Oath Of Honor

Chapter Fifteen

Lucinda dropped her pen on her desk as the door from the Oval Office opened and Andrew walked in, a little after eight a.m.

She stood. “Mr. President. I—”

Andrew closed the door. “I’m alone, Luce. Don’t get up.”

Lucinda came around the front of her desk and gestured to the chairs on her way to the coffee credenza. “I thought you were in a budget meeting.”

“I was, but we’re not going to move on anything at this point. Richard wants to wait until after the Iowa caucuses. He thinks we may have more support than the numbers are showing right now.”

“Well, Richard is the campaign manager and he knows numbers,” Lucinda said, pouring them each a cup of coffee. She handed one to Andrew. “I think as soon as Russo starts showing his true colors, we’ll see a huge swing from the independents in our direction.”

“That would be the best-case scenario,” Andrew said, accepting the cup as he leaned back in the chair, balancing the saucer on his knee. “Blair called this morning.”

“Ah,” Lucinda said, sitting beside him. “I briefed Cameron on the situation.”

“Mmm, I gathered. Blair was a bit peeved she hadn’t been read in.”

Lucinda smiled and sipped the coffee. “Just a little bit peeved? She is mellowing.”

Andrew laughed. “I don’t think I’d use that word, but she’s beginning to accept some of the politics.”

“Do you think that’s age, or is she just bowing to the inevitable?”

“Blair?” Andrew smiled, his voice warming. “You’ve known her all her life. Do you think she’ll ever bow to anything?”

Lucinda pictured the wild teenager, and the angry young woman of just a few years ago, and the incredible, strong, focused adult Blair had become. “No, she will always take things by the throat. It’s one of the things I love about her.”

“Me too,” Andrew said softly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Lucinda set her coffee cup on the edge of her desk and turned to face him fully. He was still as handsome as he had been when she’d joined him during his race for the governor’s mansion almost two decades before. Clear-eyed and strong, with an inner kindness that had not been blunted by politics. “What’s worrying you?”

“I tried to talk her out of coming along.”

“I thought you might. I take it she disagreed?”

“Vociferously.” Andrew sighed and loosened his tie. “I couldn’t deny that her presence has always made a difference in my election campaigns. The public loves her, and she grabs the attention of the younger voters. They rally around her because she’s so smart and strong and doesn’t care who knows how she feels.”

“She’s her father’s daughter in that.”

“No small amount of that comes from you.”

“And her mother,” Lucinda said softly.

“Yes. And her mother.”

“Blair won’t run from danger, and unless we change our plans to bring Cameron inside, there’s no way we’ll convince Blair to stay home.”

“We could do this without Cam,” Andrew said. “I’m not happy about involving her either.”

“Andrew,” Lucinda said, “Cam is the perfect person to investigate the source of these leaks. She has no political affiliations, other than her loyalty to you. We can trust her completely. And she’s very, very good.”

“Jensen briefed me this morning. Although the threat level remains unchanged, the soft intel we’re getting shows a heightened probability for hostile action.”

Anxiety squeezed Lucinda’s throat, but she kept her voice even. They’d faced the worst together—his wife’s death, attempts on Blair’s life, threats against the nation abroad and at home. She would never let her fear for him show. “All the more reason to start looking hard at those around you.”

He stretched his arm out between their chairs and she took his hand, closing her fingers around his broad, strong palm. He squeezed gently.

“I knew you’d say that,” Andrew said. “And I know you’re right. I know you’ll make sure nothing happens to her.”

“Blair will be safe,” Lucinda said firmly. No matter what she had to do, she would see that was true. “And so will you. You just concentrate on winning this election.”

The president laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

*

A tap sounded on Wes’s partially open office door and she clicked closed the autopsy report on Len O’Shaughnessy. “Yes?”

The door swung open and Peter Chang appeared in the doorway. She knew from the duty roster he’d been on the night before. She also knew from her early-morning review of the night’s logs there’d been no major emergencies. One of the chefs had sliced his hand and needed stitches, a delivery man was evaluated for a wrenched shoulder, and a staffer in the press room had come down for something to help with her stomach flu and learned she was pregnant.

“Commander, come in,” Wes said.

“I just wanted to say hello,” Peter said. “If you’re busy, I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Just trying to get a handle on the operation. Have a seat.”

Peter pulled a straight-backed wooden chair from against the wall in front of her desk and sat down. He was dressed in a tan blazer, light brown button-down cotton shirt, and khaki pants. His tie was thin and black with no pattern. Conservative. As close to a uniform as he could get without wearing one. Wes sympathized. She felt vaguely uncomfortable working out of uniform, especially when she passed military personnel and officers from the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service at every junction. Without the symbols of her rank that had come to define her, she felt displaced, a lot like she did in this strangely skewed new medical terrain.

“Anything I can help you with?” Peter said.

“You can tell me if you think there are any protocols that need updating or reviewing.”

He shifted ever so slightly in his seat, a tell indicating her question had caught him off guard and made him a little uneasy. She couldn’t imagine why the question would make him uncomfortable, but her radar pinged—something was off.

“I can’t think of anything,” Peter finally said. “I know Len—Dr. O’Shaughnessy—reviewed everything himself. Once in a while he’d update some of the pharmaceuticals used in emergency protocols, but he pretty much left the management of acute problems up to the team handling the presenting problem.”

“So the same injury or medical condition might receive different treatment depending on which team handled it?”

Peter shifted again. “Well, management is pretty standard, so I don’t think anyone really deviated much.”

“How often does the team get together—for debriefings or case review?”

“Our schedules can be pretty irregular—we’re not usually all around at the same time. For Len—well, you now—especially. When the president is traveling, Len almost always accompanied him, which might mean he was detached to the president for weeks at a time.”

“Meaning there wasn’t really any unit Q&A.”

Peter hesitated. “Not per se, no.”

“Okay, thanks. That’s helpful.” Wes could see right away that her idea of running a unit was completely different than the laissez-faire attitude of her predecessor, and probably his before him. No one would conceive of running an emergency room without standardized protocols that everyone adhered to, departmental review of case outcomes, and regular morbidity and mortality conferences. And yet this unit, which not only cared for some of the most important individuals in the world, but several hundred high-level staff and countless visitors, had only the barest degree of internal organization or accountability. She planned to change that and doubted anyone would be too happy about it. She leaned forward on her desk and folded her hands. “Anything else you think I should know?”

“No,” Peter said quickly. “It’s all standard stuff.”

“Yes, well, I gather that around here, standard means pretty much a constant state of readiness.”

“I guess that’s true.” He kneaded his jacket between his hands. “Like most things, there’s a whole lot of preparing for situations that never happen.”

“Let’s hope that continues to be the case.” Wes stood. “I should have a new rotation schedule available for everyone in approximately a week. Until then, everyone should continue with the rotations as previously posted. If I’m needed at any time, my pager is listed with the operators. I left my cell phone number on the board in the clinic AOD office last night. Otherwise, carry on.”

He stood and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

She returned the salute. “Not necessary in private.”

“Hard habit to break.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Peter disappeared into the hall, and Wes sat back down behind her desk. He didn’t seem to harbor any resentment, at least not outwardly. He did seem uneasy, though, but that might just be because he didn’t know her, and she had taken the job that presumably he had wanted. Or maybe she was reading too much into the situation because Evyn thought Chang deserved the job and not her. Evyn.

She hadn’t thought about her while she was working, but every time she stopped, snippets of their conversations would start up again in her mind. Along with that split second of gut-wrenching horror when she’d thought Evyn was mortally wounded. Evyn was so certain of what should be done and why. In order to do Evyn’s job, that kind of mindset was probably necessary. She understood. She even agreed, while another part of her mind questioned.

All Wes could hope was that her orders never conflicted with her training, but ultimately, she would follow orders, regardless of the consequences to others. Even Evyn. She shied away from the idea of leaving Evyn wounded, without the care that might potentially save her life. She thought of Evyn’s body fresh from the shower—sleek and smooth and strong. Beautiful. She was trained to read a person’s body with her hands—to feel the presence of injury and disease in the disruption of the pattern of skin and muscle and bone. She experienced the world through her senses, and Evyn filled her senses. The whisper of Evyn’s skin beneath her fingers that day in the ambulance left her wanting more. Seeing Evyn naked after her shower, she’d ached to trace the tantalizing curve along the edge of Evyn’s shoulder blade down the slope of her back to the hollow above her hips. She’d imagined heat and supple—

“Captain?”

Wes jerked and looked across the room. Jennifer stood in the doorway, a half smile on her face. Her hair was down, a luxurious sweep of soft midnight waves. Today she wore forest-green pants and a V-neck sweater in a lighter shade of green. Low brown boots completed the outfit. Her figure was small but full, perfectly proportioned.

“Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”

“A few of us are going out to eat at the end of shift. Would you like to come?”

Wes quickly considered the advisability of fraternizing with her new team. If she didn’t go out with them, she might appear standoffish. If she did, she wouldn’t know the players or the power structure. She didn’t usually fraternize with colleagues, and socializing with team members before she’d taken firm command wasn’t a good idea. And there was the glint of interest in Jennifer’s eyes, no small matter. Wes had thought she’d noticed it the first time they’d met, and now she was sure of it. Jennifer’s invitation might be a little bit more than unit camaraderie.

“Thanks, I’d like to, but I can’t tonight,” Wes said. “I’ve got a million things to review, and I’m still finding my way around this place.”

“I understand,” Jennifer said, disappointment clear in her voice. “Some other time, then?”

Wes smiled. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Good. I’ll let you get back to work.” Jennifer backed up. “If you need help with the files—”

“I’ve got it for now. Thanks.”

“See you then.”

Jennifer turned and left, leaving Wes alone with charts and protocols, the stuff of her life she knew well—and thoughts of Evyn Daniels, something new and entirely different.

*

The round white clock hanging behind the red Formica-topped counter sported a dented chrome rim resembling a hubcap and a faded Harley symbol in the center. The black hands shaped like handlebars read six forty. Hooker’s contact was ten minutes late.

He looked around the roadside diner, studying the faces. At six thirty on a weeknight, the place was nearly empty. The locals, mostly farmers, ate early, and the truckers wouldn’t start arriving until midnight. The militia go-between who’d arranged the meet hadn’t given him any info other than the location—he’d said the contact was spooked about dealing with an “outsider.”

Who the hell knew what a bio-disposal technician looked like? Two guys in oil-stained work pants and denim shirts with the sleeves cut off midway up tattooed biceps sat at the counter slurping coffee and uttering occasional monosyllables while working through enormous steaks and mounds of potatoes. A young woman, barely in her twenties if that, slouched in a booth with a glass of tea and a red-and-white cardboard boat of fries slathered in cheese. She ate slowly, making each fry last three bites, as if the food might be her last for a while. Probably a runaway—her face was worn with fatigue, but her eyes were too focused for her to be a junkie. Two men in white open-collared shirts and dress pants occupied another booth—probably businessmen on the road. No one paid any attention to him. He finished his coffee, slid two bills on the counter, and walked outside.

The Georgia heat slapped him in the face, momentarily taking his breath away. The change from the biting cold in Chicago was disorienting. Like the diner, the gravel lot was mostly empty. A few cars clustered around the far corner of the restaurant, where someone sold ice cream from an open window. Several people, mostly women, stood in line with children in tow. No one paid any attention to him. He’d come all this way for nothing.

As he walked to his car, he glanced into the small grassy lot on the far side of the building. A brunette in a floral sundress and strappy sandals sat under a tree at a picnic bench, an ice-cream cone in her hand. She smiled at him, holding his gaze for just a second longer than was typical for a lone woman who wasn’t a working girl. Hooker walked over.

“Good day for ice cream,” he said.

“They make the best vanilla bean around here. You should try it.”

“Maybe I will. I haven’t had an ice-cream cone in a long time.” She was early thirties, eyes as black as her hair, small and pretty. Built too. No wedding ring. In fact, no distinguishing anything—no jewelry, no flash. Attractive, but not someone who would draw attention.

“Probably too cold up north for ice cream,” she remarked, catching a line of vanilla dripping down the side of the cone.

The quick flick of her tongue caught him by surprise and his cock got hard. He shifted slightly to hide the fullness in his trousers. “You got that right. I guess this doesn’t feel hot to you, though, does it?”

“No—this is the best weather of the year.” She smiled. “Sit down, unless there’s somewhere you have to be in a hurry.”

“Not really.”

“Just get in?”

“That’s right.”

“Here on business?”

He nodded.

“What is it that you do?”

“I buy and sell things,” he said.

“I imagine you find all sorts of interesting things.”

“You never know what you might come across.”

“You’re right. Sometimes things turn up you never expect.” She bit into the cone and a fleck lingered on her lip.

He had the urge to suck it off. He spread his legs a little wider to give himself a little relief. Something about this woman had him juiced up, and that was unusual. He had no trouble enjoying himself with a woman when he wanted, but when he was on the job, he rarely got distracted. “I’m always on the lookout for unusual items.”

“I might have something you’re interested in. If you’re looking for one-of-a-kind items.”

“Really? Rare items are at the top of my list.”

“Those things tend to be expensive, though.”

“I never mind paying what something’s worth.”

“And then there’s transportation, the authentication, all of those things figure in, don’t they?” She crossed her legs, her sandal dangling from her toes. “What would you pay for something no one else could find, delivered in perfect condition? Something rare, unusual.”

“Fully functional, one-of-a-kind?” Hooker leaned his arms back on the table and crossed his ankles, taking in the vehicles parked in the lot. None were close enough for audible scanning, and he didn’t think their conversation could be picked up from the building. If she was wearing a wire, it was well hidden. Her clothes were tight enough that hiding the receiver would be difficult. Nothing he’d said could be incriminating, but he still needed to be careful. “I’m used to paying for the right product. Half a million isn’t out of range.”

She took another bite of her ice-cream cone. “Two.”

“The item would have to be extraordinarily rare, in perfect condition, and, in order to avoid the competition trying to duplicate it, completely untraceable.”

“Guaranteed.”

“Then I think we can do business.”

She smiled, her gaze slowly moving over his chest and down his body. He couldn’t hide his erection and didn’t bother.

“Now that I’ve had dessert,” she said, “I’m ready for dinner. How about you?”

“My evening is free.”

“Not anymore.”