Cost of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “I’m meeting with the team in a little while to debrief. After that”—she shrugged—“it depends on what they’ve all got to say.”

  “You’ll call me if you’re going to be late?”

  That was code for you’ll tell me if you’re getting involved in any kind of action. Rebecca could keep that from her, could save her the worry, but that wasn’t part of their deal. Catherine gave Rebecca her heart in exchange for her pledge to share herself, all of herself. Rebecca paused across from the parking lot where she’d left her vehicle and kissed her again. “I will. I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Catherine touched her cheek.

  Rebecca slid her hands into her pockets as Catherine turned and walked away. Those first few seconds without her were always a mixture of supreme contentment and a little bit of longing. She watched until Catherine disappeared around the corner, then jogged across the street, climbed into the nondescript gray departmental sedan she preferred when on duty, and headed back downtown. When she pulled up in front of their command center in the converted loft in Old City, Dell arrived on her motorcycle with Sandy riding behind her.

  They were both dressed for work—Dell in boots, black jeans, and a short-sleeved T-shirt, Sandy in a nearly crotch-high black leather miniskirt and a sheer red shirt that dipped too low between her breasts for Rebecca to look in that direction for more than an instant. Her dark thick eyeliner, bright red lipstick, long dangling earrings, and messy blond curls reminded Rebecca of how she used to look when they’d first met. Sandy’d been younger then—barely legal age, a tough girl who made her living on the streets with her body. They were colleagues now, but that tough, brave, smart survivor held a special place in Rebecca’s heart.

  “Either I’m late,” Rebecca said, knowing their usual routine was to work the streets all night and sleep most of the day after the morning team meeting, “or you two are very early.”

  Sandy grinned at Dell. “We’ve been up for a while.”

  Dell’s sheepish grin made it clear what they’d been doing besides sleeping. Rebecca just shook her head. “Come on, let’s head upstairs.”

  Sloan and Jason were exactly where they’d left them ten hours before, ensconced in front of their monitors, surrounded by coffee cups, take-out containers, and the subtle scent of the hunt. Rebecca knew better than to interrupt them when they were in the zone and headed back to their conference area. She dumped out coffee that looked like it was at least six hours old and set about making a fresh pot. Watts came in while she was watching it drip and grunted a hello. At four thirty, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, she headed back out into the work area.

  “You two ready to give us an update?”

  Jason said without turning around, “Five minutes.”

  “Good enough.”

  Rebecca settled at the conference table with the others, and ten minutes later, which was a little sooner than she’d anticipated, Jason and Sloan wandered in, poured coffee, and joined them.

  “Check your devices for a file we just sent,” Sloan said immediately. “We made some progress. We’ve been following breadcrumbs all day long. Most of the associations are loose, but,” she said, waiting while everyone downloaded the info via phone or tablet, “we’ve got some soft links from phone traces between some of our principals.”

  “Locals?” Rebecca asked.

  “Difficult to tell,” Sloan said. “We got a lot of undocumented or untraceable addresses. Truthfully, we’ll need some luck or a lot more time to pinpoint locations. But we’ve got names and faces, and we’ll have more by morning.”

  “All right,” Rebecca said, scanning the first image, “take us through them.”

  Sloan reviewed what data they had on each individual as she worked her way down the targets they’d identified so far. In some cases they had name, last known location, associates, group affiliations, criminal records and in others, only aliases. She finished up with surveillance footage they’d pulled from demonstrations, rallies, or local gatherings the targets had been known to attend.

  “Wait,” Sandy said, straightening. “I know her.”

  “Which one?” Sloan said.

  Sandy turned her tablet to face the others, zoomed the image of a wide-angle crowd shot taken at a student rally at one of the local campuses, and pointed to a twentyish-looking woman with shoulder-length teased blond hair and a sharp-eyed, angry expression. “Her.”

  The subject stood close to the front of a stage where a man held a microphone and a sign proclaiming the name of a socialist political organization known to be a front for a right-wing supremacy group.

  “Did she or the guy onstage pop in your search?” Frye asked Sloan.

  “No, but we can run facial recognition through the databases.”

  “I know where I saw her,” Sandy said, an eager edge in her voice. “The Oasis. I’ve seen her there twice.” She lasered in on Rebecca. “I can get close to her.”

  Studying the keen expression in Sandy’s eyes, recognizing the natural cop in her—something no amount of training could instill—Rebecca thought it over. Chasing one possible connection might lead nowhere, but this was the kind of work they did. This was what they’d all been selected for. They worked outside the box, and they worked up close, one thread at a time. She nodded. “Go ahead, but make sure we know where and when you are. Watts—you’re her backup.”

  “Just like old times,” he grumbled. “At least the weather’s warmer and my balls won’t freeze sitting in the car.”

  Sandy grinned, the spark of the hunter in her eyes. “I’m on it.”

  “Mitch can go under with her,” Dell said. “We can work the inside together.”

  “Ooh,” Sandy crooned, making wide sex eyes at her lover, drawing guffaws and groans, “that will be fun.”

  “Here we go again,” Watts muttered. “The guy with the strap-on cock gets all the girls.”

  “Watts, honey,” Sandy purred, “you really need to see Mitch’s cock in action.”

  “No thanks,” he said, but he was grinning and so was Dell.

  “Okay, enough with the anatomy. Let’s run it that way. Hold on—” Rebecca looked down automatically as a network alert announcing a special news briefing from the White House flashed on her screen. Everyone else did the same.

  “I think we’re going to want to see this,” Rebecca said.

  Newport Harbor

  4:25 p.m.

  Oakes walked back to the sunroom where Paula Stark, the lead on Blair Powell’s security detail, had scheduled a briefing for the off-the-record news event. Stark stood in front of the sofa where Ari had sat a short while before, along with the agents who were not presently moving the vehicles to more secure locations in one of the Rostof garages. Those agents would remain with the vehicles until Blair was ready to depart, and the rest of the detail, now including Oakes, would be tasked with Blair’s personal protection. Ensuring her safety had suddenly become more complicated due to the influx of several dozen reporters, technicians, and TV network personnel who would be descending on the Rostof mansion in just a few moments. None of those individuals would’ve been prescreened, and all of them would have potential access to Blair.

  Stark said, “Mac, Felicia, you’ll be screening arrivals—verifying press credentials and IDs. Rostof security will have already checked them at the gate against a list provided by the network. No metal detectors, which leaves us with manual examination of equipment, personal items, and bags.”

  “What about the press vehicles?” Mac said. “We ought to try to get them a safe distance from the main house.”

  “There’s a large cabana at the far east end of the property—about a quarter mile away—with parking. Their drivers will be instructed to move them there after the passengers have debarked,” Stark said. “Mac, you’ll accompany the last car down and stay there. Felicia, remain at the front door.”

  “Got it,” Felicia said.

  Stark continued, “Weaver, Sato, and I will provide t
he personal protection.”

  She took in the gathering, and if she was disturbed by the less than optimal numbers, she didn’t show it. “Questions?”

  No one had any.

  Mac and Felicia left, and Oakes returned to the veranda and took up post to the right of the main doors. Closing in on five p.m., the sun was over her shoulder, an advantage when she’d need to screen the crowd during Ari Rostof’s interview. Her vision wouldn’t be impaired by the glare. A half dozen men dressed in khaki work clothes appeared, Rostof employees she assumed, and quickly and efficiently moved the tables and chairs out of the way.

  Twenty minutes later, a gaggle of press people spilled out onto the veranda. Dan Yamamoto, one of the evening anchors for Rostof Network News, was easily recognizable. In his early forties, he looked like he’d just stepped off the golf course in his dark blue polo and khaki pants. Maybe he had. A makeup technician followed him over to the far edge of the veranda, a portable kit in one hand and a makeup brush in the other.

  “Just a minute, Terry,” he said, hands on his hips as he surveyed first the shoreline and then the veranda. He made a slow circuit behind the stone balustrade on either side of the stairs leading down to the walkway that eventually ended up at the pier. He pointed to a spot, glanced at the house behind him, then angled slightly. “Let’s plan on right about here. We’ll want to get a bit of the harbor in view and the corner of the house.”

  He turned, gazed at Oakes. “You think you could move over about six feet to your right?”

  Oakes smiled. “That would depend on where Ms. Powell is standing.”

  He zeroed in on the lapel pin on her jacket. “Ah, yes. Fine.”

  He was a veteran, and he understood that the Secret Service did not make concessions for the press. She’d move if she could, but she’d need to be within closing distance of Blair Powell, and since Blair would also be appearing on camera, she was going to be close and probably in camera sight. That was an issue for the cameraman. Not her.

  A steady trickle of technicians with equipment, cables, light stands, portable microphones, and all the other paraphernalia necessary for the interview continued to stream out until the broad veranda became a labyrinth of cords, light stands, and people. Blair, Cam, and Ari emerged and met with Dan Yamamoto. Stark and Soto flanked Blair.

  Someone called, “Five minutes to airtime.”

  Ari’d changed into tailored dark slacks and a white open-collared shirt. A gold necklace gleamed in the hollow of her throat, and small diamond-studded gold earrings glinted on each lobe. Her hair was down, and she didn’t seem to mind when the wind blew it into disarray. With a practiced flick of one hand, she pushed the thick waves away from her face. What makeup she wore was understated, and she waved away the man with the makeup kit. Oakes smothered a smile at his look of distress. Ari Rostof did not need any help looking camera-ready.

  “Ari,” Yamamoto said, his voice warm and familiar. “You should be comfortable with this. Anything you need?”

  “I’m fine, Dan,” she replied.

  He smiled. “Never doubted it.”

  One of Yamamoto’s assistants spoke to Blair, pointed, and Blair moved several feet to her left. Oakes shifted to follow her at the regulation distance. Yamamoto frowned, but he said nothing.

  Ari looked at her watch, then over her shoulder. Her gaze met Oakes’s and she smiled. Oakes nodded. Cam was on Blair’s left, Soto to the right rear, and Stark directly behind them, covering the exit. All good. Still, her stomach churned. Too many people moving around.

  A woman called out, “Five…four…three…two…on air.”

  “This is Dan Yamamoto, reporting from the Rostof home on Newport Harbor.”

  Oakes tuned him out, scanning the faces and bodies arrayed around the perimeter of the veranda, out of the camera line, looking for any untoward movement, any indication of nervousness, anyone intently focused only on Blair.

  “…tragic accident…”

  “…taking over as the national campaign manager…”

  Blair Powell speaking. “…saddened by the loss…friend…”

  Roberts answering a question. “…ongoing investigation…”

  Standing between Blair and Cam, Ari appeared poised and at ease as she spoke. “…honored by the trust…ready to spearhead the…”

  Dan Yamamoto wrapped up the interview and the same woman called out, “Cut. Off air.”

  The reporters waiting off camera like a pack of jackals all shouted at once.

  “Ms. Rostof, Ms.—”

  “When will you be returning to Washington?”

  “What did the senator say when you told her you were leaving her campaign?”

  “Did your father have anything to do with your appointment?”

  Questions blurred in a chaotic jumble. Someone handed Ari a microphone.

  “I’m sorry, I have no further statement at this time,” Ari said.

  A male voice rose above all the others. “What can you tell us about the nature of Adam Eisley’s death? Is it true he was targeted?”

  Ari’s expression didn’t change. “The investigation into Mr. Eisley’s death is ongoing. Thank you all for coming.”

  Questions continued to pepper the air as Ari turned away. A lean, short-haired brunette walked out onto the veranda and Oakes snapped, “She’s armed.”

  The immaculate cut of her tailored black suit jacket almost but not quite successfully hid the subtle bulge of a holster on her right hip, and if she hadn’t held both hands in clear view and obviously well away from her body, she’d already be on the ground in restraints.

  “I have her,” Stark said, intercepting the stranger. A few words and the quick display of an ID, and Stark nodded her clear.

  Ari walked over to the brunette and shook her hand. The brunette, a few inches taller than Ari, leaned close to Ari and murmured something no one else was meant to hear. Ari smiled, touched the brunette’s arm briefly, and continued toward the house with Cam and Blair. The brunette fell into step just behind Ari.

  Oakes watched the exchange, a prickle of irritation racing down her spine. Whoever the brunette was, she and Ari were clearly acquainted. Maybe it was more than that, and the idea annoyed her. Ari Rostof, however, was none of her concern.

  She stood post while the TV people and reporters packed their gear and finally left.

  Stark gave the all clear. “Departure in fifteen minutes. Weaver, you ride with Rostof in the follow car. Pick her up in the foyer.”

  “Copy,” Weaver said, and headed that way.

  Five minutes before departure time, Ari appeared, carrying a briefcase and an overnight bag. The brunette was with her.

  “Agent Weaver,” Ari said, “this is Nika Witt. Nika will be traveling with us.”

  At Oakes’s questioning stare, Nika held out her hand. “Rostof Protective Services. I’ll be providing Ms. Rostof’s security in DC.”

  Oakes shook her hand. “I see.”

  “Well,” Ari said after a beat of silence, “shall we go?”

  “Right.” Oakes released Witt’s hand. Her grip had been firm—not testing, not challenging—merely confident. If Witt really was going to provide Ari’s security, they’d probably be seeing a lot of each other. The idea was far from pleasant on many levels.

  Chapter Ten

  With Blair, Cam, and Stark in the lead car, Oakes, Ari, and Witt in the follow car, and the rest of Blair’s detail in the last vehicle, the motorcade pulled down the long, winding drive to the main gate of the Rostof mansion. A police escort of four motorcycle officers and a patrol car waited outside, and with the added assistance of lights and sirens clearing the way, the motorcade made rapid time toward the airstrip at the nearby naval base. Oakes sat across from Ari and Witt in the rear of the vehicle, Witt taking the window seat and Oakes sliding over to the one on the opposite side. They’d positioned themselves automatically to watch both sides of the road, with Ari centered between them. Ari wasn’t Oakes’s protectee—in fact, no
w that they were on the road again, no one was—but she couldn’t not be situationally aware.

  Right now, and for the foreseeable future, Ari Rostof was a high-priority figure. Having a bodyguard was not unreasonable—in fact, considering what had happened to Adam, maybe just one was not enough. Oakes wondered who’d made the call to bring Witt on board—Ari or her father. Oakes’s money was on Nikolai Rostof. Ari was already a highly visible public figure and, despite being the heir to an empire, seemed little affected by her notoriety. From her solo meeting with Blair to her rapid decision to accept the White House’s offer with no consultation with anyone else, she’d also shown herself confident and capable. A bodyguard just didn’t seem her style.

  And why Oakes was wondering just why Nika Witt had suddenly made an appearance was another question completely. Neither woman was her concern. Still, she couldn’t seem to ignore either of them.

  As soon as they’d left the Rostof compound, Ari’d settled back with her phone out, probably scanning emails. Beside her, Witt projected that relaxed kind of wariness that typified security people. Oakes figured she looked a lot the same herself. A Glock was holstered on Witt’s right hip, visible now that she was sitting. If she carried a weapon, presumably she knew how to use it. Otherwise, she was a danger to everyone. Oakes wondered about her training.

  Ex-military? Ex-law enforcement? A wannabe cop, like a lot of people in private security? She doubted the last. Witt looked to be in excellent shape, projected a solid air of confidence, and unless she couldn’t pass a psych test, would probably be an easy admit to any branch of the military and most of the federal ones. That kind of expertise didn’t come from a few weeks of on-the-job security guard training.

  Witt must’ve sensed her scrutiny and met her gaze.

  “Ex–Secret Service,” Witt said. “Eight years.”

  Oakes raised a brow. “Get tired of world travel?”