On Your Mark

by M. L. Buchman

  At the rear of the aircraft had sat the battered Beast. Her car.

  And the massive rear door had been propped open, ever so slightly.

  She’d hesitated again, longer that time. It hadn’t been difficult to guess what awaited her—a truly amazing man—but the implications were huge!

  To make love with Jim Fischer in the back of her car was part teenage fantasy. But that car was also all that she was.

  No. She’d only thought it was all she was. Jim had proved to her that she was more than just the car she drove. She was also a woman that he wanted to survive—the one he believed in so deeply.

  That had been enough to have her pulling open the door, allowing Malcolm to climb in where he curled up on the President’s seat.

  Then she’d stepped in herself to join the man waiting for her.

  She hadn’t been convinced that it was the right choice, but she’d stepped in anyway and pulled the door shut.

  And now, despite what they’d just done, she still wasn’t.

  The question was, did she want to be convinced?

  Inside the Beast, the outer world had gone away. The tinted windows dark enough to allow only the softest glow from the plane’s red nightlights to filter into the car. The heavy armor cut off the massive roar of the four big Pratt & Whitney engines, and her ears had popped when she removed her earplugs.

  Initially they’d simply sat on the forward bench talking about the car, the Motorcade, and their narrow escape from the attack.

  The reporter, a long brunette, had put on a real show of horror at the whole situation, even as she was caught recovering a camera from the bottom of the flipped and destroyed Spare—though the driver had gotten off with only a broken wrist.

  She’d been promised Pulitzer material and a million-dollar bonus to keep her mouth shut about how she got the images. She’d signaled her accomplice the moment the First Lady’s Motorcade had left the UN, and the instant that the President’s Motorcade had left the Olympic Training Center.

  The other side of the chain had been less obvious until she finally revealed that she was sleeping with a Saudi prince from a renegade branch of the royal family. Or at least that’s what they were calling it now. Who knew the actual truth. The prince in question had regrettably died during “an accident” shortly after his arrest. The king had promised more answers soon.

  The Beast’s armor made the car so well insulated that their own body heat soon had them opening, then peeling off their jackets.

  She remembered how Jim’s smile had made peeling off her blouse seem so natural just moments later. Any residual hints of chill had been scorched away by the attention he’d lavished upon her willing body.

  It was only as they were deep in the throes of their encounter that she began to appreciate the location.

  They were in the Beast.

  They were in her car!

  A charge had run through her as that insight fought its way through the blinding heat that Jim had generated to replace the last of the cold. It didn’t take long before they’d fogged the windows.

  “It’s like the mile-high club, only better,” Jim had whispered close by her ear.

  “We were over a mile high in the Colorado Springs parking lot,” she’d teased.

  Being made love to in the Beast, inside an airplane, while flying six miles up in the sky should have been the upper limit. But Jim had found a way to pack the power of turbo-charged adrenaline rush into a moment of such gentle perfection that the explosion of their bodies should have launched them into orbit.

  Thankfully sound traveled no better out of the Beast than it did inward, because the cry that burst from her was unstoppable. She’d never felt anything like the joy that Jim had pumped into her body as she’d knelt over him in the deep leather seat, her hands braced on the ceiling, his hands firmly clamped about her waist and his face buried between her breasts.

  Would it last?

  When she’d finally come down, when she had at long last managed to flop bonelessly into the seat beside him and he’d laid his head in her lap, she could finally ask the question.

  But the question, she now knew, was pointless.

  She knew it would last. The pleasure they gave each other might someday become familiar, but she suspected that too would always be exceptional. The least experience with Jim far overshadowed the best moment of anything prior.

  But even that truly didn’t matter.

  Jim didn’t just want sex with her. Neither did he want to change her into someone she wasn’t. He would always be the patient, even-tempered person in their relationship. And she would always be the quiet one who had to be coaxed into facing anything inside her.

  Inside her.

  She could feel Jim inside her. And from far more than the delicious sex.

  She could feel him inside her like a light. Like the green flag fluttering high above the track the moment before it flashed downward to launch the cars on their way.

  He believed in her. Not merely her ability to drive, but also her ability to make the right decision in crisis. He stood inside her with a purity of faith as clear as her father’s had been. Perhaps more so.

  Her father had never seen past the next race, the next season. All he’d focused on was the edge of the envelope…and it had killed him. There was more than the next race. There was more than the points-ranking for the season.

  Reese hadn’t understood that before.

  Yet Jim always saw all of the futures ahead of them.

  She brushed her hand through his hair and listened to his sleeping breath. Yes, he’d showed her how to see more than the next time at the wheel. He’d taught her how to believe in a future she’d never even given thought to—never mind dreamed about or believed in.

  And still her beautiful man slept in her lap in the back seat of her car.

  She wiggled her toes under Malcolm.

  He at least woke up enough to sigh happily.

  Jim slept on, unaware of the change he’d made inside Reese’s heart.

  It was okay. He’d have years and years to learn about those changes.

  So would she.

  Epilogue

  Jim stood on the broad white marble step at the west end of the White House Rose Garden amid the June roses.

  Malcolm stood by his side; his coat brushed until he shone in the bright sun.

  Captain Baxter stood by his shoulder as best man. “Got you through the Uniformed Division. Least I can do is get you through a damned wedding without you screwing it up.”

  Ralph McKenna had flown in from retirement in Washington State for the wedding and to walk Reese up the aisle, then had to fight Harvey Lieber for the privilege. Last Jim had heard they were both going to walk her down the aisle.

  Seated across the Rose Garden lawn were K-9 members and Motorcade drivers as well as the President, senior advisors, and all of his own family—their big rigs were parked out at his place.

  Out at his and Reese’s place.

  Their home.

  She’d gotten shaky when he gave her a key to the place, which had given him an idea. For his wedding present, he had signed half of the property’s deed over to her because he wanted her to have a real home again.

  Reese had cried so hard that he’d considered calling 9-1-1 before she finally recovered. Together, she’d promised. Together they would build a house there someday. A house with an extra bedroom for a child. She hadn’t argued when he’d insisted that it would also have a shower big enough for two.

  Instead, they’d had wedding eve sex that was so gentle and so perfect that he’d almost cried.

  Secretary Matthews stood there beside him as he’d be performing the ceremony.

  “You’ve got your flag?” Jim whispered to him.

  “I do. That was an excellent idea.” He pointed behind the potted rose tree that defined one side of the altar. The furled black-and-white checkered flag—the exact same brand and size waved for winning a NASCAR race—was ready for
Secretary Matthews to flourish over their heads when Jim kissed the bride. President Thomas had given him special permission to replace the standard Sunoco gas emblem in the middle with the Presidential Seal.

  He heard the soft rumble of the big diesel engine only moments before her car pulled into sight. Eighteen feet of shining black, armored Beast rolled along the driveway that encircled the south lawn and stopped by the garden entrance near the South Portico.

  Dilya climbed out of the front passenger seat—Reese’s bridesmaid. Dilya had been horribly frustrated, trying to fit them into her whole Pride and Prejudice storyline. He’d never been prejudiced and being prideful was not a problem for Reese. Getting her to acknowledge her own worth and value was the challenge—though why such an amazing woman had so much trouble seeing it was beyond him. While she’d gotten better about it over the last several months, she would never understand how truly incredible she was. But that was okay—he did.

  Jim was watching the back passenger door and completely missed the moment when the driver’s door on the far side swung open and Reese stepped out of the car.

  His laugh was first, but only by moments—the rest of the wedding party caught on quickly.

  Harvey Lieber and Ralph McKenna exited from the rear doors.

  Because, of course, Reese Carver drove the limousine to her own wedding.

  The laughter died like an eighteen-wheel blowout as she stepped around the car into clear view.

  Reese Carver was a vision.

  Her long black hair fell behind her shoulders in a single shining wave. She wore a dress of white lace. It was off the shoulder, with a low collar that revealed her lovely neck and collarbone. The long-sleeved, open-patterned, white lace down her arms was backed by the warm, dark luster of her skin. The dress clung to her curves, the lace spilling past where the lining ended at mid-thigh to once again tease with more hints of her skin until her athlete’s legs were ultimately revealed by the scalloped hem.

  “You lucky shit!” Dad whispered from where he stood at the first row of seats.

  Mom elbowed him, but since she was busy dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, there wasn’t much force behind it.

  Some White House lady photographer with long silver hair moved in to take photos.

  Dilya led the way in a dress that made her look far more like a graceful young adult than a precocious kid almost grown. Someday, she was going to make some guy seriously happy…and keep him seriously challenged.

  But it was only Reese that he could see walking toward him.

  Malcolm trotted down the aisle to join Reese, then turned to walk back with her—nearly causing Harvey Lieber to go down.

  Jim could see his mouth move as he swore silently.

  But none of that mattered.

  All that mattered was that the distance between Reese and himself was closing with each passing second. Soon they would cross the finish line together and that win would last them a lifetime.

  Off the Leash (excerpt)

  If you missed Linda and Clive, buy it now!

  Look for In the Weeds coming soon!

  Off the Leash (excerpt)

  You’re joking.”

  “Nope. That’s his name. And he’s yours now.”

  Sergeant Linda Hamlin wondered quite what it would take to wipe that smile off Lieutenant Jurgen’s face. A 120mm round from an M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank came to mind.

  The kennel master of the US Secret Service’s Canine Team was clearly a misogynistic jerk from the top of his polished head to the bottoms of his equally polished boots. She wondered if the shoelaces were polished as well.

  Then she looked over at the poor dog sitting hopefully on the concrete kennel floor. His stall had a dog bed three times his size and a water bowl deep enough for him to bathe in. No toys, because toys always came from the handler as a reward. He offered her a sad sigh and a liquid doggy gaze. The kennel even smelled wrong, more of sanitizer than dog. The walls seemed to echo with each bark down the long line of kennels housing the candidate hopefuls for the next addition to the Secret Service’s team.

  Thor—really?—was a brindle-colored mutt, part who-knew and part no-one-cared. He looked like a cross between an oversized, long-haired schnauzer and a dust mop that someone had spilled dark gray paint on. After mixing in streaks of tawny brown, they’d left one white paw just to make him all the more laughable.

  And of course Lieutenant Jerk Jurgen would assign Thor to the first woman on the USSS K-9 team.

  Unable to resist, she leaned over far enough to scruff the dog’s ears. He was the physical opposite of the sleek and powerful Malinois MWDs—military war dogs—that she’d been handling for the 75th Rangers for the last five years. They twitched with eagerness and nerves. A good MWD was seventy pounds of pure drive—every damn second of the day. If the mild-mannered Thor weighed thirty pounds, she’d be surprised. And he looked like a little girl’s best friend who should have a pink bow on his collar.

  Jurgen was clearly ex-Marine and would have no respect for the Army. Of course, having been in the Army’s Special Operations Forces, she knew better than to respect a Marine.

  “We won’t let any old swabbie bother us, will we?”

  Jurgen snarled—definitely Marine Corps. Swabbie was slang for a Navy sailor and a Marine always took offense at being lumped in with them no matter how much they belonged. Of course the swabbies took offense at having the Marines lumped with them. Too bad there weren’t any Navy around so that she could get two for the price of one. Jurgen wouldn’t be her boss, so appeasing him wasn’t high on her to-do list.

  At least she wouldn’t need any of the protective bite gear working with Thor. With his stature, he was an explosives detection dog without also being an attack one.

  “Where was he trained?” She stood back up to face the beast.

  “Private outfit in Montana—some place called Henderson’s Ranch. Didn’t make their MWD program,” his scoff said exactly what he thought the likelihood of any dog outfit in Montana being worthwhile. “They wanted us to try the little runt out.”

  She’d never heard of a training program in Montana. MWDs all came out of Lackland Air Force Base training. The Secret Service mostly trained their own and they all came from Vohne Liche Kennels in Indiana. Unless… Special Operations Forces dogs were trained by private contractors. She’d worked beside a Delta Force dog for a single month—he’d been incredible.

  “Is he trained in English or German?” Most American MWDs were trained in German so that there was no confusion in case a command word happened to be part of a spoken sentence. It also made it harder for any random person on the battlefield to shout something that would confuse the dog.

  “German according to his paperwork, but he won’t listen to me much in either language.”

  Might as well give the diminutive Thor a few basic tests. A snap of her fingers and a slap on her thigh had the dog dropping into a smart “heel” position. No need to call out Fuss—by my foot.

  “Pass auf!” Guard! She made a pistol with her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at Jurgen as she grabbed her forearm with her other hand—the military hand sign for enemy.

  The little dog snarled at Jurgen sharply enough to have him backing out of the kennel. “Goddamn it!”

  “Ruhig.” Quiet. Thor maintained his fierce posture but dropped the snarl.

  “Gute Hund.” Good dog, Linda countered the command.

  Thor looked up at her and wagged his tail happily. She tossed him a doggie treat, which he caught midair and crunched happily.

  She didn’t bother looking up at Jurgen as she knelt once more to check over the little dog. His scruffy fur was so soft that it tickled. Good strength in the jaw, enough to show he’d had bite training despite his size—perfect if she ever needed to take down a three-foot-tall terrorist. Legs said he was a jumper.

  “Take your time, Hamlin. I’ve got nothing else to do with the rest of my goddamn day except babysit you and this mutt.”
<
br />   “Is the course set?”

  “Sure. Take him out,” Jurgen’s snarl sounded almost as nasty as Thor’s before he stalked off.

  She stood and slapped a hand on her opposite shoulder.

  Thor sprang aloft as if he was attached to springs and she caught him easily. He’d cleared well over double his own height. Definitely trained…and far easier to catch than seventy pounds of hyperactive Malinois.

  She plopped him back down on the ground. On lead or off? She’d give him the benefit of the doubt and try off first to see what happened.

  Linda zipped up her brand-new USSS jacket against the cold and led the way out of the kennel into the hard sunlight of the January morning. Snow had brushed the higher hills around the USSS James J. Rowley Training Center—which this close to Washington, DC, wasn’t saying much—but was melting quickly. Scents wouldn’t carry as well on the cool air, making it more of a challenge for Thor to locate the explosives. She didn’t know where they were either. The course was a test for handler as well as dog.

  Jurgen would be up in the observer turret looking for any excuse to mark down his newest team. Perhaps teasing him about being just a Marine hadn’t been her best tactical choice. She sighed. At least she was consistent—she’d always been good at finding ways to piss people off before she could stop herself and consider the wisdom of doing so.

  This test was the culmination of a crazy three months, so she’d forgive herself this time—something she also wasn’t very good at.

  In October she’d been out of the Army and unsure what to do next. Tucked in the packet with her DD 214 honorable discharge form had been a flyer on career opportunities with the US Secret Service dog team: Be all your dog can be! No one else being released from Fort Benning that day had received any kind of a job flyer at all that she’d seen, so she kept quiet about it.