Price of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “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.

  Chapter Twelve

  Blair sat in the front row of the packed auditorium between Cam and Lucinda, trying to focus on her father’s speech. Usually that wasn’t difficult. He was a natural orator, not in the words he used so much as in the way he used them. He spoke without referring to his notes, which always made the White House press secretary and his campaign manager nervous. They feared he’d say something he wouldn’t be able to retract and they wouldn’t be able to spin. But he didn’t. Because he spoke what he believed, and his message had always been unswerving. The constituents felt his sincerity precisely because there was no sense of rehearsal. He wasn’t reading what someone else had written for him—he was sharing his beliefs, his desire to improve and secure the lives of Americans everywhere.

  As much as she loved to hear him speak, today she couldn’t fully concentrate. Her body hummed with adrenaline and her muscles roiled with rage. She wasn’t afraid, not for herself. She was angry. Being attacked always made her angry, and not being able to fight back herself only heightened her fury. She hated being dragged to safety by a cadre of Secret Service agents, and she hated even more when someone she liked, or loved, was injured because of her. Brock still hadn’t returned to his post, although Cam assured her he was all right. Cam was hurt, although of course she pretended otherwise. A purple bruise bloomed on her left cheek. That blow had been glancing, Cam said, but it might not have been. She could have a broken jaw or concussion or worse instead of a scrape. Cam probably thought she didn’t notice her limping, either.

  And to solidify her outrage, Cam and Stark and the rest of them somehow thought it was perfectly all right that they be injured and not her. She was sick to death of the arguments as to why she should just accept protection with a smile, and tired of trying to rationalize away her reluctance. She understood the concept of representing something larger than herself and the need to keep that image unassailable. She’d given in to Cam and the others because it made sense. But right now she was having a hard time making sense of anything. She would not, could not, change who she was or who she loved. Especially not when some idiot claiming to know God’s mind attacked her.

  Cam slid a hand across the space between their seats and squeezed her hand. Just a second or two of contact, subtle, designed not to be noticed, but Blair felt the message.

  It’s all right. I love you. We can handle this.

  And because she loved Cam more than any amount of anger could diminish, she squeezed her hand back.

  When the speeches were over and her father left the stage, Blair, Cam, and Lucinda rose and were quickly surrounded by agents, who escorted them to the banquet hall. They wouldn’t be eating with the attendees, although her father would make a brief appearance one more time and thank all his potential benefactors. It was just too difficult to protect him at a sit-down meal with hundreds of people. Even state banquets in other countries were declined if at all possible. The president’s food needed to be prepared separately by his own stewards, at the risk of offending the host nation. Here in Chicago food prep wasn’t an issue, but every one of his donors would want a moment with him, and that was impossible. Thankfully the train’s departure time gave them a reason to escape once breakfast was under way.

  The throng of reporters and onlookers waiting outside had grown. Blair noticed a contingent of men and women and a few children waving placards protesting the president’s policies on immigration, environmental issues, and the escalating war overseas. And added to the usual mix was a cluster of vocal antigay protesters. Their signs held biblical quotes and clever admonishments such as God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

  She kept her eyes forward, her hand through the curve of Cam’s arm, and her teeth tightly clamped. They did not need to start off this campaign tour with a pithy comment from her flooding the airwaves. She climbed into the Beast with a swell of gratitude for its soundproofing and tinted windows.

  “Thank God,” she muttered. “One down and ten zillion to go.”

  “Tom told me what happened inside,” her father said when he and Lucinda settled into the limo across from Cam and Blair.

  “Just a nuisance,” Blair said. “A little overeager antigay zealot got a little too close.”

  “It didn’t take them long to home in on you.” Her father grimaced, his penetrating gaze studying her and Cam. “It was a little more than a little too close, though. Are you both all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Blair said. Her father didn’t need to be worried about her. Or feeling guilty about his position thrustin
g her into an unwanted spotlight. Anything or anyone slightly controversial associated with him was fair game for media scrutiny and bigoted attacks—she wasn’t alone in that.

  “I heard Cam took a few bumps,” Andrew persisted.

  “It’s nothing, sir,” Cam said. “Stark’s people had everything under control, and Blair was never in danger.”

  “I don’t doubt Stark was on top of it,” the president said, “but it shouldn’t have happened. I want someone to tell me how it did.”

  “Dad—”

  “I want to know the same thing.” Cam saw no point in pretending the near assault didn’t bring up the possibility of a breach in security. People rarely became physically confrontational out of the blue. There was almost always a history of violence or radical associations stretching back decades. Somewhere, some background check might have been missed with this guy. If he was actually a member of the press, he should’ve been vetted and any antigay sentiment or previous history of radicalism uncovered. If something had been missed, the after-action debriefing and Stark’s investigation would discover it.

  “What matters,” Blair said, “is that everyone is fine, and you were fabulous.”

  Andrew loosened his tie and relaxed against the plush leather seat. He glanced at Luce. “What do you think? My daughter’s biased. Did I do all right?”

  Luce pursed her lips, looking as if she might be searching for the right words to chastise the most powerful man in the world, and then she smiled. “Excellent. Even the improvised bits.”

  Looking relieved, Andrew chuckled, his voice deep and mellow. He was pleased, and he should be. The crowd had been receptive, even though they were mostly his staunchest supporters. Still, at this point in a campaign, it was important for him to maintain those connections and reward their belief in him. The donors weren’t called the faithful for nothing. Their support grew from a deep belief that this man would truly represent them and make a difference.

  “And you’ve got four hours to rest on your laurels before the first stop,” Lucinda added.

  “Breakfast first,” Andrew said, “then we’ll go over the script.”

  They rode in silence as the motorcade turned off the highway onto the arterial circling the rail yard. The train yard, the presidential train, and the rail line along which it would pass were all contained within the secure perimeter. K9 agents with their dogs walked the tracks on either side of the train, counterattack teams with long-range rifles looked down over the route from rooftops, and agents stood post at each of the dozens of train cars. The Beast pulled up alongside the president’s private train car, and agents poured out of the SUVs behind them to form a cordon to escort the president into his car.

  Blair and Cam, surrounded by Blair’s detail, headed for their car. The coach was divided into two parts with a central lounge. Lucinda’s quarters occupied the section closest to the president’s car and Cam and Blair’s sleeping quarters, bathroom, and small private sitting area were at the opposite end. Ellen Marks, a senior agent on Blair’s detail, was already stationed in the lounge.

  Blair nodded to her and went straight through to their private compartment, found her suitcase, and pulled out a change of clothes. Cam came in and closed the door behind her.

  “Would you rather I met you in the dining car?”

  Blair pulled on a comfortable red cable-knit sweater, then stepped out of her trousers and into a pair of jeans. She slid into UGG boots and slipped her phone into her pocket. The space wasn’t cramped, but when she turned she was only a few feet from Cam. And why did Cam have to look so damn good and sound so damn sensitive when she still wanted to snap and spit and punch that SOB from the convention center?

  “It’s going to be a long trip,” Blair said. “We’re not going to have much privacy, but this is what we’ve got. If I want some alone time, I’ll find someplace.”

  Cam hung her blazer carefully on a hanger in the sliver-sized closet and traded it for a charcoal zip-up sweater over her pale blue shirt. “I can’t change my instincts.”

  “I know that.”

  “I wouldn’t if I could.”

  Blair blew out an exasperated breath. “I know that too.”

  “And you can’t help feeling the way you feel.”

  Blair raised a brow. “How do I feel?”

  “Angry that you have to accept a situation that makes you feel powerless. Guilty that people you care about could be hurt because of you. And furious that you don’t have any say in any of that and never have.”

  Blair’s eyes narrowed. “You do know it tends to piss me off even more when you understand why I’m angry?”

  Cam figured smiling was not a good idea at that point. Instead, she slid her arms around Blair’s waist, slowly pulled her close, and kissed her. “I know. I apologize.”

  “Nice try. Very nice, in fact.” Blair put her hands flat against Cam’s chest, not pushing her away, but signaling she wasn’t quite ready to give up her anger. “Have you ever felt so helpless, so terrified for someone—” She stopped. “Sorry. God, that was stupid.”

  “I was twelve,” Cam said quietly. “I didn’t understand what was happening at first, when the bomb went off, when the car exploded. Part of me knew it was already too late, but I still had to try to save him. I ran closer, but the bodyguards rushed out of the villa and dragged me back. He was already dead. Had been from the instant the bomb exploded, and when I got old enough to understand that, it helped a little bit. But the guilt never goes away.”

  Blair pressed her forehead to Cam’s chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

  “No, you’re not.” Cam kissed the top of her head. “If my father had had a choice, I think he would have felt like you do a lot of the time. I’m sure he would have preferred to die and have everyone else live, including the driver and the security guard who died with him. I know he wouldn’t have wanted me to be injured.”

  “I shouldn’t have reminded you of it.”

  “You don’t. It’s not the same thing. My father was assassinated in front of me. It wasn’t my job to protect him, and I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to. I know that.” Cam cupped Blair’s face and kissed her. “You are my wife. You are the woman I love with all my heart. If I weren’t trained to protect you, I would anyway. Just like you would protect me if you could.”

  “It seems like I never can,” Blair whispered. “I couldn’t do a damn thing when you were captured.”

  Ah, finally. Here it was.

  “Sometimes things like Idaho happen,” Cam said. “But street cops are far more likely to be injured in the line of duty than federal agents. When I headed out there, I really thought it was a fact-finding mission only, or I’d have taken backup. What happened was an anomaly.”

  “I hate that you’re the one that takes the chances.”

  “I don’t know how to be any different. This is my job. I can’t do anything else.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t recognize you if you did.” Blair pressed her cheek against Cam’s shoulder. “And most of the time I’m okay. I know how good you are, all of you. But when I see you put yourself in danger, so instinctively, so naturally, it scares me.”

  And that was what the anger was all about. Cam understood the fear of losing someone she loved. She cupped the back of Blair’s neck, kissed her again. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

  “Promise?” Blair asked, even though she knew no one could promise. Hearing the words still made a difference.

  “I promise,” Cam said, because she knew it helped.

  *

  Viv found her compartment in the press sleeping car and stowed her bag. She was surprised to find the berth outfitted with a small toilet and shower in addition to her bunk. The accommodations were a little more luxurious than she’d anticipated, although the very narrow bed looked as if she might fall out if she rolled over in her sleep. Measuring it with her eyes, she had the sudden image of her and Dusty trying to fit onto it together. The picture came o
ut of nowhere in absolute clear and vibrant Technicolor. She almost laughed at her adolescent reaction, but the heat that spread through her, making her tingle in some very interesting places, was undeniable. And undeniably pleasant. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d had such an intense reaction to a woman. Giving herself a moment to indulge in whimsy, she tried to work out the logistics and decided the only way it would work was if Dusty was on top of her. That thought stoked the flickering embers to an all-out inferno.

  Bad idea. She had a story to file on the president’s speech and the subsequent fund-raiser, and she wanted to explore the train and hopefully catch a glimpse of Dusty at work. She wasn’t going to be able to do any of those things if all she could think about was sex. And what was that all about, anyhow?

  Sex was not something that usually intruded into her consciousness during the day. She might be remotely aware of someone being attractive, but not to the extent she’d make mental pictures of the two of them romping naked together. And not to the extent that she could feel herself swell and tighten and throb.

  Damn it. She wasn’t given to thinking about masturbating in the middle of the day either. The car was suddenly too warm for comfort. She had an hour before they were scheduled to depart, and she needed to take a walk. She slid her recorder from the bag she’d carried that morning into the pocket of her overcoat, grabbed her gloves, and headed back out of the car. Her colleagues filled the aisle, chatting and jostling luggage, and she returned their greetings quickly as she worked her way through to the rear of the car. She stepped onto the short platform between the adjoining cars and paused to button her coat and pull on her gloves. A few minutes of brisk Chicago air would take care of her temperature overload. As the inner door to the sleeper car slid closed, she became aware of someone speaking.