by Radclyffe
“Morning, all,” Evyn said, carrying her coffee to a corner desk.
Fran and Kennedy mumbled hellos. The other agents who weren’t listening to audio feeds via headsets waved.
Oakes nodded absently. Someone at Homeland was working early. The timestamp on the forwarded message from Homeland read 4:48 a.m. The report would likely come in from other sources also. The tag Domestic Insurrectionist Org automatically routed such items to dozens of counterterrorism agencies as well as to analysts who’d enter keywords into the intelligence databases for cross-referencing the information.
A local law enforcement counterterrorism unit—at least that’s what she supposed High Profile Crimes Unit referred to—had reported a suspicious grouping of movements for individuals deemed low-level threats in the watch list database. The location changes seemed insignificant taken one by one, individuals relocating from a smattering of states all over the eastern seaboard over the last six months, and could easily be overlooked. The pattern was so subtle, even the analytic algorithms used to flag suspicious occurrences hadn’t picked it up yet. A map had been included with the report.
“Look at that,” Oakes murmured.
“What?” Evyn said.
Oakes motioned her over. “Take a look at this field report from the locals in Philadelphia.”
Coffee in hand, Evyn leaned over Oakes’s right shoulder and peered at the screen.
A series of red dots—eight of them—surrounded one central point in an arc. Lines had been drawn, all converging on the same city. Philadelphia.
“Huh,” she said. “Looks like an umbrella, doesn’t it.”
“Yeah, and according to the geoanalysis, each of those locations is within a sixty to seventy-five-minute drive of the city.”
“All identified threat targets?”
“Not all of them are in the database, but whoever did this”—she scanned down to the bottom of the report—“somebody by the name of Sloan, had access and clearance to run known associates, families, and backgrounds. There are enough connections to make a convincing pattern. She ought to be working for us somewhere. She’s sharp.”
“Let me check something.” Evyn returned to her computer, and a few minutes later announced, “Well, that explains it.”
“What?” Oakes looked up from running the searches on the names she’d set to alert for common previous addresses, work histories, family connections, criminal records, civil cases, known associates, memberships in activist organizations—anything and everything that might pinpoint connections to terrorist or seditious groups.
“This Sloan—it’s a JT Sloan, right?”
“Yeah,” Oakes said.
“From what I can get from the Philadelphia Police Department records, she used to be one of ours.”
“Secret Service?”
“No, Justice, cyber division.”
Oakes frowned. “And now she’s local law in Philadelphia? That’s some change. Retirement gig?”
“Not according to what I can find—she’s only midthirties and most of her Justice records are redacted. Why she left is a mystery, but this HPCU she’s part of now—High Profile Crimes Unit—isn’t your normal bunch of LEOs. This group, as near as I can tell, has broken some major cases—internet porn, human trafficking, weapons—and Sloan was a big part of it.”
“Fran is the lead advance with the Philadelphia PD, and she didn’t mention this division in her first contact report,” Oakes said. “I would have remembered if she had, and Fran’s obsessive about details. You think they’re keeping this group under wraps for some reason?”
Evyn shrugged. “Could be.”
“I’ll inform Turner,” Oakes said, “but it looks like we’re going to need some up close and personal time with them.”
“Road trip,” Evyn said. “You’ll need company.”
“I’ll see if I can think of someone to drag along.” Oakes glanced around. Sometime in the last few minutes, Fran, Kennedy, and the agents on the day shift had disappeared. “Crap. We need to get going or we’ll be late for the push.”
Tom Turner was a stickler for punctuality. If you weren’t actively engaged standing post protecting POTUS at shift change, you were expected to attend the debriefing.
“We’re good,” Evyn said as they hurried down the hall.
Oakes slid into a seat at the long conference table a minute before seven, and thirty seconds later Tom Turner walked in. The Special Agent in Charge of the PPD was in his early forties, trim as a twenty-year-old, with dark skin and eyes and a perpetually serious expression. He’d been SAIC for all of Powell’s term and part of the previous president’s and had the confidence of every agent working shift.
He sat at his customary place at the head of the table, flipped open his iPad, and said, “Morning, everyone. Let’s start with today’s itinerary.”
“You mean we actually have one?” someone muttered, and everyone laughed.
Powell’s staffers were notorious for late delivery of the president’s itinerary or off-the-record jaunts that put the working shift at a disadvantage when it came to providing his protection. Even a trip to the reflecting pool so he could jog required a motorcade, clearance of the route by the local motorcycle police, and organizing the press and medical staff. Oakes tried hard not to think about what a nightmare Philadelphia was going be if the itinerary she still did not have took much longer in coming.
But then, that’s what she got paid for. To make it work—no matter the cost.
Rock Creek Park
Washington, DC
6:15 a.m.
Cam tapped the Bluetooth receiver to accept the incoming call and dodged a brunette in tights and a cropped pale pink tank jogging with a baby stroller. A black Lab loped beside the woman with the characteristic fumble-pawed gait of an exuberant puppy. The pup veered left and bounded after Cam, intent on making friends.
“Roberts,” Cam answered as the brunette yelled, “Hamlet! Get back here.”
The Lab galloped along beside Cam for a few more steps, teeth bared in a joyous grin, before dropping back to rejoin his family.
“Good morning, Commander.” Light laughter infused the familiar lilting soprano.
“Good morning, Isabel.” Cam turned down a path toward the duck pond. Cam’s assistant deputy was a morning person, like her, which was just one of the many reasons she valued Isabel Cortez. In addition to her unceasing energy, she was astute, a good manager, and a magician when it came to handling the bureaucratic quagmire of lobbyists, politicians, and competing agencies on the Hill. Her trust in Isabel to stand in for her as Advisor to the President on Counterterrorism and Homeland Security was the main reason Cam even considered a vacation six weeks before the national convention. That and knowing Blair needed it. Blair would never admit it, but the trauma of the attack during the campaign tour and the daily grind of being the de facto First Lady, with all the accompanying public appearances, interviews, and fund-raisers, was wearing her down. Andrew knew it, too, and had gently insisted. Cam probably needed the break just as much as Blair—she just had more trouble recognizing what she needed. All except for Blair—her need for Blair was a constant hunger.
“Anything of note this morning?” Cam asked as a mating pair of ducks flew up from the water’s edge as she passed.
“No red flags in the overnight reports,” Isabel said briskly. Isabel must have gotten in extra early to have reviewed the dailies from the FBI, CIA, and Homeland agencies already. Usually Cam covered that as soon as she reached her office. “Are you running?” Isabel asked.
“Why, do I sound short of breath?” Cam checked her heart rate as she sprinted up an incline. Top cardio range. Perfect.
Isabel laughed. “No, you sound suspiciously relaxed.”
“Just an easy jog this morning.”
“I’m sending over a report for you to take a look at that came out of Philadelphia last night,” Isabel said. “Not enough to tip a flag, but I thought considering the location, you’d
want to see it.”
Cam’s antennae shot up at the mention of the city. “You’re right, as usual. Something to worry about?”
“On the surface,” Isabel said, “no. An interesting be aware report from the locals about increased movement from low-level targets on the watch list.”
“Who’s the local source? PPD antiterrorism?”
“Different division, it looks like—a High Profile Crimes Unit.”
“All right, thanks. Make sure the advance team leader gets it too.”
“Done.”
“Are you sure I shouldn’t just stay in Hawaii?” Cam cut left around a dog walker with half a dozen miniatures of various high-priced breeds spread out around him like a furry, yapping fan.
“Go enjoy your vacation, Commander.”
Cam smiled, thinking about exactly how she planned to start. She could scan the report from Isabel after she delivered the coffee and her promise to her wife. “Thanks, I will.”
“And turn off your damn phone.”
“Done.” Cam disconnected and headed back.
The bakery tucked into a side street around the corner from their building already had a short line when she arrived. The baristas knew her, and when she stepped up to the counter, her coffees were ready. She added a couple of croissants and, ten minutes later, let herself into the apartment. She carried her offerings through to the bedroom, planning exactly how she’d wake Blair. Quick sex, coffee, more sex, then croissants.
The bed was empty and the shower running in the adjoining bath. Okay, change of plans. She was nothing if not flexible—at least in some areas. She stripped off her clothes, tossed them in the laundry basket on the way past the walk-in closet, and grabbed the bakery bag off the dresser.
“Coffee out here,” she said as she set the tray on the bathroom counter.
Blair opened the shower door. “Something better in here.”
Cam climbed in, snaked her arms around Blair’s waist, and kissed her. “I thought you were sleeping in.”
“I was timing you,” Blair said. “You know how much I like to share the shower.”
“I seem to recall that.” Cam turned Blair until Blair’s back was against the shower wall. Leaning in to her, she traced the curves and slopes of her warm, water-slicked body. She never tired of touching her, never got over the wonder of her. She cupped a breast and lifted it to her mouth. Blair’s fingers speared through her hair, holding her there, her deep-throated murmur signaling her pleasure. Cam’s lower belly clenched at the feel of Blair’s nipple hardening against her lips.
“This will be quick if you keep that up,” Blair whispered through the rainfall of warm water. Blair slipped a thigh between Cam’s legs and dug her fingers into Cam’s hips, dragging her closer, pressing into her center.
Cam groaned softly, her senses in chaos. She wanted to hurry, wanted to take forever. Wanted all of Blair at once and longed to savor every tiny intake of breath, every faint gasp of pleasure, every tremor through the sleek taut muscles. When she knelt, her arms around Blair’s hips to support her, she had a fleeting thought of just how perfect the position. Blair was a miracle in every way—more than she’d ever dared dream.
“I love you,” Cam murmured as she took her.
Blair arched at the first touch of Cam’s mouth, held her breath for an instant, caught on the tight wire between unbearable pleasure and the almost painful need for release. Her skin pebbled as if chilled, but she was hot, so hot, so close. She’d quickened with anticipation waiting for Cam to come home, imagining her touch, but the reality was so much more. So sharp, a knife slash of pleasure cutting to the heart of her.
“Oh God,” Blair gasped.
One hand on Cam’s shoulder, the other on the back of her head, she pressed close as the pressure built, the breath in her chest stilling, her heart thundering, until the pleasure peaked and she burst.
Shuddering, she finally managed a breath. Her head was still swimming, blood thundering through her pounding heart. “Did you say coffee?”
Laughing, Cam rose and pulled her close. “I did. And croissants.”
Blair kissed her and rested her cheek on Cam’s shoulder. “Chocolate?”
“Spinach.”
Blair pushed her away. “I hate you.”
Cam kissed her throat, drawing a lazy line down Blair’s middle. “No, you don’t. And it’s chocolate.”
Blair traced the curve of Cam’s hip with her thumb, followed the tight line of her thigh to the delta at the base of her lean belly. Cam shook when Blair slipped her fingers between her legs. Oh yes—that’s what she wanted. The fragile moments Cam gave only to her. “Thanks for the coffee, baby.”
Cam pressed an arm against the wall and, head thrown back, closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “You’re welcome.”
Blair stroked her, her breath catching at the tremble in Cam’s thighs where they touched hers. So strong, so sure, so vulnerable in this moment. Hers, all hers.
“I love you.”
“Blair,” Cam whispered, a warning and a benediction. “You’re going to make me come.”
“Oh no, really?” Blair picked up her pace and Cam came, sharp and hard against her palm. Blair held her until Cam groaned in satisfaction and drew away.
“Better than a run, even,” Cam said, her voice a languid slur.
“Mm, better be.” Blair patted her butt and stepped dripping into the bathroom. “I want my coffee. Then I want to do that all over again.”
Cam braced both arms on the wall while water sluiced over her. “Sure thing.”
Blair snagged the coffee and took a long, luxurious sip. Just the right temperature. She dug her croissant out of the bag, and an instant later, Cam joined her. Blair handed the pastry bag to Cam and leaned against the counter, Cam beside her, their shoulders touching.
Blair licked a bit of chocolate off one finger. “You know, maybe this whole morning run thing isn’t such a bad idea.”
“You’re just deciding that now?”
“I forget how good the cooldown stage is.”
Laughing, Cam kissed her. “I’ll be sure to remind you every day we’re away.”
A burst of static, then a monotonal voice requested, “Commander Roberts, come in, over.”
Blair stilled. “Cam.”
Cam looked over at her radio. She’d left it on the counter before her run, and even though she wasn’t on duty—technically—she’d kept the Secret Service command channel open. She always did, until she was in the air—the only place she couldn’t be immediately reached.
“Sorry,” Cam muttered. In the other room, her phone rang.
“Answer it,” Blair said quietly.
Chapter Three
Washington, DC
7:13 a.m.
“Roberts,” Cam said at the same time as a forceful knock sounded at the apartment door.
Blair grabbed a robe off the hook behind the bathroom door and hurried through the apartment to answer it. Paula Stark, the SAIC of Blair’s detail, stood outside with her game face on, accompanied by Secret Service Agent Will Sato, one of the recent additions to her detail who’d been standing post overnight. Blair’s stomach flipped. If Paula was delivering the message, the news was bad.
A steely chill spread through her, an old and welcome shield that pushed the panic down and prepared her to do whatever she must do. She’d been here before, countless times it seemed, with countless closed faces delivering crippling news. Or news that would have crippled her if she hadn’t learned survival at an early age and had the lesson repeated until she would not break. When her mother died, when Cam had been shot—the first time, when her father had come under attack in the White House, when Cam had gone missing, when Paula and other agents had been injured. Or killed.
A part of her was always waiting. Always preparing for the ultimate loss. Cam. Her father. Lucinda. Diane or Paula or any number of people she cared about, many of whom were in danger because they moved within her circle. That she had
been drawn into the line of fire through no willful decision of her own no longer mattered. Her father was the president. And she was his daughter.
“What is it?” Blair said, hearing her own voice flat and empty.
“Ms. Powell,” Paula said, her practiced neutral tone betraying nothing, “we need to go to the White House immediately.”
Only Stark’s dark brown eyes, wide and troubled, gave away her turmoil.
From behind them, Cam said, “Give us a minute.”
“Of course, Commander,” Stark said. “Transport will be waiting.”
“Thank you, Chief. We’ll be right down.” Cam gently closed the door and said immediately, “It’s all right. It’s not your father.”
Even as a stunning wave of relief made her a little weak, Blair spun around and gripped the T-shirt Cam had donned on her way to the door. She’d even managed to find sweats in record time too. Always proper, her wife. “Then what?”
“That was Bennie Caruso,” Cam said, referring to the Deputy Chief of Staff. She cupped Blair’s jaw. “I don’t have any of the details yet. It’s Adam Eisley.”
“Adam?” Blair frowned. “Is he calling an emergency meeting?”
With the nominating convention bearing down on them, Adam Eisley, her father’s campaign manager, was one of the most important players on the national scene. Adam assured that everything from political strategy—which often shifted with the day’s events—to her father’s public persona, the messages coming out of the communication division, the information provided to the press corps, and the directives to regional and state campaign offices all adhered to the all-holy campaign plan. So close to the election, his role had amplified to the point where every event and decision that came in or out of the White House was reviewed and discussed with him. Every statement her father made had the potential to ignite a media frenzy that could swing voter opinion and, if not the party’s nomination, potentially the ultimate presidential election one way or the other. Adam’s job was to anticipate how the public would react and to shape the president’s message before a crisis ensued, all while ensuring the finance director and volunteer organizers were gathering the money and people they needed to bring in the votes.
