cryptic conversations, but this was getting awkward.
Then Harvey looked at her and narrowed his eyes. He squinted at her long enough that she couldn’t help herself and spoke.
“What?”
“I’m gonna bounce you out of Stagecoach.”
Reese didn’t know whether to rage or cry. All she managed was a squeak as she’d just stopped breathing. She’d fought so hard, never really believing that she’d make the goal of being the President’s driver—only two or three per decade made the grade—but that hadn’t stopped her from gunning for it. And she’d made it only to have it ripped away on her first day?
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair! She’d—
“Just for the next three days, dammit. I’ve got three drivers out with that bug that’s going around and I need a lead for a First Lady Motorcade. President isn’t scheduled outside the Oval this week. So stop freaking out and take a goddamn breath, Carver.”
She tried, but it wasn’t working well. She tried again and managed a wheezing gasp that made Harvey smile and totally embarrassed her.
“Always good to know how bad you want it,” Harvey enjoyed rubbing salt in the wound.
She restricted herself to a simple nod of acceptance. That was twice in one day she’d let her feelings show. Get it together, girl.
As to how bad she wanted it? There wasn’t a single accolade higher than being the President’s driver. It was the Daytona 500 and the Cup Series all rolled into one. It didn’t have the high public profile, but that had never been what motivated her to drive.
So the First Lady needed a Motorcade? That meant…
Reese decided it was time to prove she wasn’t a complete loser.
“Is it the shopping trip?” The girl Dilya had mentioned that. First and Second Lady both pregnant. Motorcade. It all made sense.
Harvey opened his mouth, squinted at her, then snapped it shut.
Chalk one up on the scoreboard.
Harvey turned to Captain Baxter. “Gonna need your best dog team, too.”
Reese caught herself holding her breath again. Please not cold-shoulder Jim Fischer. He’d already deemed her too weird. That she knew he was right didn’t help. Or maybe he was the one who was too weird with his non-introduction. Hinting she might be the best woman ever, and then just walking away from her cold.
Whatever he was, it was confusing the crap out of her and she wasn’t interested in spending another second in his presence.
Captain Baxter didn’t hesitate or turn, just calling out loud enough to be heard throughout the long room.
“Fischer! Get yourself over here, boy.”
Jim wondered what he’d done wrong this time. Baxter was fussier than his own sister on prom night about getting everything downright perfect. An old warhorse like Captain Baxter fussing with his makeup—now there was an image.
Of course, Jim had witnessed far too many breakdowns, accidents, and just plain damn foolishness while driving the nation’s highways—and the Paki-Afghani ones. He agreed with Baxter about getting it all right, but he’d thought he was running clean.
He flashed a stay sign to Malcolm as he shoved out of his chair and headed over to the Captain. Malcolm stayed on his do
ggie bed, but Jim could feel the spaniel’s eyes tracking him across the room.
Reese Carver stood there beside the Captain.
Crap! Had she seen something and made a report? Griped about him double-checking her ID? He’d already received the “go away, boy” message loud and clear. He wasn’t sure quite what he’d done to make her stalk off like that, but he knew when to steer clear. Apparently not soon enough. He shouldn’t have even walked with her through security.
He thumped Thompson, one of the other dog handlers, lightly on the shoulder just to steady himself. Thompson’s “Hey, Jim,” sustained him most of the way over.
Reese had shed her heavy winter coat and now stood in a typical, dark gray Special Agent suit. Except typical had nothing to do with how it looked on her.
He barely managed to stop the whistle of surprise. He’d thought she was hot when all he’d seen was her face. That brief glimpse of her figure as she’d handed over her ID wallet hadn’t prepared him for the woman standing here now. She looked dangerous, powerful, and sexy as a centerfold all at once. How did a woman do that?
She glared at him like he was a preacher man for the anti-Christ. He did his best to stop admiring her figure, but it was hard—real hard. She looked sweeter than a hot rod and more powerful than his old Kenworth T680 semi-tractor.
“Yeah, boss?” He focused on Captain Baxter’s ugly mug. Far safer.
“Pulling you off the fence.”
Jim shrugged his acceptance, but didn’t like it. They’d offered him other jobs before, and he’d always found a way to turn them down. This one wouldn’t be any different. He liked his walks with Malcolm. He’d seen what happened to other guys who aspired to more. They spent their days patrolling the insides of convention centers and meeting rooms, basement kitchens and garage entries.
Not for him.
Not for Malcolm. Dogs were supposed to be outside with room to roam.
“What is it with you people today?” Harvey growled.
Jim did his best to fix his expression. It was never a good idea to be upsetting the head of the Presidential Detail.
“You two bozos know that First Lady Anne Darlington-Thomas and Former First Lady Geneviève Matthews work for the UNESCO World Heritage Centre at a very senior level?”
He didn’t pause long enough for either of them to respond, which was fine. He knew it, and if Reese was PPD, she’d certainly know it as well.
“Normally they travel from their offices here in the East Wing up to the UN building in New York about once a month for meetings. Well, this time they’ve added on a day of shopping, eating out, and going to a Broadway musical. Second Lady going along for the ride.” Harvey rolled his eyes as if he was in pain. “The three ladies together will make a very attractive target,” then Harvey stabbed a finger in his direction. “Not a single snide remark out of you.”
He held up his hands palm out declaring his innocence, though the man was right. First Lady Darlington-Thomas was a short, pretty-as-could-be blonde from one of the best Southern families—with all the class and none of the expected attitude. Former First Lady Ms. Matthews was a tall, full-figured French-Viet beauty who could have had a career walking runways. Second Lady Alice Darlington was just cute as kittens—and a brilliant CIA analyst. The three together would be a total knockout.
And a very high-value target to some nutcase.
Jim glanced at Reese, offering a smile about just how funny the moment was, but all he got back was the chill professional in her Special Agent suit. Right, she was ready to scrape him off the bottom of her shoe like some of Malcolm’s… Jim sighed. Yep, just like that.
Baxter at least offered him a sly grin of commiseration. Whether for Harvey’s remark about the leading ladies or Reese’s cold shoulder, he couldn’t tell.
“They hit the Downtown Manhattan heliport in twenty-six hours. I’ll get a logistics team on it, but NYPD is holding a big explosives detection exercise and are reluctant to pull any more dog teams than they have to. I promised to loan them a lead team. So, I want you two in the First Lady’s Suburban and headed north now. You can drive there faster than I can get air transport in place. Route and area familiarization today. Pick them up at ten hundred hours tomorrow morning for a day in the city. UN meetings on Day Three, then home that night. I’ll have a list of their planned stops before you get there. The rest of the team will be dispatched out of the New York office or fly in with her. You can buy a toothbrush and a change of underwear on the way. Now move.”
Harvey Lieber had barely paused for a breath in the whole rundown.
“Well? Why are you two still cluttering up my office. Go!”
So much for even having a moment to blink.
“Let’s hustle,” Reese turned for the door, grabbing her coat on the way.
“Okay if I get my dog and jacket first?”
Reese made a show of checking her watch, then smiled at him—almost. “Only if you hurry.”
It was a nice almost-smile, so maybe he hadn’t been totally tagged as an asshole. That would be good as it looked as if they’d be rubbing shoulders for the next sixty-plus hours.
Jim grabbed Malcolm’s emergency go-bag: dog food, water bowl, and doggie med kit. He snagged his full vest, which included his own med kit and extra rounds, then raced for the door with Malcolm at his side. He had to double back for his jacket.
Jim had seen the First Lady’s Suburban before, a carefully unremarkable vehicle. Unlike the President’s limo or one of the black-on-black escort vehicles, this was a pleasant bronze color. It was also armored and powerful, with tinted windows and a luxury interior. The back seats had been replaced by a pair of generous arm chairs at the rear and a pair of rear-facing narrow bucket seats forward for aides. It was a serious machine even without its lethal escort.
“Do it,” Reese’s soft-spoken command echoed in the low-ceilinged garage beneath the Secret Service Building. She nodded to Malcolm. So, her first words since leaving the White House were to his dog. He sighed.
“Such!” Jim told Malcolm.
Malcolm circled the Suburban in moments. Jim popped the doors and Malcolm managed to jump in without help despite the high step. In moments he’d sniffed over the interior as well. Other than the two weapons’ caches built into the driver and passenger doors, he didn’t find anything. He finally curled up on one of the seats and resumed his nap.
They were out of DC and on the B-W Parkway headed north toward Baltimore before he braved her silence.
“Sorry for not introducing myself.”
Nothing.
“How long are you planning to hold that oversight against me?” Maybe the problem was that she was distracting as hell. Women had never made him tongue-tied before, but he’d sure messed up around Reese. He knew that he’d seen her having a Newbie moment at the fence as clear as bluebells on the Oklahoma prairie, though it still puzzled him. He was finding her harder to read with each passing moment.
Five or six miles rolled by before she responded.
“You’re the kind of asshole who thinks that women aren’t up to your standard. I can hear the Okie in your voice. You just a misogynist or are you a racist, too?”
“I’m—” He glanced at Reese’s profile. It was one of those trick questions with no right answer. He’d never been accused of either one before and he didn’t know what to do with it. Denying it wasn’t the answer either, because of course that was expected.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
That finally pissed him off. “You a lesbian bitch or do you just hate dog owners?”
“I’m not—” Then she stopped for a long moment before she snapped out a bark of bitter laughter acknowledging the trap. “Okay, you got me.” She slipped through three lanes of traffic in one smooth move.
Another couple miles passed by in strained silence.
“Look—” “Listen—” they both spoke at once as they passed the Fort Meade exit. Rather than go through the whole you…no, you…then
more silence scenario, he just plunged in.
“You’re driving the First Lady’s vehicle.”
Reese still didn’t glance away from the road.
“You aren’t looking real happy about it.”
That at least earned him a shrug.
“Why? It strikes me as pretty damned impressive.”
Her hands had tightened enough on the Suburban’s steering wheel that he could imagine the leather creaking under the strain.
“Okay. Fine. Don’t tell me. Can we at least get some munchies? It doesn’t feel like a road trip without Fritos and root beer.”
“I don’t want to delay getting to New York. There’s a lot of ground to cover there before they arrive. Besides, you call that road trip food?” At least she was talking.
“Yep! The best.” He put on his best hick accent. “I’ve done driven a couple hundert thousand miles or more jes’ on that for fuel. Way-ell…that and a passel o’ diesel go-juice. What about you, little lady?”
“Krispy Kremes and Cheerwine.”
“Damn, woman. You travel on that sugar rush, you oughta be sweeter than you’re being.” Cheerwine was a sickly sweet, hyper-carbonated soda from North Carolina. Though he could have thought of a better way to say that, but that train had left the station so it seemed best to just let it go on by.
“And you oughta be more intelligent, but you aren’t.”
Again the silence dragged out right through Baltimore and onto I-95.
Reese Carver wasn’t fitting neatly into any of the types that women always seemed to run into.
Roadhouse Girls were the ones who hung out at truck stops. Not the working girls, but rather the locals looking to be a little bad with a passing trucker. He’d certainly had his fair share of those back in his driving days, but had lost interest soon enough. Got to the point he’d rather just have a good night’s sleep.
On Your Mark Page 3