by Radclyffe
She should have a new name for this new phase of the mission. She studied her face, smiling softly as the German she studied another lifetime ago surfaced. Racher. Jane Racher. Jane the Avenger.
*
“You should be the one who passes on this trip,” Blair said, setting aside the newspaper she’d been pretending to read. She couldn’t concentrate on the headlines that seemed only to be a repeat of the ones from the day before, and the day before that. Dire economic forecasts, genocide in Africa and Eastern Europe, protests at home over racial profiling and sexual harassment in the workplace and on college campuses, and cries of moral decline from the increasingly vocal far-right factions. They’d been back in DC not quite three days since Cam and another agent had been taken prisoner and nearly killed, and Cam was still hollow-eyed and pale and limping. The abrasions on her face and hands from showering glass, gravel, and wood splinters were scabbed over but still red. A huge bruise, multi-hued in storm-cloud purples, covered the right side of her chest and abdomen, and the through-and-through wound in her left calf was swollen and angry. “You’re in no shape to travel.”
“Your father isn’t going to delay opening his campaign because of an action no one is supposed to know about,” Cam pointed out. “Besides, it’s only a week, and we’ll be on the train a lot of the time.”
“Yes, and the rest of the time we’ll be stumping at community meetings and donor dinners and charity balls. We’ll be eating bad food, sleeping a couple hours a night, and always running to keep on schedule. You don’t know what the campaign trail is like.”
“I know I missed all the fun the first time Andrew ran,” Cam said, easing down onto the sofa next to Blair. She slowly lifted her injured left leg and propped it on the coffee table, took Blair’s hand, and squeezed gently. “I won’t be doing any of the heavy lifting. I’ll be fine.”
“I see.” Blair set the paper aside carefully, even though she wanted to fling it across the room. The quick burst of heat welling inside her was familiar, and once, she would’ve vented, would’ve pulled away, pushed Cam away. She recognized the anger for what it was now. Somewhere in the course of living with Cameron, loving Cameron, she’d come to understand that the anger that had motivated her to act out when she was a teenager, to put herself at foolish risk when she’d gotten older, to push away those who cared about her, was really fear. She wasn’t proud of that, but she was learning to forgive herself for it. She didn’t remember when the fear had begun, but sometime between the age of twelve when she realized her mother was not going to get well, and understanding a few years later that her father’s job, his mission, put his life at risk, a chunk of ice had settled deep inside her, burning even as it froze. She’d lost her mother. She could lose her father. Love was a risk she wouldn’t take, and so she had lived with anger choking her until Cameron made it impossible for her not to love. She loved now with everything in her, and the fear of loss was huger than ever. She took a deep breath. “You know, you always say that—that you’ll be out of it. That you’ll be fine. You realize, it’s almost never true.”
“Blair,” Cam sighed, wondering if Blair had any idea how plainly her emotions played across her beautiful, expressive face. First the anger flared, bright and hot and familiar, darkening too quickly into grief and pain, and finally settling into a kind of calm Cam wasn’t sure she preferred. She’d never minded Blair’s anger, not once she’d understood its source and realized the fight was part of Blair’s strength. She’d only cared when the anger blinded Blair to danger. She threaded her fingers into the tangle of blond waves on Blair’s shoulders and sifted the golden strands through her fingers. “You ought to be angry. You’re right. Just so you know, I’ve never consciously tried to fool you. I’ve obviously been fooling myself, though.”
“I don’t want an apology. I know by now you’re doing what you have to do.” Blair slid closer on the sofa and rested her hand on Cam’s thigh. “I just don’t want you getting into a situation you can’t handle because you’re not a hundred percent.”
“I understand. What if I promise, swear right now, I’ll only be there in a supervisory capacity? We’ve got plenty of excellent people who excel at their jobs to handle anything that needs handling. No boots on the ground this time.”
Blair dropped her head onto Cam’s shoulder and sighed. “Cameron. I adore you. And I know you mean every word. But this time, if you even think about saddling up, I’m going to tie you down myself.”
Cam laughed and kissed Blair’s temple. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
Blair stroked Cam’s abdomen and slid her hand under her faded gray T-shirt. “You could think of it as a promise.”
Cam took a swift breath, the heat of Blair’s fingertips spreading through her, swamping the ache in her bone-weary body with a flood of pleasure. “Believe me, I will.”
“Lucinda emailed me the almost-maybe-for real-final itinerary,” Blair said. “We leave tomorrow at zero five hundred. First stop, Chicago.”
“I got one from Tom Turner too. The next countdown meeting is this afternoon. I want to pay a visit to Jennifer Pattee before that.”
“Cam, you could use another day in bed.”
“I won’t argue,” Cam said. “But I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
“I’ll come with you to the White House. I want to talk to my father about what he needs me to do, anyhow.”
Cam cupped the back of her neck and kissed her. “We’ve got the morning to ourselves, then.”
Blair shifted on the sofa and slipped her hand higher, caressing the underside of Cam’s breast. “I think you should go back to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” Cam said, her stomach tightening in anticipation.
Blair lightly scraped Cam’s lower lip with her teeth, ending with a soft flick of her tongue. “I didn’t say you should go to sleep.”
*
Idaho Senator Franklin Russo clicked the remote and turned off the morning news. The local channels were still carrying follow-up stories to the destruction of the local paramilitary compound in the Bitterroot Mountains. They didn’t call it a paramilitary compound, but a wilderness camp owned by Augustus Graves, a local businessman who’d perished in the fire. The federal agents had obviously spun many of the details because there’d been no discussion of a firefight, hostages, or casualties. The story in the news was of an accidental explosion of a stockpile of weapons a local survivalist group had acquired in anticipation of future gun restrictions. From what he’d been able to learn from Hooker’s contact in the local sheriff’s department, the weapons exchange fronted by his money—or rather, the money of several of his wealthy donors—had never taken place. The Renegades, a biker group supplying the weapons, had started a shootout with the militia and all hell had broken loose. He’d helped instigate the gun battle by spreading a rumor that the militia was in bed with the ATF and planned to entrap the Renegades. He’d known he might sacrifice his money, but he’d had no choice once he’d learned the militia had captured a federal agent. As it turned out, not just one agent, but two. He couldn’t be involved with something like that. He’d needed distance, and the best kind of distance was the silence of the dead. There’d been no rumor in the news or anywhere else that could lead back to him. The only people who knew of his involvement with the militia were his aide, Derek, who he trusted completely, and his hired gun, Hooker, who he trusted quite a bit less. Still, Hooker had his uses.
Hooker was a mercenary with the kind of contacts Franklin couldn’t approach himself. As long as their association with the now-deceased Augustus Graves was unknown, he could continue to use Hooker. After all, he still had an agenda. His presidential campaign was growing in strength, but Andrew Powell was still a popular president among both the left and the center. Only the far right could see Powell for the debauched liberal he was, and in order to strengthen his own position with the less radical contingents, Franklin needed to weaken Powell’s. And what better way to shake voter confidence
than to show the American people their president was incapable of leading. That he was vulnerable and weak. Franklin’s money was still out there, and if Hooker could find it, he just might be able to buy himself another weapon.
Chapter Two
Dusty stroked Atlas’s sleek, muscular back and read the question in the dark chocolate eyes that studied hers. Why are we wasting time in here when we could be working and having some real fun? “I know, I know. I’m not any crazier about this than you are. But public relations is part of the job, right?”
Atlas flicked an ear dismissively. He didn’t care any more for PR or politics than she did. Work was his only interest and his greatest joy, just like it was hers. His long, fluted tail brushed slowly from side to side on the cement floor of the training run, as measured and steady as his temperament. His right shoulder lightly touched the outside of Dusty’s left leg. She had him on a short lead, but it wasn’t really necessary. He wouldn’t leave her side unless she gave him the command to search or release. But since they were meeting a civilian, she wanted to send the message he wasn’t a pet and ought to be given the same respect as any other professional. Too many people didn’t think twice about approaching a strange dog, even when it was obviously a law enforcement dog engaged in serious work. Atlas would tolerate a stranger’s touch if she assured him first it was all right, but it wasn’t fair to him to put him in an awkward situation because of a human’s ignorance.
“I’ll get us out of there as fast as I can, I promise. It’s just a couple of questions and a few photo ops. The bosses say good publicity is always important.” Dusty wasn’t any more eager to be interviewed by a member of the press than Atlas was to be inside when he’d rather be out on the training course. Dog stories were apparently popular with the public and, according to public affairs, created sympathy and support for the federal agencies who employed them, helping to balance the more frequent critical portrayals that seemed the daily fodder of the press. She didn’t much care how those outside the unit viewed her. She much preferred the company of her dog to almost anyone.
She and Atlas had been together since he was just weeks old. They’d been living and training together over a year. They understood each other, communicating without words more effortlessly than she’d ever been able to communicate with anyone. They slept together, ate together, trained together, worked together, played together. What else could she possibly need? She stroked between his ears for a second and he nudged her leg.
“Eleven thirty. Time to meet the reporter.” She brushed a stray Atlas hair off the front of her dark blue BDU shirt and signaled him to heel. The reporter from the Washington Gazette was doing a feature piece on the role of the Secret Service K9 division in the protection of the president. She didn’t mind talking about Atlas—she loved letting people know how amazing he was. What she wasn’t about to admit was that tomorrow would be the first time she and Atlas took to the field as part of the PPD. She wasn’t a rookie, though. She’d worked with protection dogs on the White House grounds before moving to the explosives-detection unit. Atlas was young but seasoned, with one of the best noses in the division. He’d passed all his training certifications with flying colors, and she couldn’t wait to get started. Instead of preparing for the upcoming operation, she’d gotten stuck with this.
“Twenty minutes,” she muttered and led Atlas down the long hall of the training facility to the conference room at the front of the building. The small room was made smaller by a table too big for the ten-by-fifteen-foot space already crowded with wooden folding chairs and a whiteboard on wheels. The flat fluorescent overheads cast a harsh glow on the off-white walls and scuffed gray tile floor. A metal cart sat in one corner with a coffee urn, a stack of Styrofoam cups, individual plastic containers of cream and packets of sugar, and plastic stir sticks. Otherwise the stark, bare room was empty.
Except for the woman sitting at the end of the table who forced everything else into a monochromatic blur. Even sitting, she looked tall, possibly taller than Dusty’s own five-nine. She was ivory complected with dark, dark hair pulled back from her face and clasped at the back of her neck. Shorter strands slanted across her forehead above arched black brows. Lipstick just short of deep red highlighted a wide full mouth. Her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and heart-shaped face were too angular for conventional beauty, but her piercing dark almond eyes were magnetic, mesmerizing.
“Like a Modigliani,” Dusty murmured.
“I’m sorry?” The woman stood, her deep green jacket and skirt draping perfectly over a model’s body, slender and sleek.
Dusty froze in her tracks and Atlas sat obediently at her side. Feeling a flush creep up her neck, she self-consciously cleared her throat and said a prayer of thanks that her utterance hadn’t been clearer. “Ms. Elliott?”
The woman walked around the table and held out her hand. “Yes. Vivian Elliott.”
Conscious of her calloused palm meeting smooth cool flesh, Dusty shook her hand. “Dusty Nash. This is Atlas.”
Vivian glanced down, smiled. “Gorgeous.”
Dusty couldn’t shake the disquieting sense that Vivian Elliott wasn’t quite real. She’d never seen a woman so beautiful before, not in real life or in any of the dozens of museums and hundreds of paintings she’d viewed over the years.
“He probably prefers handsome,” Vivian said, making no move to touch the dog. He was, indeed, handsome. Quick, intelligent eyes, glowing mahogany coat shot through with black over his shoulders and hips, a broad strong head, and tapered snout. “How old is he?”
“A year and a half.”
“Young for this work, isn’t he?”
“Not for his breed.”
“Belgian Malinois?”
“Yes.”
Vivian mentally sorted through the research she’d done when prepping for the interview, searching for something that would help her connect to the handler. Agent Nash appeared far less communicative than her dog, whose liquid eyes spoke volumes as he tilted his head and appraised her. Nash’s eyes, a startling shade of true green with tiny flecks of brown-gold that matched her windblown collar-length hair, were wary and intense. On most people a green that pure screamed contact lenses, but nothing about Nash suggested artifice or vanity. Her hair was casually cut, her fair, faintly freckled face without any kind of makeup, her uniform standard, well-worn BDUs, unadorned except for the ID hanging around her neck and the unit patches on her sleeves and chest. Agent Dusty Nash was not a people person. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could talk outside, where I could see him work a little?”
A spark flared in Nash’s eyes, and Viv congratulated herself. Bingo. It was all about the dog with this one. Not so different from some of the breeders she’d known growing up. “After all, he’s the star, right?”
“You do know it’s twenty-five degrees out there,” Dusty said.
“Does he mind the cold?” Viv teased.
Dusty laughed, and the transformation was breathtaking. Her stoic expression softened and heat melted the coolness in her gaze. “He’s bred to work in the mountains. He loves the cold. He’d much rather be outside than inside.”
“Does that go for you too?” Viv knew the answer, but she needed to keep Nash talking so the freeze didn’t set in again. Not an unfriendly, arrogant disinterest, but something else. A rare air of self-containment, a subtle barrier that provoked Viv’s curiosity.
“Yes.”
“Then that’s what we should do. Let me get my coat.”
Viv retrieved her dark green wool topcoat and shrugged into it. She extracted her tape recorder from the left pocket and held it up. “I can’t take notes while we’re walking, so I’ll be taping. Are you all right with that?”
Dusty shrugged. “Sure.”
She held up her camera with the other. “Photos, of course.”
“Can you just take him?”
Viv considered her approach. Nash wouldn’t care about personal publicity. “You’re a team, right?
”
“Sure.”
“He wouldn’t work as well with anyone else, or you either, for that matter. Right?”
Dusty’s left hand dropped to Atlas’s head and he pushed against her palm. “That’s how we train. I have to be able to read his actions and the signals he gives when he alerts to something. No one else knows him that well.”
“Exactly, and that’s what readers really want to see. The teamwork.”
“I thought this was about using dogs on protective details.”
“It is, some,” Viv admitted. “But you know most of that is classified. I’ll get some photos on the train to tie in with what we do here.”
“You’re going?”
“White House press corps,” Viv said, pointing to her ID.
“I’ll grab my jacket, and we’ll go out the back,” Dusty said, oddly pleased to hear Vivian Elliott would be traveling with the press on the upcoming trip. “I’ll show you some training exercises.”
“Wonderful.”
Vivian smiled, and Dusty was reminded of her favorite, enigmatically beautiful paintings again.
*
Blair woke slowly, nestled in the curve of Cam’s body, Cam’s arm looped around her waist, holding her close. Cam’s chest and belly were warm against her back and hips. She laced her fingers through Cam’s, drew up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “You awake?”
“Mm,” Cam murmured. “Sort of.”
“We’re going to have to get up.”
Cam sighed and kissed the back of Blair’s neck. “I know. Five more minutes.”
Blair laughed. “You’re getting lazy, you know. This cushy desk job of yours might make you soft.”
“Nah.” Cam burrowed against Blair’s shoulder. “Just spoiled. Married life agrees with me.”
