But Jim always knew when Stagecoach was in the lead of the two Spares—he could feel Reese glaring at the back of his head.
Reese knew that she should have stayed in her car, but the President was giving a thirty-minute speech to the student body of the Air Force Academy north of Colorado Springs and then having an hour-long meet-and-greet with top class members and the school’s commanders. Dry. Scattered trees. Snow dusted thinly among the brown grass. Freaking freezing beneath a brilliant blue sky.
The instant she was out of the car, Jim Fischer came over from his patrol. He’d been fast and efficient, in exactly the priority order that they had worked out over two days of planning. It was impressive how much ground he and Malcolm were able to cover between the moment of their arrival and when Harvey approved the site as clean and opened the President’s door.
Somehow sensing her desire to duck back into the driver’s seat, he signaled Malcolm to slip into the narrow space between her and the door, then waved him to sit and stay.
Traitor! I thought you liked me.
Malcolm lolled out his tongue in a doggie grin.
Trapped in the open, Reese forced herself to face Jim.
“I’ve got a problem.”
“More than one,” she shot back.
Jim chewed on that for several moments before discarding whatever he was thinking. “I’ve got a problem because I don’t know what is and isn’t protocol on the Motorcade.”
Reese bit back her unexpected disappointment. He wanted to be strictly business and she wanted… She wasn’t sure, but running him over with Stagecoach was still an attractive option. She waited him out.
“Are spycams standard on the vehicles?”
“What are you talking about?”
He took her by the forearm and it was all she could do to not yank it away in front of the other drivers and agents who had remained with the vehicles.
Fischer—that’s all she’d think of him as now, except maybe Asshole—tugged her forward until he was standing well to the side of her car. The Motorcade was lined up in the parking lot alongside Fieldhouse Drive that they’d blocked off in front of the six-thousand-seat Clune Arena. Then he squatted and pointed under Stagecoach’s bumper.
She squinted, but didn’t see anything. Then she pulled off her sunglasses.
There, in the shadows under her car, was a small black box.
“It’s a miniature HD spycam. I know the model. Fully self-contained: camera, battery, and storage card. It’s set to activate in motion-detection mode. I brought you over here to the side because it and the others are all aimed straight ahead.”
“Others?” Reese could feel her skin go even colder than she could account for in the chilly morning air.
“Press vans, all three Beasts, back of the Lead Car, front of the Halfback and Watchtower, front and back of the ambulance.”
“Of the ambulance?” She turned to look. That didn’t make much sense, nor did the press vans. There were a lot of vehicles between the Protection Detail riding in Watchtower and the press vans. “How did you find them?”
“Pure chance on the first one. After that, I had Malcolm sniff them out. Same person touched every one. And they weren’t wearing gloves, so they left behind a clear scent mark.”
Reese actually looked Jim in the eyes for the first time since this morning. And all she saw was the professional. Fine with her, that’s all she should be seeing at the moment. Besides, the professional was someone she completely respected. She looked back at the camera attached to her car.
“I can tell you one thing. They aren’t ours.”
The electronic countermeasures from Watchtower said they couldn’t pick up any signal from the spycams, concurring with Jim’s own assessment that they were set to record only, not to transmit.
That calmed everyone’s nerves down.
A thorough visual inspection of all vehicles showed that Malcolm had uncovered every one of them, which had earned him high praise from everyone except Harvey Lieber—who was still too pissed at someone having messed with his Motorcade—and Reese—who was still pissed at Jim himself, but he couldn’t take the time now to figure out why.
They’d been on the verge of pulling them, but Jim intervened.
“Look. Whoever placed these is getting set to record some event. Maybe it’s just more intel on Motorcade operations. Maybe not. I say that we leave them in place so that whoever it is doesn’t get suspicious.”
Reese was nodding, “I’d rather face an attack today than if we spook them and they do it at some unknown time in the future.” She glared at Jim as if he was the one doing the attacking.
“We just make damn sure to take down anyone who tries to recover them,” Harvey snarled with all the danger signals of an ERT—emergency response team—attack dog.
Jim hauled Harvey and Reese aside.
“We still don’t know who to trust. Now the entire Motorcade knows about the cameras.”
“Shit!” Harvey wasn’t happy.
“Not all of them,” Reese put in. “Only the drivers and assault teams. The press, senior staff, and the protection details still don’t know we found them. They’re all in with the President. Nothing’s gone out over the radio except my request for you to leave the detail and come join us.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Jim scanned the area, but the Academy had made a point of emptying out the broad parking lot prior to the Motorcade’s arrival. Beyond its broad expanse, the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies kicked up the land into rough slopes with sparse trees. A glance at the gymnasium and Jim could see a line of Delta snipers along the roofline—each studying a different section of the surrounding hills through their scopes. Nothing moving out there except maybe some deer.
He, Reese, and Harvey went down the line, verbally spreading the order that the cameras’ existence was strictly need-to-know, compartmentalized information. Also that they were to keep their eyes out for anyone who went near one.
They met up once more alongside Stagecoach.
“Record only. Video only. What use is that?” Harvey sounded even grumpier.
Jim let his gaze drift down the long line of vehicles. They were in a double line outside the south entrance to the Cadet Field House. The first half of the Motorcade was closer to the building, with Stagecoach exactly aligned with the entrance doorway. The second half of the Motorcade formed a layer of shield from the wide empty parking lot.
An attack here on the Air Force Academy grounds would be very unlikely. That meant that if it was going to happen, it was still in this mission’s future. There were four more pending sorties: Academy to Olympic Training HQ, Olympic Training to Air Force One, then, after a short flight to Buckley Air Force Base at Denver, out and return to the political fundraiser.
It would be an external attack again, otherwise there’d been no point in testing Reese’s driving in New York.
“Someone wants images of the attack.”
Reese and Harvey looked at him, but he didn’t want to be distracted.
The spycams had been placed so that they would be focused on Stagecoach and the Spares. Rear end of the Lead Car. Front of all three Beasts. Front of the two vehicles immediately behind the Beasts. Then a long gap all the way back to the press vans and then another skip to the ambulance.
“They want to record the attack and the aftermath.” Which explained the ambulance. But it didn’t explain the press corps’ two Chevy vans.
He looked back at Reese.
“Those images of the New York attack. The ones that you had that I hadn’t seen before, where did they come from?”
“Some news agency. I’d have to call Doogan to find out.”
“Need to know?” Harvey cut in before Jim could.
Reese was already shaking her head because she figured it out just as fast as they had.
“But who put them there?” Harvey was starting to get back to focusing on the problem.
Jim shrugged. �
��A traitor inside the Service working with the Press would have plenty of access or…” He thought about the layout of the Motorcade in the hangar this morning and the Press Vans pulling up to the rear of the middle row. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“This morning, when the Press Vans pulled into the Motorcade. The reports flowed out of the vans and wandered through the Motorcade to get to the steps of Air Force One for the President’s interview. Each camera is a self-contained unit. It would take less than a second a piece to slap each one in place if it was prepped with a magnetic strip.”
“The press.” By the sound of it, Harvey just might kill the whole lot of them. Jim would bet that the President wouldn’t complain. “At least we know where the cameraman is now.”
Reese was nodding. “One of the press corps. Oh shit!”
“What?”
“I saw…” she squeezed her eyes shut. “Where was I? I saw a stack of small black boxes… Just this size. On a desk.”
Her eyes shot open and she grabbed his jacket.
“The basement offices underneath the White House Briefing Room.” Reese could half see the image.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” They both ignored Harvey.
“Someone working on his camera. I only had a glimpse. I don’t know if I even turned in time to see the man’s back. Can’t even swear it was a man. But I remembered the boxes because I didn’t know what they were.” Once again she’d missed seeing a person of importance. It was like a gut punch.
“Fine. I’m losing the press vans from the Motorcade. They can scream all they want.” Harvey raised his arm to swing his wrist microphone into position, but Jim clamped his hand over Harvey’s arm before he could complete the gesture. They looked ready to come to blows.
“Never spook the enemy when you know where they are,” Reese had learned that lesson a long time ago. The most misogynistic racers, she always kept them clear in her sights so she’d know the instant they moved in to attack.
“She’s right.” Again Jim Fischer supporting her, even after dismissing her as a mere fantasy. They really needed to talk.
“Besides,” Reese agreed, “even if we remove the cameraman, they won’t stop the attack.”
Harvey glared. “Have you two been drinking the same Kool-Aid?”
Reese looked over at Jim. Their thoughts traveled the same paths so easily. Their bodies had too. How could he…
“Don’t you dare get all gooey-eyed on me, Carver,” Harvey snapped.
“I wasn’t.” She definitely wasn’t. She’d sworn to hate Jim Fischer forever, hadn’t she? Then why was she still clutching onto his jacket? She let go—so abruptly that both men noticed it of course.
“We need to just do what we do,” Jim spoke fast enough to show that he too was uneasy. “We trust Reese’s abilities to save the President.”
“No pressure, huh?”
“Not a bit for a lady like you,” and he offered one of his cheery smiles.
She punched him as hard as she could in the solar plexus.
He wasn’t the least bit ready for it. Jim gave a long, gasping wheeze, then slowly folded down onto his knees making little hee-hik sounds. Malcolm licked his face as a reward.
She turned to Harvey. “I’m not getting gooey-eyed over some guy.” And she was no man’s goddamn fantasy.
Harvey held up both hands and backed up a step, but his smile said that he knew otherwise.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Jim got his breath back and wiped the dog slobber off his face, the President’s meeting was breaking up.
Again, he barely made it into the Lead Car before the Motorcade rolled out.
Mack and Mark had thought the whole thing was hilarious. Or was it Mark and Mack? They were both classic, six-foot, athletic agents with crew-cut dark hair. And it wasn’t just that they looked and sounded alike—he was sure they were swapping names just to mess with him.
The trip to the US Olympic Training Center was almost an exact replay of the trip to the Academy in reverse. Three exits earlier they plunged off I-25 and down onto the city streets. The police had a rolling blockade set up blocks ahead, stopping all side traffic until the Motorcade whisked down East Platte Avenue going eighty miles an hour during what should have been the bumper-to-bumper lunchtime rush hour. The city was going to be a snarl for hours to come—a typical byproduct of a visit by the Presidential Motorcade.
He steered well clear of Reese, even volunteering to augment the local’s dog teams. They continued their patrols around the perimeter of the secured site while the President lunched with this year’s athletes and his mother—a former medalist and one of the senior swim coaches.
His gut still ached from where she’d caught him, but he wasn’t going to rub it and give the guys any more reason to tease him. The entire ride down had been nothing but razzing from the front seat because, of course, every person waiting with the vehicles had witnessed it. He’d seen the blow coming and managed to partially tense for it—though not nearly enough with the power Reese could deliver.
Using Malcolm as an excuse, he left the patrol and grabbed a quick lunch at the Taco Bell on the corner. He had a beef burrito and Malcolm had a tray of diced chicken with cheese—he had a huge weak spot for cheese. One of the servers even gave him a service bowl of water.
Jim was halfway through his meal when Reese walked in with several of the other drivers. It was hard to hide in the crowd when Malcolm picked up her scent and trotted across the restaurant to greet her. Generally, Malcolm was so well behaved that there was no point keeping a leash on him, but he’d grown a definite weak spot where Reese Carver was concerned.
So had Jim.
Reese squatted down to greet Malcolm with a good rub, then looked up at him. After a moment, he could see her sigh deeply before waving Malcolm to return to him.
A minute later, with her plastic tray bearing triple beef tacos, she slid in across from him. He hadn’t expected her to join hi—
“Hey, asshole, you okay?”
Or perhaps he did. “Needed to clear all this fresh country air out of my lungs anyway, I suppose.” It earned him a flicker of a smile.
“Not apologizing.”
“Figured,” he bit into his burrito and ignored Malcolm’s pleading eyes. He’d long since finished his chicken and cheese. “Mind telling me what I did?”
“You can’t be that stupid.” She still wore her sunglasses against the bright Colorado sunlight that poured in through the windows. It made it hard to read what she was thinking.
“Apparently I’m twenty-four cents short of a quarter. Mind explaining? Simple words so a dumb Okie like me can understand?” Not many people made him feel slow, but Reese always raced so far ahead that he was only now beginning to get up to match her speed.
She eyed him for at least half a taco from behind those dark lenses.
He was beginning to wonder if she’d ever speak again when she finally did.
“You called me ‘any man’s fantasy’.”
“No, I called you a goddamn fantasy.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“You sure are mine.”
“Look,” she aimed the bit-off end of her second taco at his face like a weapon. “I’m not some fantasy poster on a stupid-ass garage calendar.”
“Shit! Is that what you thought I meant?” He could see how that might piss her off.
“Isn’t it?” Reese was clearly aiming for scoff, but fouled that ball off into still-seething anger.
“Reese. I never even dreamed of being with a woman like you.”
She opened her mouth to protest.
“And no, I’m not talking about your looks—which are incredible—or your body—which is awesome. I’m talking about you. I drove for a living from the moment I got my license to the day I got Malcolm. I know enough to see what you can do. What you did putting the Beast through its paces out at James J. Rowley Training Center. What you did to save the
First Lady. No matter what you say, that isn’t ‘I just drive.’ It was a goddamn miracle to watch. I know what that takes to do. I sure as hell couldn’t have pulled it off. Ralph McKenna couldn’t. You stunned him speechless out at RTC. Tell me what part of that doesn’t fit fantasy woman.”
“The part that makes me a fantasy girl,” but this time she didn’t make it an accusation. This time there was some humor and maybe a bit of surprise.
“Well, shit, woman,” he leaned back and did his best to match her suddenly nonchalant tone. “Gonna have to get used to it if you’re gonna hang around this ol’ boy.”
They ate in what he hoped was companionable silence until “Ten minutes!” squawked over their radios. They drained their sodas and hustled out the door as fast as the snarl of rushing agents allowed.
Reese had a lot to think about after they checked over the vehicles once more and she locked and strapped herself in.
Maybe the way Jim had actually meant it, being a fantasy woman didn’t sound all bad.
Though she still wrestled with being more than a ‘just a driver.’ Granted, she wouldn’t be sitting in this seat if that’s all she was. But when she looked out the sideview mirrors and saw the rest of the vehicles arrayed around her, she felt very small.
When the President climbed aboard and called out his friendly greeting, she managed to respond. Secretary Matthews and Franks Adams followed him in, then Harvey closed the heavy door, which weighed as much as the door on a Boeing 757—over three hundred pounds—and hustled around to his own door.
Out the windshield, she saw Jim scramble into the back of the Lead Car. He turned around to smile at her and wave as Harvey buckled himself in.
“That boy is gone on you, Carver.”
“Yes, sir.” There was no denying it. And after his amazing speech, in a Taco Bell of all bizarre places, she was starting to feel a little gone on him.
A little gone on him?
Not even close. She finally understood that she’d crossed that line a long time ago. He saw her in ways that she certainly didn’t see herself. As if she was somehow amazing. And he was forcing her, inch by grudging inch, to see those parts of herself.
On Your Mark Page 15
