She had to pass through DC on her way back to Vermont—her parent’s place. Burlington would work for, honestly, not very long at all, but she lacked anywhere else to go after a decade of service. So, she’d stopped off in DC to see what was up with that job flyer. Five interviews and three months to complete a standard six-month training course later—which was mostly a cakewalk after fighting with the US Rangers—she was on-board and this chill January day was her first chance with a dog. First chance to prove that she still had it. First chance to prove that she hadn’t made a mistake in deciding that she’d seen enough bloodshed and war zones for one lifetime and leaving the Army.
The Start Here sign made it obvious where to begin, but she didn’t dare hesitate to take in her surroundings past a quick glimpse. Jurgen’s score would count a great deal toward where she and Thor were assigned in the future. Mostly likely on some field prep team, clearing the way for presidential visits.
As usual, hindsight informed her that harassing the lieutenant hadn’t been an optimal strategy. A hindsight that had served her equally poorly with regular Army commanders before she’d finally hooked up with the Rangers—kowtowing to officers had never been one of her strengths.
Thankfully, the Special Operations Forces hadn’t given a damn about anything except performance and that she could always deliver, since the day she’d been named the team captain for both soccer and volleyball. She was never popular, but both teams had made all-state her last two years in school.
The canine training course at James J. Rowley was a two-acre lot. A hard-packed path of tramped-down dirt led through the brown grass. It followed a predictable pattern from the gate to a junker car, over to tool shed, then a truck, and so on into a compressed version of an intersection in a small town. Beyond it ran an urban street of gray clapboard two- and three-story buildings and an eight-story office tower, all without windows. Clearly a playground for Secret Service training teams.
Her target was the town, so she blocked the city street out of her mind. Focus on the problem: two roads, twenty storefronts, six houses, vehicles, pedestrians.
It might look normal…normalish with its missing windows and no movement. It would be anything but. Stocked with fake IEDs, a bombmaker’s stash, suicide cars, weapons caches, and dozens of other traps, all waiting for her and Thor to find. He had to be sensitive to hundreds of scents and it was her job to guide him so that he didn’t miss the opportunity to find and evaluate each one.
There would be easy scents, from fertilizer and diesel fuel used so destructively in the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, to almost as obvious TNT to the very difficult to detect C-4 plastic explosive.
Mannequins on the street carried grocery bags and briefcases. Some held fresh meat, a powerful smell demanding any dog’s attention, but would count as a false lead if they went for it. On the job, an explosives detection dog wasn’t supposed to care about anything except explosives. Other mannequins were wrapped in suicide vests loaded with Semtex or wearing knapsacks filled with package bombs made from Russian PVV-5A.
She spotted Jurgen stepping into a glassed-in observer turret atop the corner drugstore. Someone else was already there and watching.
She looked down once more at the ridiculous little dog and could only hope for the best.
“Thor?”
He looked up at her.
She pointed to the left, away from the beaten path.
“Such!” Find.
Thor sniffed left, then right. Then he headed forward quickly in the direction she pointed.
Clive Andrews sat in the second-story window at the corner of Main and First, the only two streets in town. Downstairs was a drugstore all rigged to explode, except there were no triggers and there was barely enough explosive to blow up a candy box.
Not that he’d know, but that’s what Lieutenant Jurgen had promised him.
It didn’t really matter if it was rigged to blow for real, because when Miss Watson—never Ms. or Mrs.—asked for a “favor,” you did it. At least he did. Actually, he had yet to meet anyone else who knew her. Not that he’d asked around. She wasn’t the sort of person one talked about with strangers, or even close friends. He’d bet even if they did, it would be in whispers. That’s just what she was like.
So he’d traveled across town from the White House and into Maryland on a cold winter’s morning, barely past a sunrise that did nothing to warm the day. Now he sat in an unheated glass icebox and watched a new officer run a test course he didn’t begin to understand. Lieutenant Jurgen settled in beside him at a console with feeds from a dozen cameras and banks of switches.
While waiting, Clive had been fooling around with a sketch on a small pad of paper. The next State Dinner was in seven days. President Zachary Taylor had invited the leaders of Vietnam, Japan, and the Philippines to the White House for discussions about some Chinese islands. Or something like that, Clive hadn’t really been paying attention to the details past the attendee list.
Instead, he was contemplating the dessert for such a dinner that would surprise, perhaps delight, as well as being an icebreaker for future discussions. Being the chocolatier for the White House was the most exciting job he’d ever had. Every challenge was fresh and new, like the first strawberry of each year.
This one would be elegant. January was a little early, it would be better if it was spring, but that wasn’t crucial. A large half-egg shape of paper-thin white chocolate filled with a mousse—white chocolate? No, nor a dark chocolate. Instead, a milk chocolate mousse but rich with flavor, perhaps bourbon. Then mold the dark chocolate to top it with a filigree bird, wings spread in half flight, ready to soar upward. A crane perhaps? He made a note to check with the protocol office to make sure that he wouldn’t be offending some leader without knowing it.
“Never underestimate the power of a good dessert,” he mumbled one of Jacques Torres’ favorite admonitions. This was going to work very nicely.
“What’s that?” Jurgen grunted out without looking up.
“Just talking to myself.”
Which earned him a dismissive grunt, as if he was unworthy of the agent’s attention. It wouldn’t surprise him. Clive was not trained like a Secret Service officer. His skills lay in his palate and his fingers for shaping the very finest chocolate work. He knew his big frame and good looks said easy-going and, while his size wasn’t quite to oaf, people always assumed he was just a big and clumsy guy.
Clive often felt defensive about being a chocolatier when he was so dismissed out of hand. He had spent years learning his skills. And to be invited to join the White House kitchen…well, he couldn’t think of a higher accolade. The fact that his father would agree with Jurgen didn’t help matters. However, Lieutenant Jurgen didn’t look like the sort of man to risk upsetting.
His own father had been a quiet, drunken merchant marine who rarely spoke when he was ashore—except for grumblings about his only child’s lame excuse for a choice of profession. The one blessing of having Nic Andrews as a father was how much of Clive’s life the man had spent at sea. In between, Clive and his mother had lived together in Redwood City very quietly and with some small degree of content. Their apartment had a view of the brilliant colors of the Cargill Salt Flats of San Francisco Bay. He often used their colors in his chocolates.
“They’re starting.” It was clear by his tone that Jurgen could break Clive over his knee like a piece of sugar work despite Clive’s size and would be glad to demonstrate at the least provocation.
“Oh, thanks,” seemed to be an acceptable response.
A “you’re welcome” grunt sounded softly.
Miss Watson had told him to watch, so he closed his notepad and tucked it in his shirt pocket.
“Any suggestions on what I’m looking for?” Miss Watson had not been clear on that point. He looked down at the new officer and the small dog entering the far end of the course. He picked up a pair of binoculars from the window ledge but the dog was still small, barely reaching the o
fficer’s knees.
He scanned upward.
A woman. For some reason he hadn’t expected that. Of course with the silly little dog, that somehow fit. However, officer or not, the woman offered a great deal to be looking at. Five-seven or eight. Medium chocolate brunette, about a fifty percent cocoa, with a nicely tempered shine like a fine ganache. It fell in a natural flow down to her shoulders, slightly ragged rather than in some DC socialite perfect coif. A thin face without being gaunt. Perhaps intense would be a better word.
Her jacket hid her shape, but she wore no hat or gloves despite the cold. Tan khakis hinted at nice legs. Army boots declared definitely not DC socialite.
“Well, for one thing, she’s not following the damned course,” Jurgen sounded puzzled.
“Is that a bad thing?” Clive could see the worn track and that they definitely weren’t on it.
Jurgen made a sound that was neither yes or no.
“What’s her name?”
“Linda with Thor,” as if it was a single name.
Clive couldn’t stop the laugh. “That scruffy little mutt is named Thor?”
Jurgen’s grin would look appropriately nasty to be carved into the flesh of a Halloween pumpkin.
The woman had transformed once she started the course. Pretty and intent had transformed to focused to the point of lethal. She moved with all the efficiency of a fine-honed knife blade. Maybe she was Thor and the dog was Linda.
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About the Author
M.L. Buchman started the first of, what is now over 50 novels and as many short stories, while flying from South Korea to ride his bicycle across the Australian Outback. Part of a solo around the world trip that ultimately launched his writing career.
All three of his military romantic suspense series—The Night Stalkers, Firehawks, and Delta Force—have had a title named “Top 10 Romance of the Year” by the American Library Association’s Booklist. NPR and Barnes & Noble have named other titles “Top 5 Romance of the Year.” In 2016 he was a finalist for Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA award. He also writes: contemporary romance, thrillers, and fantasy.
Past lives include: years as a project manager, rebuilding and single-handing a fifty-foot sailboat, both flying and jumping out of airplanes, and he has designed and built two houses. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife and is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing and receive a free starter e-library by subscribing to his newsletter at: www.mlbuchman.com
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Copyright 2018 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Published by Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
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Cover images:
Brown Old Paper © gabyfotoart
French bulldog wearing police harness © lifeonwhite
Children with Dog in Park © jeancliclac
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Couple Enjoying Camping Holiday © monkeybusiness
Green Grass Backgroud © halina_photo
Declaration of Independence on White House building © izanbar
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On Your Mark Page 18
