Kynan and I sit on one while the president takes the other. While Kynan and I perch on the edge of the cushions, alert and ready to listen, the president leans back, casually crossing one leg over the other.
He picks at the pressed crease in the pant leg of his dark blue suit, brushing at the material before giving us his attention. “We’ve received some intelligence recently that has alarmed me on a personal level. It’s vague, and some of my advisors believe it’s too benign to take seriously at this time.”
“Chatter?” I take a guess, referring to the term signals intelligence uses to refer to intercepted communications. There’s lots of ways to get intelligence, but it’s often merely by listening in on other people talking. This happens all over the world.
The president nods. “Traffic analysis picked it up out of Oman.”
I blink in surprise while Kynan answers. “Not exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity as far as Middle Eastern countries go.”
President Alexander nods. “Which is why my advisors don’t think it’s something to worry about.”
“What exactly is the chatter?” I ask.
There’s no mistaking the way the president’s expression changes to one of personal worry, which doesn’t make sense to me.
He moves forward to the edge of the couch, rests his elbows on his knees, and focuses directly on me. “Our government has contracted with The Praemium Group to work on some groundbreaking developments in fusion energy. They are remarkably close to completing some theoretical formulas that, once tested, could provide the cleanest, most efficient energy the world has ever seen.”
“And the United States would own this technology?” Kynan asks.
“Technically, Praemium would own it, but our contract specifies they’d license it solely to us.”
“And what would the United States do with it?” This is important toward motivation and possibly identifying who would want this technology. My mind has already made the leap that the chatter picked up was perhaps about some other country stealing the technology.
The president doesn’t answer right away, and it’s obvious this is perhaps information he shouldn’t divulge. But then he leans forward a bit and drops his voice. “If I had my way, I’d share it with the countries that need it the most.”
“I take it that’s not popular with Congress?” Kynan asks.
The president chuckles. “Not with those in the other party.”
“So you want Jameson to what… set up some protective services around Praemium? The goal is to prevent some digital theft of the work already created?”
Kynan turns to me, continuing his line of thought. “Because that’s right up Bebe’s alley. She can fortify whatever they have as well as lay traps to capture the—”
“That’s not what I want Jameson for,” the president interrupts, and we turn to him in surprise.
He settles his gaze on me. “In fact, it’s mainly Cruce I want to hire, but he will need some backup as well.”
“For what?” I ask, brows furrowing in confusion.
“The main scientist working on this is my niece, Barrett Alexander,” he replies, his voice tense with worry.
“Barrie?” I ask incredulously, for some reason utilizing the nickname I always heard Alexander and his wife use when referencing her. “But I thought she worked out in California for some big think tank or something?”
“She made the initial breakthrough on the research. Praemium snatched her up after I begged her to come to D.C. to be closer to us. What she’s doing is too important to the world not to use it for our government’s benefit.”
“Who’s this niece of yours?” Kynan asks, having fallen behind because I know more about Alexander’s family since I’d protected him for four years.
The president gives his attention to Kynan. “My niece is Barrett Alexander. She’s the one who got all the brains in our family. MIT educated with bachelor’s degrees in chemistry and physics at the age of twenty, along with a master’s in electrical engineering and two PhDs, one in electrical engineering and one in physics by age twenty-six. She’s been in California the last six years, but she moved here to work for Praemium about four months ago.”
“The chatter pertained to her?” I hazard a guess.
He swallows hard. “Like I said… it was vague. Just her name and the research mentioned.”
“But why mention her name if it’s just the formulas they wanted?” I ponder.
“Nothing coming out of the Middle East should be taken lightly,” Kynan says with surety. “And if they said her name, you have to assume the plot is specifically against her.”
When he realizes we understand, the president’s expression turns relieved. “But it’s not enough to put military or further intelligence resources on it. Technically, this research is being conducted by a private organization. The government has to maintain some distance. But—”
“But it’s your niece, which makes it personal,” Kynan concludes.
The president nods, and I let my mind scroll backward to see what I remember about Barrett. I’d never met her. Just overheard conversations and seen some photos of her in the vice president’s house.
Her father—the president’s brother—died when she was really young—heart attack, I seem to remember. Her mom died when she was just heading off to college at the age of sixteen. That detail is easy to remember because she graduated high school two years early.
Jonathan Alexander—who was a U.S. Senator for the state of New Hampshire at the time—and his wife took her under their guardianship, but it was more in an advisory capacity as she was off at MIT expanding her brain pan with more knowledge. I struggle to recall what she even looks like. She was in California the entire time I had vice presidential detail with the Alexanders, so we never officially met.
Still, I heard enough during my time with the family to know he loves his niece like his own daughters, and there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to protect her.
“So this is off the books?” I ask.
“As far off the books as we can get,” he says. “I’ll be paying for this on my own, and very few people will know. Only my most trusted advisors in the White House.”
“The fewer the better,” Kynan suggests.
President Alexander locks his eyes on mine. Whatever he’s going to ask, I cannot say no to him.
“Cruce,” he begins, his voice slightly quavering. “I want you to be the one to personally protect her. She’s in a secure facility during the day as she works, but she’s vulnerable when not there. I want you stuck to her side when she’s not at work.”
I can do nothing but nod my agreement. This man I respect has just made it personal to me. While Kynan thinks the president is indebted to me, there’s an element that’s just the opposite. Once I became the man who saved his life, I became invested in his life as a whole. Besides, he’s a fantastic leader. He loves our country, and I believe in everything he stands for. And if it’s important to him that I keep his niece safe, then I’m going to oblige.
Kynan and Alexander start talking about what other resources he wants from Jameson. But I’ve already started thinking about what I’m going to need to adequately protect Barrett Alexander.
“She’s not going to like this,” the president says, the words catching my attention.
“What do you mean?” Kynan inquires.
Alexander blows out a huff of frustration. “Barrie is… well, she’s just super focused on her work. Always has been, to the point of being a bit antisocial. She’s also a little too independent, but worst of all… as independent as she is, she’s as equally naïve. Barrie won’t believe there’s a threat, or even if she does, she’ll push away efforts to protect her. She doesn’t like her routine being messed with.”
Kynan and I exchange a look. We’ve dealt with difficult people in our lines of work before, but we both know when protecting someone, they have to respect our position of authority over them so we can effectively do our jo
bs. For example, if I were to yell at the vice president to “get down” when I was on his protective duty, he should drop to the floor without a moment’s hesitation.
Sounds like Barrett Alexander might prove to be a little difficult.
The president continues. “I’d like to hit her with this immediately. As in now, if you two don’t mind an overnight stay.”
“We can do that,” Kynan assures him.
“Sounds like I’m going to need to have my stuff shipped to me,” I mutter, pulling out my phone to text Bebe to see if she would mind handling it for me. It’s clear I’m not returning to Pittsburgh for the foreseeable future.
“Thought you’d left DC for good, didn’t you?” Alexander murmurs with a wan smile.
“You know how much I hate driving around Dupont Circle,” I joke in an attempt to put him at ease.
The gratitude is clear in his eyes and voice. “Thank you, Cruce. This means the world to me.”
CHAPTER 3
Barrett
It’s hard to be annoyed by Uncle Jon wanting to have dinner with me tonight. Him coming over is a rare treat because as busy as I think I am, he’s a million times more so.
Seeing as he’s the leader of the free world and all.
But I am a little put out because in order to get ready to host him at my DC townhome, I had to cut out of work early and I never leave work early.
Work is my life.
My reason for living.
The entirety of my being.
Some would say I might be a little obsessed.
But I didn’t have to leave early to meet the Secret Service while they did a security sweep for safety. Not that anyone legitimately thinks I’m a threat to my uncle or there might be a rogue assassin waiting in my coat closet off the foyer in the remote chance the president happened to stop by.
No, the sweep was handled while I had my nose buried deep in my work.
But I did have to leave early all the same because if Uncle Jon was going to take time out of his busy schedule to come see me, then I was going to make his favorite meal.
Tuna fish casserole.
No, it’s not glamorous, but Aunt Janet doesn’t like tuna fish—at least not from a can—so he only gets it when I can make it for him. It’s about the only thing I know how to cook.
I check the timer, then peek inside the oven. The crushed potato chip topping is browning nicely, and, I have to admit… it will be nice to have a home-cooked meal. Most of my dinners are at my desk in my lab, and they consist of a granola bar or protein shake.
Which, sadly, is also my lunch and breakfast most days.
But I’m so close to a breakthrough, and I’m operating on pure adrenaline right now. I work, and I work hard. When I come home, usually around midnight, I crash hard—usually just falling face-first onto the bed. But then my alarm goes off at six, I get a run in and then a quick shower, and I’m back out the door to put in another eighteen hours.
Imagine… free energy for the entire world. Poor countries could have running water and heat, run irrigation systems for farming, and implement medical machinery in the hospitals to help diagnose and treat disease.
My doorbell rings, pulling me out of my dreams for all the good my work can do. I glance at the clock, wondering who it could be.
Seven PM.
How can it be seven already?
I’m still in the clothes I wore to work. I dress for comfort, not style, and the heather-gray leggings with a light blue button-down blouse isn’t as dressy as it should be to greet the president. My dirty, off-white Chucks have certainly seen better days.
I know my hair is a mess. It always starts in a short ponytail, but my bangs eventually get in my way, so I end up shoving a bobby pin in to hold them back. It’s my “hot mess” look, as my research assistant, Derrick, likes to say.
“Oh, well,” I mutter, patting at the top of my head in case I’ve got a big rat’s nest on top for some reason. I’ll often lean over my computer, my fingers clutching and twirling my hair in consternation, which tends to make it an even bigger hot mess.
When the doorbell rings again, I bolt for the door, my Chucks squeaking on the hardwood floors.
I twist the deadbolt, turn the knob, and throw the door open with a smile on my face. “Uncle Jon—”
My words fall flat, ceasing when I see my uncle standing there with two men I don’t recognize. Behind them are two Secret Service agents, recognizable in their classic plain dark suits with earbuds in place.
“Barrie,” my uncle says affectionately, using the nickname I despise. It’s what I was called when I was a kid, but now it just makes me feel like a 1970’s porn star. Still, I graciously accept his warm hug, lingering a bit since we haven’t seen each other in so long.
When he pulls away, he motions the men on the porch across the threshold. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought two guests I need to introduce you to.”
The two men move into my home, with the two Secret Service agents following. But when my uncle holds up his hand, they stop. “If you two will just wait on the porch.”
“But, sir,” one of the agents protests.
“I’m adequately protected, gentleman,” is all he says before he closes the door in their faces. He gestures to the first man, a tall blond with warm brown eyes and a stylish goatee. “Barrett… this is Kynan McGrath. He owns a company called Jameson Force Security.”
This mildly piques my interest, and I shake his hand in greeting.
The other man steps forward. Before my uncle can speak, he introduces himself. “I’m Cruce Britton. I work for Kynan.”
A bell goes off in my head when we shake hands because while I don’t recognize his face, his name is well known to me. “You used to be Secret Service. You saved my uncle.”
Cruce gives me a nod of acknowledgment, his lips curving up only slightly—seemingly more in embarrassment than amusement.
My uncle takes a deep breath, dramatically inhaling as he rubs his stomach. “Dinner smells delicious, honey. I’m starved.”
Suspiciously, I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s going on? Are you in danger or something?”
My uncle blinks before giving a nervous laugh. “Of course not, but how about we head into the kitchen and you serve up some of that famous tuna noodle casserole?”
“Uncle Jon,” I murmur warningly. I don’t have the patience to wait if there’s something wrong or if I should be concerned about him.
“I swear I’m okay,” he assures me, then hurries toward my kitchen. Kynan follows him, leaving me in the foyer with Cruce.
He hadn’t seemed intimidating before, but now he has a certain overwhelming quality. He’s taller than the other guy by a few inches, and I have to tip my head way back to see him. His hair is dark, neatly swept back, and he has a trim beard and mustache.
His eyes are disconcerting, though. A light crystalline blue that seems to slice right through me as he stares.
He’s an incredibly handsome man. Intense is the word I’d use to describe him. In fact, his expression is worried, and it raises my suspicions about my uncle being in danger.
Cruce makes a motion with his hand, silently indicating I should head to the kitchen and he’ll follow. Instead, I adjust my stance, putting myself in between him and the hall that leads into the kitchen.
“What’s really going on?” I ask. “Why is the man who saved my uncle here? What kind of danger is he in?”
Cruce appraises me, seeming to size up my ability to handle bad news. I brace at his scrutiny, then become frustrated when his eyes cut past me to where my uncle and Kynan wait because it seems he’s going to put me off.
Instead, I’m stunned when he says, “He’s not the one in danger. You are, and I’m here to protect you.”
♦
“I don’t understand,” I say for the third time. All three men sit at my kitchen table, working on second helpings of my tuna casserole. I’ve barely had two bites, but my stomach rebels against
the idea of food right now.
My uncle shoves a huge forkful of noodles and creamy tuna into his mouth, so I turn to Kynan, who owns the company hired to protect me. “Until we can determine the full extent of what’s being planned, we have to assume the worse.”
“And you think they’ll kidnap me?” I ask, even though they’ve already told me this.
“It’s the most logical assumption,” Kynan replies. “That they’d take you somewhere and force you to finish the formula for them.”
“But I’d refuse,” I point out.
“They’d force you,” Cruce says quietly, and the surety in his voice causes a tremor to run up my spine.
But no… I can’t accept what they’re saying. “It doesn’t make sense. The formula is nothing without the ability to test it, and fusion reactors can’t be bought at Target.”
“True,” Kynan says, but then proceeds to burst my bubble. “But there are plenty of foreign countries and terrorist organizations with the funding and access to the materials needed.”
“And you want to hire protection for me?” I ask. This time, I direct my question at my uncle, who is still chewing the last bite he’d taken.
He swallows, then wipes his mouth on a napkin. “It’s only until we can ferret out who these people are and shut them down. But until then, I can’t take a risk—”
“I’m already protected at work.” I say, cutting him off with an impatient wave of my hand. “And if you need to assign someone to escort me home, that’s fine. But I don’t need—”
“It’s already been decided, Barrie,” my uncle says, his high-handedness making my teeth gnash together.
“I’m an adult, Uncle Jon,” I snap. “You can’t dictate—”
“I am your president—the one who ensures your company gets the funding for your research,” he growls, leaning toward me from his chair. “And you will accept the security I’m hiring.”
I swallow hard, fuming but silently admitting he just intimidated the shit out of me.
His face softens, though, and he reaches out to take my hand. “But indulge an overprotective uncle, will you, honey? I’m really worried about this threat. While it might turn out to be nothing at all, you are going to help an old man sleep at night if you just let these men protect you for a while. Okay?”
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