Price Of Honor

Chapter Eleven

0530. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour and a half. By then she’d be ninety miles away, and this town, these mountains, the past wouldn’t even be a memory. She’d learned to erase memories that served only to weaken her with longing and loss. All she’d take with her from this place would be anger and determination, and the sound of her father’s voice calling her to action. Jane pulled in next to Hooker’s black pickup truck, left the engine running, and signaled for him to join her in the Jeep. He frowned but, after a few seconds, climbed out of his truck and slid into the passenger seat.

“Do you have the information?” Jane asked.

“Yeah,” Hooker said. “But there’s a problem.”

His eyes drifted down to her hand in the pocket of her cargo coat. If he made the assumption she had an automatic pointed at his midsection, he’d be right. “What kind of problem?”

“My contact has to bring in a supplier, and they won’t deliver unless it’s face-to-face.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, as long as I set the meeting place,” Jane said.

“That’s the problem. They don’t know you. But they know me.”

Jane laughed. “Are you suggesting I take you along?”

Hooker grinned, his dark eyes glittering like a fox scanning a henhouse. “That would be the idea.”

“No deal. I don’t plan on spending the next four days worried about you trying to kill me in my sleep.”

“Look, I’m no killer.” At her stare, he shrugged. “I’m no cold-blooded killer, let’s put it that way. If somebody comes after me, sure I’m going to defend myself. Besides, think about it. You know who I am, and that’s a big risk. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already.”

“Then we share that much.” Jane didn’t trust him, but trust was not the issue. Expedience was. Jennifer might not have much more time. And she might never have another chance. She had something Hooker wanted, but he posed a threat. “No deal.”

“If you take me with you, I can spell you driving and you’ll get there quicker. The buy will go down without a problem, and then we’ll part ways.”

“What about your boss?”

Hooker grunted. “I’m independent.”

Translated as he had no loyalty to anyone but himself. That was in her favor. She wasn’t looking for a partner. “How much?”

“Another fifty thousand.”

Jane laughed. “Another twenty-five.”

“Forty.”

“Thirty.”

He studied her and seemed to realize she wasn’t going to bargain anymore and nodded. “You’ll find I’m a pretty handy guide.”

“There’s one more thing.”

He eyed the hand in her pocket again. “What would that be?”

“I want the name of the man who hired you.”

Hooker snorted. “Yeah, and then my life won’t be worth anything. I can’t—”

“What makes you think your life is worth anything now?”

“You’re not going to kill me in the parking lot of this diner.”

“No, but I might do it a couple miles from here and dump your body in a field. There’s a storm coming. They won’t find you until summer.”

“I don’t think you’re any more of a killer than I am.”

“You’re wrong,” Jane said softly. “The name.”

Something in her voice must have convinced him. He sighed. “Twenty-five thousand.”

“A hundred thousand. Ten now as agreed. The rest when I get the explosives…in cash.”

“Franklin Russo.”

Jane laughed. “Your loyalty is touching.”

“Once Russo figures out I’m not coming back with the cash, he’ll be pissed. No more job.”

“Then why take it?”

Hooker chuckled. “Someday soon he’ll decide I’m a liability. When that happens, he’ll get rid of me without losing a second’s sleep. I consider this my severance pay.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“I don’t live far from here. Follow me back so I can stash my truck and grab some clothes.”

“You better pack anything you don’t want to do without. You don’t know you’ll be coming back.”

*

Chicago

The cargo plane taxied to a stop, and a few minutes later the big cargo bay doors opened and the ramp descended. The flashing lights of the police, fire, and emergency response vehicles parked along both sides of the runway lit the landing zone in a wash of red. Blustery winter air flooded the hold, and Dusty hurried to free Atlas from his kennel so he could move around and keep warm. As soon as the K9 SUVs were offloaded, she led him down the gangway and into the rear of the lead car. She climbed into the passenger seat next to the driver.

Dave Ochiba nodded to her. He wasn’t even wearing a jacket despite the ten-degree weather. “No time for coffee.”

She laughed. “When is there?”

She liked Dave. He was friendly without getting personal. His unlined face, the color of polished walnut, made it impossible to judge his age, but she knew he’d been driving in the K9 unit well before she came on board. He was one of the only people she’d ever let handle Atlas if an emergency arose.

He grinned, started the lights flashing, and pulled out behind a quartet of motorcycle cops who swooped in front of them and led them down the access road to the highway. Two other K9 SUVs and a half dozen support and command vehicles followed as they headed toward downtown Chicago. Three miles out they came to the outer perimeter where local law enforcement had barricaded the road and redirected traffic around the anticipated presidential motorcade route. Dave stopped at a checkpoint and, once cleared, sailed down the now-empty streets. They passed another constellation of local law and Secret Service vehicles a mile from the convention center at the inner perimeter. Dave pulled around the back of the convention center and she clipped Atlas’s leash to his harness.

“Let’s go, boy.”

In their assigned sector, they checked all the potential sites for ordnance placement—under vehicles, within Dumpsters and trash cans, on loading docks, and along walkways. The other agents and their dogs did the same until all the parking lots and entrances had been cleared. Once inside, the agents and dogs worked a grid pattern on the main floor, basement, and exit. The advance team was already on-site, posted on the stage where the president and his party would gather for the speech, at the exit routes, the restroom that had been cleared for the president’s use, the ready room where he could review his notes, and the large banquet hall where the breakfast itself would be served. By the time they finished, the president’s motorcade was en route.

Dusty patted Atlas’s head. “Good work, boy. Time for a break.”

His eyes gleamed. He loved his work. Outside, she put Atlas in the rear of the SUV to wait along with a handful of kibble in a bowl. Once the motorcade arrived, she and the other K9 agents would rotate surveilling the exits and keeping watch on the vehicles while the president was inside.

“How far out are they?” she asked Phil Virtucci, who had just finished talking into a radio.

“Ten minutes.”

Dusty jumped into the SUV to warm up, slid her personal phone out of her pants pocket, and texted, How was your flight?

Wonderful. Yours?

Bumpy.

Sorry! Is it cold out there?

Dusty laughed. It’s Chicago in January. Balmy.

LOL. Almost there. Stay warm. C u later.

Warmth flooded her chest. She hadn’t let herself think about what she was doing when she’d texted, or she might not have. She was glad now she had. Viv seemed to like hearing from her, and she really liked thinking about her. Usually she spent a lot of her downtime with her mind blank, in that state of ready awareness that marked the mindset of any soldier or law enforcement agent who needed to spring into action in a split second. She hadn’t thought about Viv while she and Atlas had been patrolling. That was right. Being able to think about her in these rare free moments felt right too. This feeling of connection that persisted even when she was alone was powerful and amazingly exciting. The only time she’d ever felt anything even close was the always-present link she shared with Atlas. He pushed back the dark corners of loneliness. Viv did more than that—she opened a door to possibility.

She heard the approach of the motorcycle escort leading the motorcade and tucked thoughts of Viv away in a special place to be revisited later. She climbed out, zipped her jacket against the wind, and clipped Atlas’s lead to his collar.

“Come on, boy. Back to work.”

Atlas grinned.

*

“Look at him,” she murmured to Cam. “He’s having fun.”

“I think he likes being out in public as much as Bill Clinton,” Cam whispered back.

Blair laughed. She and Cam rode in the presidential limo, tagged the Beast by the agents, with her father and Lucinda. Tom Turner occupied the front passenger seat while another PPD agent drove. Only Secret Service agents drove the vehicles with the president aboard. They had the best evasive driving training, recertified every month at the training center, and could whisk POTUS away to a safe house along a preplanned evacuation route in the case of an attack. The rest of the PPD and Stark with her shift rode in the SUVs following them.

Lucinda said, “Do you want your notes?”

“I’ll look them over when we get there,” Andrew said.

“You won’t have much time if you want to stay on schedule. And we’ll need to leave by nine.”

“Are you trying to remind me I shouldn’t talk too long?” He grinned, looking boyish and disgustingly fresh for the early hour.

Blair had consumed two cups of very good coffee on the flight and still felt a little sluggish. Of course, it was still dark out.

Lucinda smiled, a fond smile, but her tone was all business. “I was going to suggest you not go off script.”

“That’s asking a lot, Luce,” Blair teased. “You know he likes to ad-lib.”

“Much to Adam’s chagrin,” her father said.

“And the press secretary’s,” Lucinda added.

“At least you can think fast enough to stay out of trouble,” Blair said. “Most of the time.”

“I promise to stick to the draft.” Andrew squeezed Luce’s hand.

The brief gesture might have been simple familiarity, but Blair thought otherwise. They were incredibly discreet, as they would have been under any circumstances. The public and many White House insiders loved to speculate about the relationship between the president and his female chief of staff. There’d never been anything beyond the never-ending speculation to suggest there was anything intimate between them, but Blair had known them both since childhood, and being with Cam had taught her to recognize the look of love. For a while, she’d felt sorry they couldn’t be more expressive, that they couldn’t own what was between them, but then she realized they were adults and had chosen this path. She suspected they were happy with where the relationship was now. Luce was an incredible asset to the presidency. She was brilliant, decisive, commanding when she had to be, and a peacemaker when called for. She gave the president good counsel and protected him when need be. What the two of them had worked, and Blair suspected eventually there would be more.

She leaned closer to Cam, letting their shoulders touch. She needed the physical contact as much as she loved it. She was the opposite of her father where love was concerned. She never wanted to hide what was between them, even at the risk of creating public controversy. She would’ve tried if her father had asked, but she doubted she would’ve been successful. What she shared with Cam was too important, too critical to the core of her existence, to pretend their relationship was other than the center of her life. She slid her hand into Cam’s and Cam smiled. That smile and the heat in Cam’s eyes was all she needed.

The motorcade turned down the broad avenue leading to the convention center, and surprisingly, she found herself looking forward to the morning. Her father was an excellent speaker, and she was incredibly proud of him.

“Hey, Dad,” she said quietly.

Andrew smiled at her. “What, honey?”

“I’m glad you’re going for another four years.”

“I’m glad I’ve got you on my side.” His eyes sparkled as his gaze took in Lucinda and Cam. “All of you.”

*

Cam mentally reviewed the route they’d walk from the limo into the building. The site team had mapped everything out, and she knew every step Andrew and Blair would take. Large crowds pressed against the barricades lining the path from the parking lot to the convention center’s main doors. The rope line was one of the most dangerous places for the protectee since screening individuals outdoors for weapons was an impossible task. Instead, dozens of agents mingled with the crowd—checking faces, looking for individuals dressed inappropriately for the weather or carrying oversized backpacks or satchels, people whose hands were in their pockets. Agents could be heard walking the line uttering, “Hands out of your pockets, please. Hands out of your pockets.”

All the same, it only took an instant to grasp a concealed weapon and fire.

As they stepped from the limo, Blair’s detail was already waiting and moved in on all sides. The president and Lucinda were ahead of them, similarly sheltered. Blair slid her hand into the crook of Cam’s arm. The walk had been shoveled free of ice, but the wind was a force of its own, blustery and fierce, and Cam pulled her close. Reporters and TV crews extended cameras and booms to record the short procession into the building. A few shouted questions, but no one lingered to answer.

Once inside, the lead agents directed the president down a side hallway where he would enter the stage from the rear. Stark indicated a side entrance to the auditorium through which they could reach their front-row seats. As they entered, a handful of reporters from the local and national news surged forward against the inner rope line. For the moment, this was the only story to be had.

“How does the president really feel about having a lesbian daughter?” someone called.

“How do you think your marriage will affect your father’s position in conservative states?”

“Will he push for a federa—”

“How do you think God feels about your sin?”

The question cut through the others like a scythe.

A man the size of a linebacker with what appeared to be a press badge around his neck surged out of the crowd, knocking aside the short barricade cordoning off the area in front of the stage.

“Stark!” Cam pushed Blair toward Stark, who grabbed her and pulled her away. Brock quickly stepped up next to Cam and, shoulder-to-shoulder, they formed a wall between Blair and the charging man. He was even bigger up close, and running full out. He took them both down in a heap. His shoulder hit Cam straight in the solar plexus and air whooshed out of her lungs. Two more agents piled on top of them, and her vision grayed.

An instant later the weight lifted off her chest. A melee of agents wrestled the man facedown onto the floor, yanked his arms behind him, and cuffed him.

Cam coughed and fought the panic of not being able to breathe. It wasn’t the first time, and experience kicked in. Consciously stifling the urge to gasp and flail, she took slow, shallow breaths until her diaphragm recovered and her lungs re-expanded. She looked around for Blair and didn’t see her. Carefully, still dizzy, she pushed to her knees. Brock lay on his side, red faced and grimacing.

“You okay?” she croaked.

“Will be in a minute.”

She glanced down and saw his hand clutched between his legs.

Mac Phillips, the ASAC of Blair’s detail, yelled, “Everyone all right?”

“Brock needs to be replaced.” Cam pushed the rest of the way to her feet. Pain burned down her injured leg and she winced.

“Are you hurt, Commander?” Mac’s usually perfectly groomed blond hair was tousled and his deep blue eyes dark with worry.

“Nothing serious. Where’s Blair?”

“The chief has her secured in the back.”

“I want to see her. And I want to know how the hell that guy got in here.”

Mac grimaced. “We’ve got him in the command center. We’ll know soon.”

Cam glanced out over the crowd. Most didn’t even know what had happened. Those who were close enough to have seen the brief encounter watched avidly. She was sure some of the reporters had gotten photos.

“I want to see Blair.”

Mac took her along a series of halls to a room off the main ballroom. When Cam walked in, Blair was pacing with her arms folded across her chest. Her hands were clenched into tight white fists. Her eyes were furious.

“What did you think you were doing?”

“Are you all right?” Cam asked.

“Me first,” Blair snapped, hands on her hips. Stark wisely retreated to the farthest corner of the room and pretended she’d gone deaf. “Let me see you.”

Cam held her arms out to her sides. “I’m fine.”

Blair stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “You have a bruise on your cheek.”

“Probably bumped into Brock. It’s nothing.”

“What happened to the part where you weren’t going to do anything except advise?” Blair feathered a finger over a spot on Cam’s cheek and frowned.

“I was right there.” Cam carefully did not flinch. The spot was tender—she probably was going to have a bruise. “I could hardly step aside and let him bulldoze you.”

“That’s why I have agents.”

“I know.” Cam slid her arms around Blair’s waist and pulled her tight. “You all right?”

Blair hugged her, her face against Cam’s neck. “I’m fine. Pissed, that’s all.”

“That’s good then.”

“He could have had a gun.”

“He didn’t.” Cam kissed her cheek. “Besides, the crowd inside is scanned. Metal detectors, remember?”

“You’re never going to change, are you?”

Cam leaned back until she could see Blair’s face. “Not where you’re concerned.”

“You have to start wearing a vest.”

“That’s cruel.”

Blair smiled faintly. “Stark wants me to stay back here.”

“She’s right. He might not be alone.”

“My father will look for me. He’ll know something’s wrong.”

“He’ll—”

“And I’ll look like I’m a coward.”

“Blair, no one—”

“Or ashamed.”

“Ah.” Cam glanced at Stark, who was listening despite her unfocused gaze and expressionless demeanor.

“Chief?”

“You know the protocol.”

“I do. But…”

Stark sighed. “Let me get a sit rep. Then we’ll go out.”

“Thank you,” Blair said and took Cam’s hand.