Price of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “You know what security is like,” a muffled male voice said. “We might as well be talking about breaching the White House…I’ll try to work something out. When…”

  Viv overheard a hundred personal conversations a day, including people making arrangements for secret assignations that were rarely ever really secret, and tuned out the rest as a handful of her colleagues filled the platform. She stepped back to make room.

  “What’s it like in there?” Sally Jensen, a super-competitive correspondent from NBC news whose blond hair was perfectly coiffed despite the wind, asked eagerly.

  Viv plastered a smile on her face. “Cozy, but I wouldn’t plan on doing much entertaining.”

  A chorus of good-natured groans followed. Gary Williams and Brad Cooper gave her friendly nods. The third man she knew only by sight. She thought he was a veteran White House correspondent, although he looked too young for the role. He sidled by her with barely a glance. The door swished closed again, smothering the chatter and leaving her alone in the cold.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Route 84, a diner outside Mountain Home, Idaho

  Jane raised the collar on her dark green canvas coat and turned her face away from the wind. The phone booth was little more than a shell, but it was more private than the one hanging on a wall in the back corner of the diner where she and Hooker had stopped for breakfast. He was still inside, nursing a coffee and doughnut. She’d carried her second cup of coffee outside in a Styrofoam container and sipped it between sentences, trying to keep her face warm and her hands from freezing.

  “The best chance we’ll have is for me to get onto the train,” Jane said, “but we can’t count on me getting close. I’ve got other plans.”

  When she told him about the explosives, she expected his protests. She knew how formidable the task would be. No matter where the president was, inside the White House, in a vehicle, on a stage, or…on a train, he was the best-guarded man in the world. All the same, people had always been able to get close, and not just before the Secret Service had been charged with protecting him. All it took was ingenuity and the unexpected. It was true that Kennedy had been assassinated by a long-range shot by a marksman, but Reagan was nearly killed by a deranged man who had stepped out of a throng at a rope line as Reagan left a hotel and shot him, along with several others, hoping to impress a movie star. Gerald Ford was assaulted by a knife-wielding woman in a crowd and might have been shot by another if she hadn’t been apprehended before she could get off a round. Only luck had saved him that second time.

  Crowds offered excellent cover for an assailant, especially crowds out-of-doors where individuals couldn’t be scanned with metal detectors. And fortunately, Powell had many outdoor events scheduled. But she needed more than to simply kill him. She needed him alive for a while. She knew his scheduled route by heart. She was a little less than 900 miles away from the intersect point. She’d be there well before him. Well before all the roads approaching the train route were closed. And she’d be in Colorado Springs by morning, where Hooker’s contacts would provide her with the weapons she needed.

  Robbie didn’t like the plan.

  “I’ve got an advantage,” she said. “I’ve got you on the inside.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Robbie said unhappily.

  He wasn’t afraid for himself, but for her. She understood that. She’d far rather be in danger herself than endanger him, but they were at a point where risk no longer mattered. This time, the plan had to work.

  “I’ll call you again according to our schedule. Don’t worry.”

  She hung up the phone, hunched her shoulders against the blowing snow that had started an hour before, and pushed through the smudged, grease-streaked door back into the diner. Hooker was where she’d left him, sprawled in a booth with both big, reddened hands curled around a white ceramic mug of steaming coffee. The doughnut was gone. She slid in across from him and drained her cup. “We should go. Storm coming up. You get the tab.”

  He half laughed. “Guess that’s fair since you’re buying the gas.”

  He acted like they were partners. They weren’t. He was a departure from the plan, and she didn’t like that. She didn’t trust him, but she needed his contacts. She didn’t need him to drive, though in this weather a fifteen-hour trip could easily become thirty when drifting snow and white-outs slowed traffic to a crawl. If she let him drive, she’d likely get there faster and be fresher when it counted. There was no percentage in him killing her, not while he didn’t know where the money was. Sure, he could dispose of her and tear the Jeep apart looking for it, but he couldn’t be certain it was actually in the Jeep. For all he knew, she could have sent it anywhere in the country with someone else the night the camp was destroyed. No, he wasn’t going to kill her. At least not yet.

  “Add on some coffee and sandwiches to go,” Jane said.

  “I can do that.” He leaned back in the booth, looking full and contented, but his eyes were sharp as they roamed over her face. “You gonna tell me what you’ve got planned?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? It’s not like I’m going to turn you in.”

  “Because you don’t need to know.”

  He shrugged. “Might be I could help.”

  “Why would you? There’s nothing in it for you.”

  He grinned. “You’ve still got more money.”

  “And I can’t think of anything you’ve got I might want to buy.”

  He laughed and stood up, towering over her. She didn’t move.

  “Might be after a few days on the road, you’ll change your mind.”

  *

  Dusty and Atlas had spent the afternoon making forty-minute circuits of the train yard—checking along the tracks, the undersurface of the platform, and the undercarriage of each of the cars for signs of disturbance or suspicious scents. After each circuit they took a break to warm up, and then started again. The sky had grayed and was spitting snow mixed with tiny hard pellets of ice. Atlas didn’t mind the weather, so she pretended she didn’t either. At least she had it better than the Secret Service agents on the protection detail posted outside every car and at the entrances to the train station. Standing still was the fastest way to freeze.

  When the motorcade arrived and the president and the rest of the entourage disembarked, she and Atlas swept the limos, the K9, counterattack, and emergency response SUVs, and the command and communication vehicles before they were loaded and trailered. The rest of the support vehicles they’d leave behind and pick up replacements at the next stop.

  Once all were aboard and the train signaled its departure with a series of long whistles for the benefit of the press photographing the president standing in the open door of the presidential car, she and Atlas climbed into the K9 car. She gave him a reward and crated him, where he promptly curled up, placed his head on his paws, and after regarding her solemnly for a few seconds, closed his eyes. He knew his shift was over.

  Unlike Atlas, who was happy whenever he finished a good day’s work, Dusty was usually at loose ends at the end of shift with a few hours to fill before she’d settle in for the night. Most days, she’d return to the crew room and grab a cup of coffee and something from the vending machines to refuel, and then head out to walk in the city. Sometimes she’d stop in a museum or a bookstore, returning at nightfall for Atlas and ending the night at home with a book.

  Now she had an hour to wait until she could text Viv about meeting for dinner. Her choices were limited: spend the time chatting aimlessly with the other agents in the crew car or wait it out in her bunk. She patted the eReader in her pocket. No way could she read now. She was totally jazzed, electrified, feeling as if she was about to jump out of her skin. And since she shared her sleeping compartment with another agent who had the night shift, he was likely in there catching some shut-eye. At least they’d staggered the sleeping arrangements so no two people would be trying to sleep at the same time. She’d wait until he’d left to go to bed. T
hat worked unless you were trying to catch a catnap, and then, well, she’d slept in plenty of spaces shared with friends, strangers, and possible enemies over the years.

  So, coffee in the crew car it was—at least she’d get warm, and she could always go sit with Atlas for a while after that. She eased open the door to her compartment and quietly slipped inside. Dave Ochiba lay on his back on the right-hand sleeper, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly. The train started up with a scarcely perceptible jolt as she slid the zipper on her duffel. She wished for an instant she’d thought to pack a good shirt or two, but all she had were uniforms and casual civilian clothes. She wasn’t used to thinking about socializing on her off-time. Dave never moved as she changed from her uniform into jeans and a lightweight navy thermal top. She switched her commission book, badge, and weapon over and pulled on a navy baseball-style jacket to cover her hip holster. She was off-shift, but everyone was technically on-duty for the length of the trip.

  The train barely rocked as she made her way to the K9 division dining car. She pushed through the door, still picturing dinner with Viv, and stopped short, thinking for a split second her imagination had distorted her vision. Because Viv was sitting at one of the bench tables along the side of the car surrounded by four K9 Secret Service agents. She was laughing at something one of them had said.

  Dusty almost turned and left. Viv was working, maybe, and it looked like she had plenty of people to talk to. The guys certainly looked like they were enjoying the conversation. Every K9 agent was an expert at reading body language. Without that special sensitivity to the slightest flicker of a dog’s ear or nose or tail, a subtle sign of something wrong could be missed. And reading men was no different than reading dogs. Even from the end of the car, their body language was easy to read. They were bumping shoulders ever so subtly, jockeying for position, trying to catch Viv’s attention.

  A familiar sensation of rivalry flared in her chest—she’d competed all her life professionally, so she recognized it—but the quick surge of possessiveness that rushed through her when she looked at Viv was new. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but one thing was for sure. She wasn’t leaving. She started down the aisle, and Viv was all she saw.

  Viv looked up and smiled. Dusty could read that smile too, at least she hoped she could, because it seemed to say I’m glad to see you.

  She couldn’t stop her answering smile. I’m really glad you’re here. I couldn’t wait.

  “Hi,” Viv said.

  “Hi.” Dusty didn’t care that four guys were trying to catch Viv’s attention. She had a date for dinner with Viv in an hour. No, forty-nine minutes now, and that’s what mattered. And Viv had smiled at her, a smile that said she was glad to see her.

  She leaned against the booth across from Viv. “Working?”

  “Just finishing,” Viv said. “You done for the day?”

  The guys turned as one and gave Dusty curious looks.

  She just grinned. “So far, but you never can tell.”

  “You got that right,” Joe Aiello, one of the drivers, said importantly. “You never know when you might get called in.”

  “It’s been great talking to you guys. I really appreciate all the information.” Viv rose, gave the men a smile, and nodded to Phil Virtucci. “And thanks again for being so generous in giving me access to your crew.”

  “No problem,” Phil said.

  Dusty felt them all watching as Viv moved next to her. “Maybe we can fill in some of the blanks from the interview this morning.”

  “Great idea,” Viv said. “Dining car?”

  “Absolutely.” Dusty couldn’t take her eyes away from Viv. Little sparkles of light kept bursting and swirling in Viv’s dark eyes, like they were dancing. Her face glowed too, and her lips turned up at the corners, just a little bit of a smile that seemed to say Come with me. And that was exactly what Dusty wanted to do. Follow her anywhere. She swallowed because her throat was suddenly dry. “I’m at your service.”

  The little lights in Viv’s eyes danced even faster.

  *

  Cam nodded to the steward who appeared silently beside their table to take their plates away. The train had been under way for thirty minutes, and the view out the window was one of a cold, blustery winter day with a light snowfall softening the harsh sky. Blair was quiet, drinking her coffee, reading a newspaper. Cam was content to watch her, always astounded by the many facets of her beauty. Blair was most beautiful when she was painting, when her passion and enthusiasm and intelligence all sparked together. But she was beautiful in moments like this too, when she was relaxed and unconcerned about what was happening around her. Blair almost never truly relaxed, probably because she almost never felt safe. Cam’s jaw tightened with the frustration that had plagued her since the first time she’d seen Blair. She wished for the impossible—to change the circumstances of Blair’s life—and she could no more do that than Blair could change hers.

  “I can feel you watching me,” Blair said quietly.

  “I like watching you.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “I know. That’s why I like watching you.”

  Blair put the paper down beside her plate and studied Cam from beneath narrowed brows. “Want to tell me why?”

  “I like seeing you with your guard down. Your edges get soft.”

  “Really. Are you trying to say most of the time I’m prickly and unapproachable?”

  Cam grinned. “You mean like now? No.”

  Blair suppressed a smile. One of the things she loved about Cam was the way Cam never feared her temper—in fact, she sometimes seemed to enjoy goading her. Maybe that was because they always had such great makeup sex. Maybe that was why she was never afraid to let her temper show, even though, now that she thought of it, her temper had cooled since they’d been together. “You know, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Ask what?” Cam said.

  Blair leaned forward over the table, glancing around the car to see how close the agents were. Ellen and Mac were at a table just inside the door. Lucinda sat at the far end of the presidential dining car drinking a cup of tea and reading a stack of briefs. No one close by. “If you want to get laid, all you need to do is say so.”

  “I might be able to manage it even without asking.” Cam leaned too. “I’m good with my hands.”

  Blair grinned. “That’s a possibility.”

  “It doesn’t look like Lucinda is going anywhere for a while,” Cam said. “We’ll have the entire car to ourselves.”

  “Even if we didn’t, I’m pretty sure all of the berths are soundproof.” Blair pushed back her chair. “Want to test it out?”

  “Yes.” Cam dropped her napkin on the table and rose. “Ready?”

  Blair stood and slipped her phone into her back pocket. “Absolutely.”

  Cam’s phone went off just as Blair opened their door. She glanced at it and grimaced. “I’m going to have to take this. Sorry.”

  Blair turned to face her, kicked off her boots, and unzipped her jeans. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  Cam watched her as she took the call. “Roberts.”

  Blair pushed her jeans down and off, taking her underwear with it. Cam slid a hand behind her and locked the cabin door. She leaned against it as Blair slowly undressed.

  “I think I’ve got something for you,” Loren McElroy said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Turns out one of the deputies in the local sheriff’s department has been feeding information to the bikers around here for almost ten years. We’ve got somebody in the department too, and he reports this good old boy likes to talk a little bit. Seems he got word that the militia was about to pull a double cross and there was likely to be a lot of firepower involved. He tipped the bikers, who came in shooting.”

  “What was his source?” Cam shrugged out of her sweater. Blair smiled, pulled back the blanket and sheet on the bunk, and lay down on her side. Cam held up one finger and shot her a lo
ok begging for mercy.

  “It’s a guy by the name of Hooker, could be an alias, probably is. But he’s been feeding this deputy—and probably pumping him for plenty too—for quite a while. That suggests he’s operating local.”

  “A merc?”

  “Seems like it. Anyhow, we’re digging. We’ve got some of the militia in lock-up. They may have had dealings with him. If we don’t get anywhere, we’ll pull in the deputy. We’ll get an ID.”

  “Push it.” Cam stepped over to the bed. “And good work.”

  “No problem. I’ll be in touch.”

  Cam cut the call and tossed the phone onto the pint-sized dresser.

  Blair reached for her belt. “My turn.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Idaho

  Russo stabbed the off button on the remote, and the eighty-inch plasma screen above the fieldstone fireplace went black. He’d seen enough of Andrew Powell in twelve hours to last the rest of the year. Every national and local news channel had been covering the first day of Powell’s Greet the People trip through the heartland, as it was cleverly being called, nonstop since six a.m. Powell’s campaign strategists had made a smart move getting the smug bastard out of the cloistered halls of Washington and into people’s front yards. Into the heart of conservative, traditional, God-fearing America. His territory.

  And while he and his rivals for the national nomination were traipsing back and forth across the country from Boca Raton to Palm Springs, Vegas, and every other winter getaway where conservative donors gathered to flaunt their money and force the candidates to prance around like whores soliciting favors, Powell was out glad-handing the constituents like some old-time, friend-of-the-common-man politician. As if he didn’t know political offices were bought, not won at the ballot box.

  And of course people, sheep-like, flocked to the media circus. Large crowds congregated at points along the train route, standing in the arctic cold for hours, for a chance to see the historic passage. Sure, many of them were pro-Powell standard bearers, but just as many were merely curious to see the spectacle. Who they supported didn’t matter now. All those citizens gathered to see him gave an impression of popularity Powell didn’t deserve, and he was savvy enough to capitalize on the lie. The goddamned train slowed even at the places it wasn’t scheduled to stop—Franklin had seen the schedule, as had everyone else with an Internet connection—and Powell emerged from his car to stand in the blowing wind and snow, hatless in just a suit, waving to the crowds, looking young and vigorous and accessible. As if the weather that would freeze an ordinary man’s balls had no effect on him at all. Must have given his security fits, being exposed like that.