In the Weeds

by M. L. Buchman

  “Apparently you do. Have they told you about McPhee yet?” Colby stepped into the small circle but did nothing to call off his dog.

  “What about him?”

  “His dog’s retiring. So, he’s going to get reassigned. I’m his replacement. Except he broke his ankle in a gopher hole—McPhee, not his dog—about an hour ago, so I’m your man ahead of schedule.”

  Exactly what she didn’t need. “Can’t he just get another dog?”

  Colby sauntered over to the only open chair and dropped into it as if he was at a backyard picnic. He stretched his legs out far enough under the table that they were nearly touching hers. She was grateful for the thick-soled Oxford shoes that were part of a Marine’s dress uniform as she kicked him in the shins. Only after she did so did it remind her of old times. He jolted but pulled in his feet only a few inches. Then he grinned just as goofily as his dog—who she’d started scratching between the ears without thinking, creating yet more dog hair.

  “Minimum six months to train up a new animal. Besides, it doesn’t work that way. One agent, one dog. In the entire history of the Secret Service dog teams, there’ve only been one or two times an agent got assigned a second dog. That’s probably half the reason McPhee and Rusty hung on as long as they did.”

  He sounded so casual. He even looked casual, slouched in his chair with his fingers laced together and resting on his stomach. But she knew Colby Thompson, and while he might be fooling everyone else, maybe even himself, he wasn’t fooling her for a second. Colby was only truly still when something was freaking him out.

  She remembered Colby as a kid, when their families went to a restaurant together. He’d start by balancing a knife on his fork like a teeter-totter to find the center of balance. Then he’d stack on a spoon and have to reconfigure the balance points so that everything rocked on the back of the fork. Then he’d slowly spin test his assemblage. She used to wait until he almost had it, then subtly jar a table leg with her foot while innocently looking the other way. He never complained amidst the clattering collapse of his silverware arrangement, instead merely started over. He didn’t fidget so much as tinker, but he was never truly still.

  Except now.

  Was it his presence here? Or hers?

  “You know,” he turned to Steve and lowered his voice confidentially, “when Major Hanson was younger she’d—”

  This time she kicked him hard enough under the small table that he yelped. It was also enough of a jolt for Rex to lift his nose off her other knee and heave a sigh before moving to curl up at her feet. She brushed at her trousers, but the attempt was wholly ineffective. At least he didn’t drool. So far. Tish reached back to her desk and tossed over a lint roller, which helped a little.

  “As I was saying earlier… What’s on the boards that I need to know about?”

  Steve and Tish were smiling at each other. Neither of them had missed what had happened either. Maybe she’d lost some of her subtlety the day she became a Marine. Steve gave her the login to the scheduler for her tablet.

  “Meeting at Camp David ends in two hours,” Tish began rattling off from memory even as the information populated Ivy’s screen. “Marine One scheduled back here in time for a lunch meeting with senior staff. Next travel is tomorrow morning, all fairly routine. A one-dayer. Landing at Cape Canaveral, Florida. An HMX out-and-back to the Gulf Coast Conference at a hotel in Orlando with Mexico, Cuba, and the five surrounding states’ governors attending. Motorcade on the ground just in case. Then HMX back to Canaveral for a nighttime satellite launch. It’s one that the President sponsored while he was still VP. Back in DC by two a.m. if all goes to plan. In our beds by three. Cut and dried, as much as these things ever are.”

  “Ouch!” Colby still hadn’t eased up despite his whole casual act. “Not exactly a tourist timetable.”

  Thankfully, Steve laughed in his face, sparing her the need to.

  Ivy couldn’t believe this was happening. Cape Canaveral? Had she just died and gone to heaven? A shot at seeing an actual launch? She’d always promised herself that one day she’d make it down there for one…except she’d be stuck here at the White House.

  “Looks like Rex and me are gonna be doing some runnin’ about in some purty interestin’ places.”

  Ivy considered kicking him again, just for vengeance. He’d always been the brains of the Reggie-and-Colby show and spoke perfect English when he cared to.

  Rex had shifted without her noticing and was now asleep with his chin resting on his crossed paws—which were crossed on her shoe. Her right foot was tingling its way to falling asleep. She wiggled her toes, which earned her a happy sigh before Rex rolled his big head against her shin. Oh, fine! Now she’d have dog hair there as well.

  It was unfair that Colby was going to get to see all of those things, and she wasn’t. It was her dream, not his.

  Except…

  “What’s after that?”

  “Three days after we get back, there’s a day trip up to Ottawa for trade talks with their prime minister. Then, the week following, we’ve got a France, Germany, UK round robin. It’s fully scheduled, advance teams are already in place. Then quiet until Memorial Day, when we’re scheduled for a trip to the First Lady’s family farm in Tennessee—that one we have down. So, planning is good on at least that one for the moment.”

  “Perfect,” Ivy wasn’t above a tiny bit of subterfuge. “I’m going to take Marine One logistics local.”

  “Huh?” Steve and Tish looked at her in surprise.

  “I’ve reviewed the last two years of operations reports and I want to try taking the liaison team on site for maximum efficiency. Our problem isn’t data coordination back to this office. Once the trip has begun, our problems are out there in the field: communications delays, rapidly evolving scenarios that we don’t have eyes on, and the like.” She liked the way that sounded. Ivy almost believed it herself.

  She checked in with her inner McKinnon while the others at the table exchanged puzzled expressions. Not a single McKinnon Law came up that she was violating. She might be stretching the Trust your own impressions over everyone else’s facts law to her own purposes, but not by much. Besides, it sounded right—something she’d learned to trust.

  “We’ll set up a standard speed-dial conference number. Anyone hits it and our other three phones ring. Steve travels with Air Force One. Tish gets out there with her motorcade advance teams.”

  “Oh boy,” Tish rubbed her hands together. “There’s got to be better pickings out there in the world than here.”

  “Pickings?”

  “Men,” Tish looked at her as if she was a dunce. “Cute ones, like Colby. But there’s no way he’s going to look at me with you in the room.”

  Colby shrugged a “Maybe so.”

  “I’m with the helos,” Ivy blocked anymore comments on such a stupid topic. There was no way that there was anything between them—ever! “And Colby is…” She wasn’t sure where.

  “I go in with the helos’ transport. Jim Fischer and his dog Malcolm travel as part of the Motorcade, but McPhee was always on the helo advance team.”

  Ivy hadn’t intended to force herself closer to Colby; farther away would be definitely preferable.

  Treat your planning screwups like they’re genius master strokes. Your instincts may be smarter than you are—lord knows I’ve done what little I can to train them. Besides, it saves you sounding like a damn fool when you try to unravel one. Great! Thanks, Sarge.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “You are a Marine!” Tish grinned at her. “I’ll get us a speed-dial conference number,” she headed over to the desk for the White House Communications Agency, another arm of the WHMO.

  Ivy checked her master schedule.

  “The advance helos for tomorrow’s flight are shipping out this afternoon. Colby and I will hop a ride back on Marine One after it delivers the President.” If a chance to take that flight again meant she had to travel with Colby, she’d even do that.<
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  Steve turned back to his desk and got on the phone setting up his own travel arrangements. It left just the two of them, and Ivy was bent over her tablet computer, clearly trying to ignore him.

  “You just want to see a space launch,” Colby guessed.

  “Not so. It will offer me an eyes-on analysis of HMX-1 operational processes in the field.” But a bit of a blush colored her cheeks and she was careful not to look up at him. She’d always been a crappy liar. Even her fibs as a kid had never flown. Well, they worked well enough on Reggie, but Colby had always been able to spot them.

  “You were hyped on Star Trek reruns since you were two.”

  “I don’t remember that far back,” she kept her face down but Colby had the impression that she wasn’t making much progress on reading her screen.

  “I do. One of the best ways Reggie and I had of dumping you. You’d always be following us around—like that’s what a pair of five-year-old secret agents wanted, a two-year-old brat chasing after them—unless we found you some television show or movie set in space. Didn’t matter. Star Trek, Star Wars, one of those awful 1950s things. You loved them all.”

  “Colby!” Her voice was practically a hiss. “It’s a good thing that your dog is sleeping on my feet or you’d get a busted kneecap and spend the next month in physical therapy.”

  “He’s what?” Colby ducked down to look under the table. Sure enough, he wasn’t just asleep on her feet. He looked like he was moving in to stay. “Well, that’s weird.”

  “Why? Dogs like me. I’m likeable.”

  He wasn’t going to comment on the second part of that. He was still having problems with the best-friend’s-younger-sister-who’s-really-a-pill memories that seemed to be bounding to the fore. It was far easier to recall her thrashing him in miniature golf or taking flash pictures at precisely the wrong moment of what was supposed to be his and Reggie’s double date-first kiss with the Ivanov sisters. It was harder to remember from moment to moment that she was a Marine sitting in the White House West Wing. With his dog asleep on her foot.

  He looked again, but Rex absolutely was.

  “He’s not generally a big fan of women.”

  “Maybe it has to do with the kind of women you bring home.”

  He just raised an eyebrow at her.

  “That wasn’t an offer, Thompson.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to snicker, but it seemed to get caught in his throat. So he saluted her instead.

  “Will you just go get ready? We’re out of here on Marine One at 1230 hours sharp. Go away! I have work to do.”

  He clambered to his feet, but had to nudge Rex awake with his boot to get him moving. Not even a pat from Ivy, though Rex was looking for it. One thing he had to say for Ivy, she didn’t offer either of them any encouragement.

  “Your sister’s here.” Colby leaned against the doorway into the White House Kitchen.

  “Uh-huh.” Reggie was sprinkling herbs he’d just minced into a giant soup pot as if one shred more or less was going to make or break the soup.

  Colby had parked Rex in the small Secret Service office in the basement of the Residence and then ducked around the corner to harass Reggie while he mooched a meal. He’d done it so often that even Chef Klaus, the executive chef, did little more than offer his customary Teutonic scowl at Colby’s arrival. Colby was careful to always throw a five or ten into the jar to cover food costs—Reggie had lectured him the first time about taxpayer costs, even on leftovers, and Colby had never forgotten.

  The White House kitchen was in full swing, but just for a luncheon so there were only four chefs working at the moment. A knife hammered against a cutting board, mincing garlic faster than his FN P90 submachine gun on full auto. There was a sharp sizzle of bacon on the griddle that made Colby’s stomach growl—he’d have to snitch a piece for Rex or he’d never be forgiven. A rattle of plates being stacked on the warming shelf as someone else hustled by on their way into the produce fridge. Overall pretty quiet. If it was a state dinner, he wouldn’t go near the place.

  “Ivy looks hot in her dress blues.” Colby wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here on such a crazy morning, but he had a free half hour and no longer had a patrol duty to fill it with.

  He’d gone to his truck in the Secret Service HQ garage and snagged his emergency go-bag. Then he’d tracked down Linda and Thor, her scraggle-haired mutt with one of the best noses in the business, to discuss her taking over the Lead Dog role at the White House. Linda had been a little startled—apparently Baxter hadn’t warned her. Typical.

  Linda was still new enough that he had to explain that was Baxter’s idea of a rip-roaring, hilarious joke. Thor had been fine with it though. Colby had given her access to all his files on the dog teams and then felt lost and at loose ends. Until it was time to go, there was nothing more for him to do.

  So he and Linda had walked and talked their way to the White House Chocolate Shop, which was run by her husband. The Chocolate Shop was about twenty feet from the kitchen so Colby had dropped in on Reggie.

  “Ivy’s really grown up. She’s changed a lot.” More than he’d ever imagined possible. Yet in other ways, she was still that same driven girl he’d always known.

  “Uh-huh.” Reggie’s attention had moved from his soup to cutting up a loaf of sourdough bread, totally missing that Colby had just said his little sister was hot. Which she was, but he wasn’t going to actually think about.

  “I’ve decided to marry her.”

  “Uh-huh.” Reggie stacked the slices neatly in a lavender-colored glass serving bowl so that it looked more like a flower arrangement than food.

  “We’re going to name all of our kids after you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Even the girls.”

  “Fine. Wait… What?” Reggie blinked at him in surprise.

  Colby did his best to keep a straight face.

  “Ivy’s here?” Reggie looked around the kitchen as if he expected his little sister to pop out of a cabinet the way she used to when she was trying to scare them. It had never bothered Reggie, but Colby had jumped every time. She’d loved that. The time she’d jumped out of the refrigerator when he’d been after a soda had almost given him a heart attack. Only belatedly had he noticed all of the shelving and contents neatly stacked off to the side. She wasn’t above elaborate preparations for her traps—she’d been wearing long johns and a parka while she waited. He’d also spotted a book because Ivy never just stopped. He’d never again opened a refrigerator without first checking for the slightly open door providing an airgap.

  Colby put on his best smirk for Reggie.

  “Oh right. She starts today.” And just that fast, Reggie was gone back to his lunch prep.

  Colby should know better than to bait his best friend when he was cooking. They’d cooked together a lot growing up, but for Reggie it had always been a thing. For Colby it had been an excuse to hang out with his friend and eat amazing food.

  “You’re getting married, huh?” Reggie was often tuned in, even when he was tuned out. “How did she take the news?”

  “Like the trooper she is.”

  “She’s not a trooper, she’s a Marine. And you’d be all black-and-blue if you’d tried suggesting anything as stupid as marriage because she’d have kicked your ass.”

  “I’ve got grass stains on my knees,” he went for pity points. Except, he’d kept a fresh pair of pants in his go-bag, so there was nothing to show.

  No deal. Reggie didn’t spare him a glance anyway. “Let me guess, you tripped over Rex and did a face plant.”

  Even best friends weren’t supposed to know things like that.

  “So, what are you really doing here midday?”

  “Grade bump. At least I think it is. Presidential travel detail.”

  That actually got Reggie’s full attention. “Hey, Colby, that’s great.”

  “Hope so.” A pinch between his shoulder blades made him shrug.

  “Seriously!
Don’t you get it? Lead Dog at the White House is great and you earned that. But you just got bumped to the Presidential Protection Detail. That’s huge.”

  Colby hadn’t thought of it that way. Did that mean he now reported to Harvey Lieber, the head of the PPD, rather than Baxter? Was he supposed to trade in his slacks and jacket for a black suit? The captain hadn’t said anything about that.

  “You always were the slow one of the team.”

  “As if you’re such a genius. Your little sister’s sharper than you.”

  “Ivy’s sharper than both of us put together.”

  Right next to the no-touch rule for little sisters was the always-agree-that-they’re-exceptional rule. Of course, in Ivy’s case, that was easy because she absolutely was.

  Reggie had cut some more bread and was throwing together a massive BLT sandwich.

  “Better make a pair of those. Ivy and I fly out together in about fifteen minutes.”

  Reggie’s hands froze halfway through slicing a tomato. Then he very slowly looked up at Colby. “You and Ivy?”

  “Uh-huh,” he did his best to echo Reggie’s earlier distracted tone.

  “You and Ivy.” Somehow the paired sandwiches had tipped Reggie’s internal alarms where a tease about marriage hadn’t. He’d always been a food guy. Colby remembered having to explain how girls flirted—in foodie terms—for Reggie to get it.

  She’s not going to offer you the main course of steak unless you go through the minestrone soup first. And you’re not going to get the minestrone kiss without some major antipasti. Before that, you’ve got to have hors d’oeuvres to convince her she even sits at the table with you.

  Explained that way, Reggie’s success rate had risen, as had Colby’s. Though the Ivanov sisters had ultimately slipped away unkissed.

  “As part of the bump, I got assigned to the White House Military Office. We’re headed out for a couple days. Together.” He did his best to drop the last word suggestively, but he could feel his voice shift strangely. He and Ivy together for a mission. Two days was more than he’d seen her in the last five years.