Main Man wanted to talk? Then Frank would. Wanted to play Scrabble? He’d play Scrabble, and lose horribly no matter how hard he tried. It was the President’s secret vice, he loved strategy, he played online in competitions and often finished in the money at tournaments. He was always harassing Frank about finding some way for him to compete in the National Scrabble Championship, but you had to show up in person for that.
Frank had almost crapped his pants laughing when Beale had told him the origin of his preferred anonymous player identity, Sneaker Boy. Had to do with Beale chucking the President, back when he was much younger, into the Reflecting Pool in D.C. while wearing brand new sneakers. He’d have paid good money to see that.
And now the President wanted to talk.
Frank let his guard down, as much as he ever did when riding with the Man. Locked inside the Beast with the President, security was someone else’s issue. Mostly. There was only so long that you could stay on alert, so he relaxed as much as he could when he wasn’t front and center.
“Well, yeah. She showed me this whole weird world behind the magic curtain, training gym, high-rise offices, high-tech communication war rooms that could span the globe. Then we sat right over there.” He pointed out the right-hand window across to where a small park wrapped around the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
He took a cold bottle of water from the small cooler and knocked it back. July first and it was high-nineties in the city. What was August going to be like? At least it hadn’t stunk of garbage. When he’d met Beat it had been so damn hot that the city didn’t need a garbage strike in order to reek of it.
Chapter 5
Frank: 1988
They filmed Moonstruck here last year.” Beatrice told him as they sat side by side on the park bench and looked out at the East River and Manhattan shimmering in the nighttime heat steaming off the water’s surface. Once again in their street clothes, he couldn’t help remembering her in her workout gear. Her chest gave the big, white U.S.S.S. logo a whole new meaning. No vest hiding curves that really needed to be seen and appreciated. And legs, damn but the woman had amazingly serious legs.
“Moonstruck.” Frank had no idea what she was talking about. He just knew his chin still hurt like hell, it was two a.m., and he was sweating like a pig because the temperature hadn’t broken in almost two weeks. And he knew that Beatrice was limping bad on the right and trying not to show it. Damn but she was tough. No whining at all though they were both sore. “What’s that?”
“Boy, we’ve got to do something about your movie education. It is seriously lacking.”
Movie? He looked around the dock. It didn’t look like much. It stuck out a little ways into the East River, Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge made for an amazing skyline, from the Twin Towers right up to Roosevelt Island. Here there was just water, warped old wood on the dock, and a couple of steel benches so clean that tourists must come here. Sure weren’t no benches this clean in his neighborhood. To the south was a small park. To the north, a fancy restaurant all closed and dark inside, though the perimeter lights were on so it would be hard to sneak around. He spotted a couple of security cameras up high, but they didn’t have cables to them. Fakes. Dumb fakes. He knew some boys into smash-and-grab, maybe he should tip them off.
“So what movies did you see?”
What was it with this woman and movies? “Platoon kicked ass.”
“Okay, it did. I’ll give you that one.”
“Uh, Stallone was good.”
“Rambo III. Like two weren’t enough. Sequels are a waste of celluloid. We really gotta do something about this. You’re a walking disaster.”
“What? First, you’re dissing my man Sly. And now you’re gonna make another weak-ass attempt to kick my ass or something?”
That got a smile out of her. He seriously liked that smile. And he’d bet if he tried to do anything about trying to kiss it, he’d end up with a faceful of dock splinters.
“That will be up to you.”
Whether or not he got to kiss her? No. He shook his head. Whether or not she tried to kick his ass.
Beatrice looked out over the water. Tide was coming in so it smelled of salt and the Atlantic rather than old diesel fuel and other crap that floated down the river when the tide was running.
“I think you’ve got what it takes. The United States Secret Service is not for the weak of heart. We’ve got two mandates. Money laundering, counterfeiting, and fraud is the first. Then there’s head-of-state protection. All dangerous as can be. That’s if they let you in. First they’ll do so much investigating on you that an alien crawling out of your chest would be a relief. They’ll know so much about you that you won’t know what hit you.”
While he had a weak spot for Sigourney in too little clothes packing a serious damn gun, the thought of what an investigation would dig up about him sent a chill up his back. He’d just twice committed grand theft auto by carjacking. That wouldn’t go down good at all if they found out.
“I, uh, don’t think that’s gonna be happening.”
“I know I wasn’t your first carjack. You were too sure of yourself.”
“Until you stuck that damn gun in my face.”
“Until I stuck my gun in your face. But what you’ve got going for you is rarer than you think. It’s also a way out of your present mess. I’ve been an agent for a year and it’s awesome. I learned enough to stop you.”
Frank considered that while a tugboat worked its way against the tide, a long barge of gravel piled in tall mounds trailing far behind. She had stopped him, stopped him cold. If there was ever a good advertisement for what she was sellin’, she was it. The woman looked and smelled amazing, and had almost beat his ass on the wrestling mat. He sure wasn’t going to think about how good she’d felt in his arms even as she’d planted a knee in his gut and he’d had to partly sprain her ankle to get her off him.
“So why did you join?”
“I’m going to be on the Presidential Protection Detail some day.”
“Why there?” He tried to picture that. Riding with the Main Man. Sure, and catching a bullet so that he didn’t. Frank had seen enough gunshot wounds and deaths to last him a hundred times his twenty years. Wouldn’t find him steppin’ in front of no bullets on purpose.
“Because the PPD are the very best on the planet.”
“And you’re just that damn good.”
“Damn straight.”
He gave her a knowing smirk. But the thing was, he believed her.
Chapter 6
Frank: Now
Then she left it up to me whether or not I showed up the next day to start filling out the paperwork.”
The President smiled. “But you’re the one heading up my Protection Detail.”
“Yeah,” Frank returned the smile. He’d gotten the assignment when Peter Matthews announced he was running. They didn’t start guarding the candidates that soon, but they started studying and planning and he’d pulled the duty detail on that. By the time the D.C. native became a Presidential contender, Frank was on him. When he was elected, President-elect Matthews had asked to have him stay on.
“Yeah, heading your detail... Kinda pisses her off.” He grinned. When they were alone, he knew the casual helped the President relax, as if he were with a friend rather than his bodyguard. But now they were rolling up the semi-circular drive in front of the main building of the U.N. He threw the mental switch… back into agent mode.
A voice in his ear reminded him, “Entering Turtle Bay.” Turtle Bay, which probably hadn’t seen a turtle since it was named back in the 17th century, was the Manhattan neighborhood that included the United Nations Headquarters and often referred to just the U.N. section of it.
“You’re a brave man, Frank Adams.” The President didn’t even glance out at the phalanx of agents ensuring the front entrance was secure for the
ir arrival. “I don’t think that Agent Beatrice Ann Belfour is someone I’d want to ‘piss off’ even a little bit.”
“Well, I’ll admit, she has her more dangerous moments. The woman knows no fear.”
“Nor do you,” the President checked his tie and jacket. Today it was a sharp gray with a garish red-and-white Washington Nationals tie. He was known for his ties and his love of the D.C. baseball team. Frank had accompanied him to more than one game and watched him eat ballpark hotdogs until any normal man would be sick. It always struck him as funny that the Harvard and Oxford graduate, leader of the country, always so calm and collected, could scream and rant about bad calls against his home team.
“You wear that tie around New York, Mr. President, there’s nothing I can do to protect you from a Yankees fan. Just so you know.”
“Good thing we aren’t technically in New York then.”
The U.N. grounds were extraterritorial, subject only to the laws of the U.N., rather than the U.S. and the city of New York. They’d just left the country, right in the middle of Manhattan, which had always cracked him up.
Frank nodded for him when the President had the gray suit straightened-around just right, like a human mirror.
“I’ve never seen you show a moment of fear,” the President grabbed his briefcase and glanced around to make sure he’d left no papers behind.
“Well, sir, you didn’t see the color of my pants after we climbed off Major Emily Beale’s Black Hawk helicopter on that flight. Fear may only be a seven-point word, but I sure felt it that day.”
A last laugh for the President before he entered the fray of international politics.
A voice in his ear called the, “All clear.” Frank could see the agent outside ready to open the Beast’s door, over a hundred pounds of armor and bullet-proof glass.
“You ready, sir?”
“Ready for an entire day and evening of arguing with China and Russia over the latest North Korean fiasco, and trying to calm down Myanmar about the Thai raids into their poppy fields, and… Sure. Can’t wait.”
“Do it.” Frank announced into the wrist microphone of his radio.
The agent standing beside the car swung open the door.
Chapter 7
Frank: 1988
The car door caught Frank sharply on the knees and he tumbled back. It was a ratty 1967 Ford Fairlane, peeling white paint, Alabama plate number four-three-seven-five-something, hard to see in the moonlit semi-darkness.
It hadn’t looked like any trouble. Just a driver. Another Secret Service trainee, Jake Hellman, had him covered.
Frank had gone to the back door of the beater car and someone lying on the floor had kicked the door open, hard, just as he’d looked in. He’d fallen on his ass just like Hale at the carjacking. He fell on the red Georgia dirt of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.
Then his shins stung like hell as the lower edge of the door scraped across them.
He shot out a palm strike and rammed it full force against the car door before its edge could scrape off his kneecaps. That at least stopped the excruciating progress of the swinging steel along his shins. With his other hand he managed to shove off the ground, into a roll, and slam his shoulder against the door, snapping it shut.
Whoever was playing the perpetrator in the car hadn’t expected that. A woman’s squeak sounded through the front window that the driver had rolled down when Frank and Jake stopped the Fairlane for inspection.
Agent Beatrice Ann Belfour. Had to be.
Hadn’t seen her in weeks, different agents rotated through the FLETC training scenarios. But she was always causing him pain when she was down here.
He yanked out his gun and rolled up to kneel on the hard-packed, deeply rutted earth. That was a big, damn mistake, his shins screamed.
No live ammo in the gun, he couldn’t shoot out the window.
Instead, he rapped the glass sharply with the butt of his gun, right where he’d glued on a bit of shattered spark-plug ceramic.
The safety glass practically dissolved, now instead of hard glass, the ceramic had triggered the safety glass into shattering. It was now a loose, wavering sheet, opaque with tiny crack lines and barely holding together. Old car-thief trick.
He shifted to his feet, swallowing the hiss of pain, and slapped the friable glass with his elbow.
The window disappeared in a shower of tiny pieces.
Even as he aimed his weapon into the car, Beatrice kicked the door again.
This time he had his hip against it and all her violent kick did was force her to slide the other way and smack her head on the far door. He couldn’t see her clearly in the shadows, but there was no question in his mind.
“You, Agent Belfour, are under arrest for bloodying an agent of the United States Secret Service.” He could feel the hot blood trickling down his shins. The long scrapes were already stinging with the sharp salt he’d been sweating from every pore since the moment he’d landed in Georgia three months before.
In answer she popped open the far door she’d just banged her head on and tumbled out the other side of the car and into the dark.
He dove over the trunk and managed to snag her by the ankle before she could sprint into the night. She was clearly the target of interest, the driver probably just a driver. And not his concern at the moment. There were big-picture moments, and stay-focused moments. Stopping Beatrice was definitely in the second category.
Already moving forward fast, his grip around her ankle and her forward momentum slammed her to the ground.
“Ow! Crap! That hurt.”
“Welcome to my world, Beat—” That’s when she flipped around to get him in a headlock between her knees.
It took three tries, but he managed to find the pressure point on her thigh that had her writhing away before she’d quite choked all the air out of him.
He managed to stand and lean forward to grab her just as she shot to her feet to run again.
The top of her head and his nose intersected.
It was mostly luck that he snagged an arm around her waist and dragged her to the ground with him.
“Damn it!” He groaned and wondered if she’d broken his nose. “Why you got a need to beat on me so goddamn hard?”
She struggled to get free.
He just kept an arm clamped around her waist, let her struggle all she wanted. He’d dropped his weapon when she’d rammed her head into his face, not a good thing for his training score, but when he’d fallen with her, he landed on the gun, a hard lump under his butt causing yet more pain he could blame on her. At least while he was sitting on it, she couldn’t steal it.
With his other hand he tested his nose. He managed not to scream in pain, so he figured it wasn’t broken. Not even bloody. Just hurting like hell.
“That’s your new name,” he told the woman who aimed an elbow at the charley-horse point on his thigh, the same move he’d just used on her to get free of the headlock.
She missed, thank God. Woman had sharp elbows he knew from experience.
“Agent Beat Belfour.”
Finally realizing that he had her and her only way out would be to shoot him, she relaxed.
Once again he was captivated by the feel and smell of this woman. So much strength and power, but so soft and warm in his arms.
He’d thought of little else since the last time she’d beat the crap out of him up close and personal like this.
With a twist of his arm, he hauled her into his lap and kissed her.
For a long perfect moment, she leaned into the kiss. Hard and strong, just like the rest of her, and soft and warm as well. What was a heady scent on her skin, was a mule kick of flavor on his tongue.
He’d been wrong before. His nightly imagination, for those few moments he’d been awake before crashing into hammered-down sleep each n
ight, had remembered her smelling of midnight and roses. True, her lips tasted of that, but beyond that her mouth was pure fire, lit up inside him so hot he burned.
Then she got him.
Finally landed that right hook square into his solar plexus. Then Beat Belfour was gone into the night.
Chapter 8
Frank: Now
Gone! What the hell do you mean she’s gone?”
“Keep your voice down.” Hank Henson had pulled him aside the moment that the President had entered his first conference with the U.N. Secretary-General. They stood fifteen feet from the Sec-Gen’s door, thirty-eight stories up in the Secretariat Tower.
“We don’t know much yet. You know where she was stationed?”
“Sure,” and Frank felt sick. Beat had pulled escort duty on the ambassador to Senegal right at the westernmost bulge of Africa. The U.S. ambassador had been receiving death threats and the Secret Service had sent her to investigate the degree of danger. She was an expert on both West Africa and personal security, so the Secret Service had loaned her to the Office of Foreign Missions for a couple of weeks. That in itself was pretty normal, but—
“Agent Belfour…” Henson kept his hands up as if to fend off Frank’s anger. Not a bad idea. Right at this moment Frank could understand the desire to kill the messenger.
“… was accompanying Ambassador Sam Green and three assistants, left Dakar yesterday, July first, at seven a.m. local time. They were headed to a series of meetings at Bissau in Guinea-Bissau. There’s no ambassador there because we have no permanent diplomatic mission there.”
“Because the place is such a goddamn hellhole they can’t keep a government in place.”
“Granted.” Hank rolled right on with his whispered report that several of the closer secretaries were trying desperately to overhear. “It’s only a one-hour flight. The locally-staffed liaison office called at five p.m. to ask if they’d left Dakar yet, they were eight hours overdue at that time. Then the locals went home because it was the end of the work day. When the Senegalese operator tried to confirm with Guinea-Bissau this morning, July second, they couldn’t get a response at all, so they finally reported them late. The G-B liaison office is still not answering.”
Frank's Independence Day Page 3
