by Andy King
Might as well ask. “So what’s your name?”
“Agent Jack Runyon, sir.”
I stop, dip an eyebrow and mash down my upper lip to suppress a grin. “Sounds like a character in a paperback thriller.”
He shrugs. “It’s my name, sir.”
I start walking at a less driven pace. There’s something about him, something in his eyes. He reminds me of someone. Goose bumps tickle my shoulders. I ignore it. “I’m Cheri. First day in the White House?”
“I’ve been here a month. First day on personal detail.”
We pull up outside the Cabinet Room. I notice that in only ten minutes, I’ve accumulated the fifteen or so handlers and assistants that normally accompany me. It’s early for everyone to be here. Carmel’s cracking the whip.
I nearly strain my neck peering up at Jack’s face. He’s got to be six feet four, at least. Somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred fifty pounds, with dark hair and big, brown eyes. Pretty damned cute.
What am I thinking? But I can’t help myself and extend my hand. “Nice to have you aboard, Jack.”
His hand makes mine disappear. “Thank you, sir.” He keeps a stone face, then lets go, steps back and says to his radio mike, “Dancer to the Cabinet Room.”
Now why did I go and touch him? My whole body tingles and my toes are warm. When they told me my code name was “Dancer,” I laughed because I have two left feet, but right now, I feel like I could take the Kennedy Center stage with a solo ballet turn. Crap—I’m smiling. Forcing myself to look grim again, I march into the room.
Everybody gets to their feet. Nick MacElvain is self-importantly texting, not paying attention. I wave at them to sit down and command myself to focus.
My mind is on the conference, but the animal part of my brain is still in the hallway. With Jack. I wonder if he feels it, too.
2
Jack
The last month has been the hardest of my life. How could I imagine this would happen? When my parents died in a highway wreck, leaving me to watch over my little sister, I finally adjusted. Even Iraq was easier than this.
A pair of grey eyes peer at me.
Are the eyes in the sky? A burqa’s veil has been lifted? I have no idea.
The eyes plead, “come home.” Mom’s eyes? Anna’s?
Panicked, my brain tries to punch through thick air, dust a tapestry shrouding the sun.
Vigilance is my reason. I decide.
Rolling on my good shoulder, I scuttle crablike behind the truck’s wreckage. Now shouts flare and now shots fire. I pull my handgun and wait, its few rounds no match for the barrage of assault weapons all around me. I hear a faint yell, a sergeant calling to stay down. We wait.
Finally reinforcements scream in, guns blazing, and finally we retreat, those of us still alive.
Weeks later I’m on a plane. Mission concluded, sir. I’ve secured a future for Anna, and I have a plan, a course of action. Mission commenced, sir.
I’ve finally reached my goal, serving on a Presidential protection detail. On the road to the White House I’ve grown skeptical, though. It’s our duty to protect the President, no matter what it takes; but it seems like this President inherited the position based on her looks, then tragedy. For her to suddenly be elevated to the status of the most powerful person in the world feels wrong.
It’s been terrible for the nation, and terrible for her I’m sure. The first successful hit on the Commander-in-Chief in sixty years has been triply difficult for the Secret Service, with Congressional persecution and calls to dismantle it.
She might be bitter that her husband’s killer was never caught. If she is, I understand completely. I’ve had my fair share of injustice. But I’ve been praying that the country makes it through the next four years and we find a strong leader to guide us back to sanity.
Then I see her in person.
The phalanx of advisors, handlers and agents is hustling through the East Room. I come around a corner and catch a glimpse. For a second she looks at me directly.
Her eyes. Back in the ditch, the dust and sand swirling, the sky torn to shreds. I’ve seen those eyes before. I shake my head. It’s not possible.
My life’s upended, sailing through the air like a soldier caught in a bomb blast. Cherilyn Barnes is the most striking woman I’ve ever seen. And her eyes…
Oh sure, I’ve seen her on TV, and we have to memorize photos of the President, as well as vital statistics, during orientation. Seeing her up close is completely different, though. My heart leaps—no parachute. My hand shoots up to cover my mouth. I laugh out loud. Joy?
The crowd is gone as quickly as it had arrived. I stand still. Deep breaths. Then I notice something embarrassing. I’m hot below the belt.
Usually I’m not one for drama. Friends describe me as quiet to the point of sullen. I’m not angry or anything, I just don’t say much unless asked. To feel that kind of heat is inconvenient, to say the least. I’d pretty much given up.
For most of my life I’ve had a dream, to fall in love, get married and have children. I really like kids, and I’ve worked at Big Brothers wherever I’ve been stationed. For a big, scary-looking guy, I’m really a romantic at heart, but I’ve finally accepted that love might never come my way. I’m married to the job.
During the last month I’ve kept my distance from President Barnes whenever possible, trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I’ve volunteered to stay on the perimeter, scoping out potential danger. I’ve held the door to limos for her, but looked away, searching for threats. I don’t want to peer into her eyes.
Early this morning one of the inner detail guys got sick.
I’m assigned to the hallway outside the President’s bedroom. A text from the Defense Department is routed to me, warning of an imminent call from Secretary MacElvain. I look around. Is anybody available to take my post?
My radio clicks. “Wake the President for a call from the Secretary of Defense. The alarm is on.” The radio goes silent. I have no choice.
Swinging the door open, I hear the alarm’s soft warble. “Ma’am?”
I cough softly. Her scent, a heavenly brew of lavender and vanilla, intoxicates me.
She makes a dainty little noise, what would have been a grunt were it someone different.
“It’s Secretary of Defense MacElvain, ma’am. He’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent.”
She waves me out, and I’m glad to go. Another minute and I wouldn’t have been able to help myself. I step out of the room and turn away from the agent stationed down the hall. The heat between my legs searing, I have to adjust my trousers.
The door opens and I melt. I’m falling into her grey-green eyes, like the ocean on an overcast morning. When she stares at you, there’s no question that she’s the President, The Boss. I just want her to be mine for the rest of our lives. An invisible hand presses my back, moving me closer. I hold out her cell phone. She grabs it. Was that a smile?
We walk to the Situation Room quickly. The way she pushes her glasses up her pert little nose is vaguely reminiscent. Someone in my past. She’s dressed in sweats, like a regular person. I try not to imagine what’s under the loose folds.
I’m trained to show nothing on my face, but it’s impossible. Euphoria at being near her, and insane rage when I overhear the conversation. The Secretary of Defense is obviously disrespecting her. I struggle for control, my feelings at war with themselves. Once in the elevator I close my eyes, thinking I need to ask for a transfer. Right away. I just can’t take this.
My eyes pop open when I hear her joke about bombing North Korea. The agent accompanying us puts a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. I grit my teeth to keep from laughing. Thankfully we come to a stop. I take my post outside the Situation Room, breathing hard.
At the end of the meeting, I escort her back to her quarters. While she’s getting ready, I radio my boss and tell him I’m coming down with something. He says I’ve got to hang in there for another couple of hours, we’re shorthanded
, the budget’s tight and all the usual worries. More deep breaths. Man up, just get through this shift and request a transfer as soon as possible.
I damn near drop to my knees.
Cherilyn, the President, comes out of her room, dressed up and made up. Oh. My. God. She’s stunning. Somehow I keep my wits about me long enough to gesture for her to walk ahead. My pants are tight again. I’ve got a couple pairs of athletic briefs; looks like I’ll have to order more. Then it gets worse.
We’re walking quickly. She asks my name. I tell her. She stops.
With her full, wavy auburn mane, it’s easy to forget how short she is. I keep my hands clasped in front of me, trying to hide my passion, but she’s so tiny, she’s almost looking straight at it.
She makes a face and cracks a joke. I try to shrug it off and act businesslike, calling her “sir” to distract myself. The devil’s on my shoulder, and for some reason, the angel that should be on the other shoulder is missing in action.
She starts to stroll again, making conversation. I manage not to drool, and give her the minimum, grunting words while seeing right through her clothes. Her round breasts and full hips would fit perfectly in my hands. We reach the Cabinet Room. She stops again.
It takes every ounce of my strength not to pant like a dog. Looking up at me in all of her deliciousness she holds out her hand. I have to take it. Electricity shoots through me. I’m paralyzed. When she says it’s nice to have me on board, it’s all I can do to keep from picking her up and kissing her. Somehow I manage to let go of her hand.
A glimpse into the room and I clench my fists. She’ll be sitting with MacElvain and several other men. Sooner or later, one of them will make a move on her. She’s so perfect, I wouldn’t blame them.
Again the urge to spirit her away where I can have her all to myself nearly consumes me. I really need to get a handle on this. Other Secret Service agents will notice, and then not only will I be out of a job, I won’t be able to get near her.
I step away, dizzy, and announce her safe arrival to the radio. Then I force myself to take my post, my wanton heart in the next room.
3
Cheri
The Cabinet meeting slogs along, rocky as usual. MacElvain and George Laemmle, my National Security Advisor, play tag, countering my arguments for action. I want to jump to DEFCON 3, raising the armed forces’ state of readiness two levels, with a troop buildup and the entire Air Force ready to go within fifteen minutes. Warm up the ICBM silos, that’ll get Li’s attention.
I’m not a hothead and I don’t speak without thinking. It’s a big-stakes game of chicken, something Reagan would have considered and possibly done. The U.S. has rolled over and played dead for so long that most international criminals, like North Korea’s chief thug, think we’re bluffing. I’m bluffing, but with a shoulder-fired rocket launcher to his knife. You don’t go into a bad neighborhood without packing some kind of heat.
MacElvain and Laemmle drone on about diplomacy. “We’ve done that, guys,” I want to blurt out. I just think of what Stu would have said, and stand up to deliver my counter. When all is said and done, I’m the President. If they want their job, they have to remember they’re working for me.
“We’ve got a choice,” I say. I relay the basics of my phone call with China’s President Li. “He’s going to stall forever if we don’t make it clear we’re serious.”
Laemmle on my right, another concession to political reality, stands up to emphasize that he’s a foot taller than I am. “Madame President, I’ve known Li much longer than you have. I’m quite certain that he’ll do what he can.”
I blow a “Pfff” through my lips as I hear MacElvain push his chair back on my left. More intimidation. He’s six two. I could care less. I look up at him.
“Madame President, we have to give Li a chance,” he says in his silkiest tone.
They always use that velvet voice when they have a knife behind their back. My Gramps wasn’t wrong about that.
I clasp my hands together, my eyebrows up in irony. “Are you refusing to convene the Joint Chiefs?” I know for a fact that four of the seven Chiefs believe that the U.S. should take a tougher stance. Only the Chairman, Army General O’Hara, is completely in MacElvain’s pocket. A meeting with the leaders of the House and Senate is next on my agenda. As far as I’m concerned, these meetings are formalities. I’m pretty sure I’ve got enough support in the Cabinet, the military and Congress to take my initial actions. What happens next will depend on China.
MacElvain looks at his perfectly trimmed nails, reminding me of a story Gramps told me. One morning a young boy came downstairs for some lovin’ on his favorite dog’s new litter. He was distressed by what he saw. The little pups had been busy all night, poop and barf everywhere. The kid knew what he had to do, but whined to his mother. Lovingly she handed him a rag, told him to suck it up and get it done. You can’t blame them; it’s the nature of puppies.
It’s Mac’s nature to plot, he can’t live without intrigue. I’ve been warned. My spies among his staff have urged me to tread lightly. That’s fine, I’ve been walking tightropes for forty years.
My father, a musician, died in a robbery behind a club one night when I was little. My old, black Gramps, his dad, took us in. Mom came from an upper middle class family in Evanston and never dreamed she’d wind up living in a rural trailer park in the hills. With few skills and allergic to work, she had to live off Gramps’s janitor earnings or shack up with somebody.
Since Gramps’s wife, my father’s Cuban mother, had passed, we were all Gramps had. That man loved us, even my bitchy, resentful mother, with all his heart.
When I was in high school, he took ill and died. By then Mom was relying on the kindness of wealthier men and I was hunting in the woods after school with Gramps, shooting our supper.
With Mom MIA, I thought about going into the service. Gramps’ firearms and survival training would have stood me right. He wanted more for me, though, and I couldn’t forget his Viet Nam stories. He’d been assigned to the Army mortuary in Saigon, and said that he could easily excuse me for not serving in the horror of guerrilla war; but he would not forgive me if I didn’t make something of myself.
The will was read and Mom found out she’d hit the jackpot. Gramps had hoarded cash his entire life and left everything to her to take care of me, for my education. Of course she blew through the money, spending it on clothes and fun. I ended up hustling my way through SUNY and Harvard on scholarships, working the system, playing my race and gender for all they were worth.
Gramps taught me I could be whoever I wanted to be, even President, though I never really thought it would happen. He told me: whatever I did, do it all the way. So I won’t be bullied by a plague of snickering, entitled Ivy Leaguers. I glare at them.
MacElvain stares back at me with a mouth-only smile. If a rattler could smile, it would take lessons from Nick. He sits down. “No, ma’am. I’ll make the calls forthwith.”
I take my time looking into the eyes of each of the other Cabinet members. Eight of the sixteen are solidly with me, and another three are probable. Unfortunately, the big five, MacElvain, Laemmle, Secretary of State Faubus, Treasury Secretary Cage and Torres at Homeland Security are hostile. Not to mention my Vice-President, Bill McCracken, another wingnut. My patience is like a flimsy old shawl, worn bare from coddling my enemies.
With more diplomacy than I mustered for the Situation Room team, I request written plans to support my readiness proposal. Most of those in the room will shovel the assignment on their staff, so my tag of getting it to Carmel in two hours is met with nods and grimaces, but no outright whining. That’s good. I hate it when pompous, well-paid officials whine. My eyes roll skyward. Like puppies, it’s their nature.
I’d hoped to escape without a hassle, but when I turn to leave, McCracken steps into my space. I shouldn’t complain about him—after all, I nominated him—but to be honest, he’s got bad breath.
“Cheri, a word?”
“What’s up, Bill?”
“I’ve got this niece.” He proceeds to make a patronage pitch for a recent college grad. I get it, his wife’s probably threatening him with sleeping on the sofa, but if the niece can’t get a job, she’s probably a victim of grade inflation. Besides, he’s got enough juice to get her employed.
“Why do you need me?” I ask. I’ve got way too much to do, preparing for the congressional sharks.
His perpetually red nose grows redder. “She wants to work here.”
“So put her on your staff.”
“She wants to work for you, directly. Actually, she wants to work for Carmel.”
Crap. As if I need this. If the child is less than genius-grade, Carmel will have a fit. I need Bill’s support, though. He’s invaluable with Congress, an old money Westerner who knows everybody. His mental quid pro quo tally system makes a racetrack toteboard look like an abacus.
Rubbing my lips together, I calculate. If I let the girl walk into Carmel’s office without checking her out first, she might never be seen again. I don’t have time for this.
“Tell her my office at nine tonight, ten minutes max. She might have to wait. Ask Carmel to put her on the schedule. You arrange the clearances, full background check.” I pause for effect. “And you’re with me on this buildup.”
He breaks out in a huge smile of relief. His wife is a dragon, so I’m sure I just bought him a few days of peace. Not my problem. I streak to the door, assistants scooping up papers and running after me.
I sweep into the hallway. Jack Runyon swings in from the side, far enough away to be respectful, but close enough that my heart skips. I pick up my pace, trying to leave my heat in the slipstream. No luck. I glance over. His face is hard. He’s one serious man. What happened, I wonder.
Sensing that something else is hard, too, I smile inside. Part of me wants him to take advantage of what I’m feeling, and part hopes that once I’m in my office, I can ignore it, get back to normal. We round a corner.
Carmel’s marching toward us. She stops and makes a turn to walk next to me, then throws out a hand. “Black and White are waiting.”
