Oath Of Honor

Chapter One

Wes glanced at her watch as she turned off the coast road onto the narrow causeway leading to Whitley Island. 1142. With luck, she wouldn’t be late. Luck wasn’t something she usually relied on. She believed in schedules and ran her life by the clock. Unfortunately, death had a way of interrupting even the most finely tuned schedules.

Until thirty-six hours ago, she’d been looking forward to spending her upcoming annual leave with her mother and sisters over Christmas, not dealing with a new job, no place to live, and no idea of what the next day would bring. She definitely hadn’t planned on attending the wedding of the year.

All that had changed when she’d gotten a call informing her she was at the top of a very short list for a job most people in the navy, let alone the nation, had never even heard of. The anonymity of the position didn’t bother her—in fact, she preferred working alone and was happy contributing behind the scenes. The next rung in her planned career ladder had been a professorship at the Uniformed Services University where she was stationed. She’d joined the navy because she’d needed the scholarship to go to medical school, and while she liked the structure, she was an academic at heart. She wanted to teach, take care of her patients, and let others wage war. She hadn’t been sure she wanted a job that was going to throw her into close contact with the most powerful people in the world on a daily basis. She’d asked for a day to think it over—they’d given her four hours.

Heading into an unknown situation without the proper preparation made her wary. Order, discipline, and perseverance had brought her from her working-class neighborhood in South Philadelphia to the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis and finally to the National Military Medical Center in Bethesda. Knowing what she faced—in the ER, in the field, in life—kept her cool and in control. If she never relied on anyone or anything to run interference for her, she had no one to hold accountable for the outcome except herself.

She’d called her best friend Emory for advice—not just because she’d known Emory since they’d shared a cadaver at Penn, but because Emory knew intimately the landscape and the people Wes would be spending every moment of her life with for the next year, or maybe the next five.

“Are you kidding, Wes?” Emory had said when Wes reached her en route to the island. “It’s an amazing opportunity. God, you’ll have a front-and-center for events that might change the future of the whole world. And you’ll be doing what you’re trained to do.”

“But I’m a teacher, not a clinician,” she’d protested.

“Uh, excuse me—don’t you teach trauma care to military medical personnel?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t you spend ten months supervising a field hospital—”

“Yes, but—”

“And—”

“Emory,” Wes said patiently, “I suck at politics.”

“Huh.” Emory fell silent for a moment. “This is true.”

“So—”

“Should I mention honor and duty and—”

Wes sighed. “No. I already considered that.”

“And?”

And she’d said yes to this new job because to do otherwise seemed impossible. She’d rarely been faced with impossible decisions, and she wasn’t sure yet how she felt about a situation she didn’t control. Nevertheless, she’d called her boss, Rear Admiral Cal Wright, and said she was honored to accept, and he’d passed the word up the chain of command. Her final security interview wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, but she’d been told to liaise with her new unit today. Several teleconferenced interviews and a lot of rushed paperwork later, here she was.

Short of any more surprises, she’d be moving her hastily packed belongings to a government-provided apartment within walking distance of the White House as soon as she could arrange movers. Until then, she’d be in a hotel. She was used to moving at short notice, but she usually knew what she faced.

1155. In five minutes, she’d find out.

She slowed her rental car as a red pickup truck pulling a battered fishing boat on a rickety trailer edged onto the narrow two-lane in front of her. She could just make out a hard-packed-dirt boat ramp half-hidden in a narrow strip of pines separating the winding coast road from the pristine shore on the ocean side of the island. The pickup headed in the opposite direction, probably bound for the huge marina she’d passed a half mile back. The marina boatslips, marine offices, and waterside cabins that ringed a narrow-necked inlet were the only commercial development she’d seen since leaving the mainland.

Mentally she ran down the stats she’d received by e-mail that morning. Whitley Island was privately owned and home to one of the largest private military contractors in the nation. Tanner Whitley had inherited Whitley Industries on the death of her father over a decade before, and she’d expanded into government security as American geopolitics exploded globally. Personal info on Whitley was scant. She lived with a female naval officer, and from what Wes had seen of the island, industrialization had not followed Tanner Whitley home. The few visible private residences were separated by large tracts of untouched evergreen forests and set well back from the undulating shoreline along the Atlantic. The place was wild and beautiful, even snow-covered and frozen under the December winter.

As she’d been driving, the already scant signs of habitation gradually disappeared. When she reached the northern end of the island, the narrow road ended in a cul-de-sac bordering a wooded property. The drive leading up to a pair of closed ten-foot-high wrought-iron gates set into a natural stone wall was congested with signs of high-level security. Unmarked black SUVs with smoked windows lined the turnaround. A man and a woman, both in dark suits, monochromatic shirts, and dark glasses, stood side by side in front of the gates.

Squiggly radio feeds running from behind their left ears and steely expressions pegged them as security. The discreet lapel pins, conservative suits, and all-American good looks said federal agents. These weren’t rent-a-cops or gun-for-hire mercenaries. The man was six foot four and on the lean side. Wes would have pegged him for a runner, except the broad shoulders and solid thighs that stretched his not-off-the-rack suit said serious weight training. The woman was maybe five-six or seven and looked toned and fit, but next to him, she looked downright delicate. Wes doubted she was. Her tailored jacket and pants, crisp white opened-collared shirt, and low-heeled black boots screamed style while being completely functional. Definitely professionals. Considering the event—Secret Service.

Neither of them moved as Wes parked behind a long line of empty vehicles, exited, and walked toward them, but she knew they were following her every step. She couldn’t see their eyes behind the unnecessary shades. The sky was blanketed in a thick cover of gray clouds, and she doubted either of them had any trouble seeing in the flat midday light. Being able to observe without being observed was a power play. It probably worked on civilians.

“I’m Captain Wesley Masters,” she said when she stopped a few feet away from them, stating the obvious, as the insignia on her dress blues, visible under her open topcoat, clearly indicated her rank. “I’m here to liaise with the Medical Unit.”

“We know all the members of the WHMU,” the woman said in a surprisingly full, smooth alto. No intonation. Not aggressive, not challenging, not interested. Just the facts, thank you, ma’am. “You’re not on it.”

Up close, Wes could see that what she had taken for glossy dark hair was actually a deep burgundy—as if the midnight sky was flaming. Barely tamed curls fell to below the crisp white collar and fanned artfully around what appeared to be a sharply drawn but distinctive face. She’d put the eyes at blue on a guess, but the opaque shades made it impossible to tell. The agent had a body under those clothes, despite the suit being cut, intentionally Wes would bet, to blunt her figure. The tailored lines couldn’t hide the curves of her breasts and thighs—she was fit and flinty and quite attractively female. The guy with her still hadn’t said anything. The redhead was in charge.

“Your intel is out-of-date, then,” Wes said, and the agent stiffened perceptibly. “You might want to check with your boss.” She turned her wrist slightly. 1159. One minute. “If you could do that promptly, I’d appreciate it.”

One perfectly sculpted brow arched above the flat rim of the dark shades. “ID, please.”

Wes slid her hand into the pocket of her topcoat and handed over her military ID card. She smiled. “Here you are.”

The male agent’s lips lifted in a faint smile. The woman’s face remained blank. Beautiful and remote. Wes waited while the agent spoke softly into her wrist mic. A few seconds later, the agent held out her ID.

“You’re cleared to enter, Captain.”

The man turned to open the gate. Wes slid her ID back into her pocket. “Thank you, Agent…”

“Daniels, ma’am,” Agent Daniels said formally. “An agent will meet you just inside the gate to escort you.”

“Thank you,” Wes said. “I’m sure I can find—”

“It’s protocol. Captain.”

“Understood.” Wes stepped through the gates and they swung closed behind her. She had a lot to learn, and she was out of her element on every level. Hopefully the WHMU personnel would be a little more welcoming than Agent Daniels.

*

“She the one?” Gary Brown asked as the gates swung closed behind the naval officer.

“Looks like it.” Evyn scanned the approach road and the dense underbrush growing right up to the shoulders. The advance team had been on-site for four days and had locked down the north half of the island. Fire roads and beach-access lanes that might provide curious onlookers and those with more serious agendas a way to get close to Whitley Manor had been barricaded and were being patrolled by agents, on foot and ATV. A two-mile no-fly zone had been established around the island. As protective details went, this one was fairly close to ideal. One access road, no surrounding buildings with line of sight, and the only other approach by sea. They had the Coast Guard patrolling that. There was even an expansive lawn big enough and clear enough to accommodate Marine One, so no motorcade route to secure. The nearest hospital was a short helo ride away. All in all, today looked routine, but that wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. Complacency bred error. And she didn’t make mistakes.

“That was pretty fast,” Gary said. “Getting her on board. O’Shaughnessy hasn’t even been dead two days.”

“It’s not like they could leave the spot open,” Evyn said darkly. Except why the hell the powers that be had gone outside to bring in a complete novice was beyond her. They already had a field-tested, experienced battle surgeon who could have stepped into O’Shaughnessy’s shoes without a ripple in routine. Instead, they dropped an unknown into their lap. Hell, they hadn’t even been briefed she was going to show up today.

“Is Pete pissed he got passed over?” Gary asked.

“You know Pete. He’s a team player. But that job should’ve been his.” Evyn could be mad for Pete if he wasn’t going to be mad for himself. After all, that’s what friends were for, and even though they’d only worked together two years, they were tight. They shared a near-maniacal need to win at everything, which had been obvious the first time they’d played cards on an overnight flight to some now-forgotten destination. She came by her competitiveness growing up in a family of super-achievers, he by being the first American-born child in a family of immigrants. Pete had to be disappointed he didn’t get the job, but he didn’t let on. So she’d be disappointed and pissed off for him. “Who knows what strings got pulled? It’s a political appointment—probably someone somewhere knows someone who owed somebody a favor.”

“Happens all the time on the Beltway,” Gary said.

“Yeah, I know.” She rarely paid attention to politics—who had time? And if this appointment hadn’t affected her so personally and her job so intimately, she wouldn’t have cared.

“Younger than I thought she’d be,” Gary commented casually. “Kind of…interesting.”

Evyn didn’t react to his not-so-subtle probing. Hell. She couldn’t argue. The captain was younger—and way hotter—than O’Shaughnessy. She still couldn’t take in that O’Shaughnessy was dead. He’d only been in his early fifties and a good-looking fifty, still fit and trim. Ran five miles every day. Didn’t smoke, hardly drank. Who would have expected him to drop dead in the gym? She’d figured his replacement would be closer to his age, not almost two decades younger, like Captain Wesley Masters. The navy doctor was a lot more than interesting too. She was five feet ten inches or so of sinewy grace, capped off by golden brown hair shot through with sunlight and wheat and cut a bit rough-and-tumble around her face and throat. The effect was a little casual and a lot sexy. And her eyes, even on a gray, overcast day, were heather green. Spring-kissed. Gorgeous. Evyn grimaced. She’d rather have to dislike someone who wasn’t so damn good looking, but she’d manage.

“You know,” Gary said, “it’s probably not her fault she got tapped for the post.”

“Never said it was,” Evyn said sharply. Of course Gary would pick up on the slightest sign of attraction—the guy was a sponge when it came to reading people. Never missed anything. She had to stay on her toes all the time or he’d be watching the X-rated fantasies she occasionally played in her head to pass the time standing post.

“Just saying,” he went on, “since we have to work together and all. Might be smart to play nice.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I can work with her just fine. As long as no one expects us all to be one big happy family.”

“Kind of works better when we are, considering…”

Evyn folded her arms across her chest and made another visual sweep of the area. “Then they should have given Pete the job. After all, he earned it.”

*

The Secret Service agent who escorted Wes to the building was silent as they strode up the meandering flagstone walkway between snow-filled sunken pools. The manor house rose suddenly from the late-morning mist, a sweeping three-story stone edifice sitting high above cascading dunes that fell away to the ocean’s edge. A white-pillared wraparound veranda, which she imagined was the perfect place for summer entertaining, was empty now except for security posted at regular intervals along its perimeter. The muted rumble of voices carried through the carved wooden front doors as the agent opened them for her.

“Thank you,” Wes said, stepping inside.

A white-jacketed valet appeared instantly at her side. “May I take your coat, Captain?”

She shrugged out of it, said, “Yes, thank you,” and handed it over.

She continued down a wide hallway, following the murmur of conversation into a great room with soaring ceilings and one entire wall of glass that afforded a view of the island and ocean. The sliding glass doors to the veranda were closed now, but in the summer the sea breezes would fill the space. She glanced around, taking stock of the guests. She was surprised to see—or rather, not see—many dignitaries in attendance. Some of the quietly milling crowd was in uniform, but many wore civilian clothes. She didn’t know much about the president’s daughter, other than what most of the world knew—Blair Powell had been by her father’s side on the campaign trail and, since his election, often stood in for him at political events where an official presence was required but the president himself was not needed. Blair was the unofficial first lady of the nation, and the nation loved her.

She was also a lesbian, and today was her wedding day.