Cost of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “None of what I do is about me,” Ari said. “It’s all about the client. So if I’m on camera, all I’m doing is trying to get people to think about my client. I should be invisible.”

  Oakes chuckled. “I think you’re deluding yourself. You are almost as important as the person you represent. People associate certain things with you, like success. Besides that, you’d be hard to overlook no matter what you were doing.”

  Ari felt heat rise to her cheeks, and she was very glad for the relatively dim lighting inside the jet. Revealing what she wanted to reveal was one thing, but letting Oakes know that the compliment pleased her was something else entirely. Being susceptible to anyone, particularly an attractive woman, was enough to make the edge of the cliff crumble under her feet. Still, she didn’t step back. “All right, I won’t pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about in terms of professional reputation. Of course I want people to associate success with me. My success is my client’s success.”

  “And it works the other way too,” Oakes said. “When the senator is reelected, and she will be, people are going to remember you. Not whoever takes your place for the last stretch.” And now Oakes shrugged. “And now, well, you’ll be standing there with the president.”

  Ari sighed. “Yes,” she said almost to herself, “the president.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  The question was so personal, should have been too personal to answer. She answered without thinking. “No. I’m excited.”

  Oakes gave her a long look. “Then it sounds like you’re just the person for the job.”

  “Tell me that in a week.”

  “Chances are we’ll know in a day or two.”

  The cabin lights dimmed further for landing, and Ari could barely see Oakes’s outline in the dark. “We still need to get together. Hopefully before that.”

  “I’m available,” Oakes said in the dark.

  Watts pulled down a narrow cobblestone street running along the waterfront in Fishtown, a section of the city that had once been a working-class neighborhood with some decent factory jobs in the big brick buildings along the Delaware River. Now the factories were broken-windowed shells, and parts of Fishtown were still a cesspool of gangs and drugs. He parked midway down the block where he had a good view in both directions approaching the Oasis, a half-assed name for a dingy, one-story roadside joint that hadn’t looked like much twenty years ago when it was built. Now it looked like the pit it was—a single grimy window with a neon palm-tree shaped sign in glowing puke green to the left of a plain black wooden door, a flat-topped roof, and peeling red-painted sides. He still had half an hour before one of his team showed up, so he slid his seat back and got comfortable while he cooled his heels.

  Not much happening on the street yet. Too early still for most of the scumbags who spent the best part of the night at the club to show up. Most of them probably didn’t roll outta their flops or their gangbanger clubhouses until ten or eleven at night anyhow. The night crawlers didn’t emerge until the sun was way down and the righteous citizens were all home in front of their televisions. Prime time for crime and cops.

  Watts rearranged his ass on the uncomfortable fake-leather seat of the beater car he’d sweet-talked the guys in the impound lot into letting him use. No way was he sitting out on the street in a car that screamed cop so he could get his ass capped by some skinny gangbanger wannabe who needed to make his bones. His much skinnier ass. Having a heart attack and nearly croaking had scared him, although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. Scared him enough that he cut down on the chips and the beer after dinner at night. And, okay, maybe in secret he was walking a couple miles every morning. But now his bony ass got sore without all the padding.

  To say nothing of being bored with nothing to do but watch the door and listen in on Mitch and Sandy’s conversations to make sure they kept their skinny asses out of trouble. But that was okay. Somebody had to look out for them. The two of them, fearless crazy-ass kids. Not really kids, but new kinda cops. They never would’ve made it through the academy in his day. Sandy, an ex-hooker. Mitch—Dell—what the hell—he’d stopped trying to figure that out. He just took them for who they were. The only thing he knew for sure was they were his, and he’d sit in this trash can of a street or anywhere else to make sure they got their skinny asses home safe and sound.

  At a little before eleven, a cab pulled around the corner, stopped, and Sandy got out. She waved at the cabbie as he pulled away, going slow enough that Watts figured he was cruising her ass as she sashayed down the street. Couldn’t blame him. She had a nice ass, and it was practically hanging out of that little miniskirt she wore. If it was up to him, he’d tell her to cover up some so he wouldn’t have to worry about every pervert in a ten-mile radius sniffing after her—but then, it wasn’t up to him how many risks she took to get the job done. It was up to the Loo. And he had to admit, Frye looked after the squad the way no one else could. She kept them all safe, she kept the brass from squeezing their nuts, and she got results.

  So here he sat.

  Sandy didn’t look in his direction. Of course, she wouldn’t. She’d know he was there. She trusted him to be there. Maybe that was the real reason he dragged himself out of bed at the crack of dawn to go traipsing around the track at the football field a mile from his apartment every morning. So he could be there when he was needed.

  Sandy sauntered up to the Oasis, hitched her skirt down an inch—like that did much good—fluffed her hair, and strolled inside. Twenty minutes later, a motorcycle came around the other end of the block, roared down the street, and angled into the curb along the line of other bikes. The scrawny guy all in black—of course—swung a leg over, stood and hooked his helmet to the bike, adjusted his…well, whatever he had in his jeans, and slouched over to the door, looking neither right or left, and shoved his way inside. So all the players were onstage.

  Watts thumbed his phone to wake the screen, checked he had plenty of battery, and watched until it lit up.

  “You read me,” Sandy said on the conference channel.

  “Yeah. You’re good,” Watts replied.

  “Loud and clear, babe.” Mitch’s voice came through.

  Good, they were all hooked in together now. Watts set the phone down beside him, leaving it on so he could hear them. “You kids have fun.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sandy slipped her phone into the pocket of her skirt, flushed, and checked her makeup one more time. Damn, Mitch really had smeared her lipstick. She smoothed the little bit of a smudge away with her fingertips and smiled at the memory. Good sex always got her in the mood for an op. Her skin tingled, and her heart raced, and she couldn’t wait to see what happened. Being a cop was the most fun she’d ever had, except of course when she was in bed with Dellon Mitchell.

  She headed back out, ordered a gin and tonic—extra lime and not much ice—and put her back to the bar to watch the room. Not too crowded yet—just the usual mix of drug dealers, bikers, a couple of working girls, and here and there a few guys in too-clean tees and brand name jeans who didn’t quite fit the place. Not tourists or college boys looking to score drugs or girls, but not lowlifes either. Those were the ones who interested her. What were they doing here?

  She didn’t see who she was looking for, but she tended to be lucky and patient. Hell, she was inside, warm and dry, and not working on her back. She could wait forever at this rate. So she nursed her drink and made sure anyone looking in her direction saw a street girl who wasn’t quite ready to start earning her nightly wage. In the meantime, she found a little eye candy to take the edge off the waiting.

  At the far end of the bar, Mitch was talking up a young black woman in a silver-spangled halter top that barely covered her nipples, and jeans cut so low her ass crack showed. The girl was leaning over so far Mitch probably could’ve stuck his tongue down between her tits. Sandy thought that was hot. The girl liked the looks of Mitch too. She had her hand on his arm and he was laughing.
Yup. Definitely hot. Sandy angled a bit more so she could keep an eye on the door and watch them out of the corner of her eye.

  Ten minutes later the blonde from the photo came through the door. Quickly, Sandy turned her back to the room, leaned on the bar, and showed a little cleavage of her own. The bartender, a muscle-bound white dude without much hair, who made up for it with such a large bulge in his pants she wondered if it was real, strolled over, leaned his elbow on the bar, and looked down her shirt.

  “I know you, don’t I?” he said. How original.

  “Not the way you’re thinking.” Sandy smiled at him and watched the blonde do a quick circuit of the room and come over to the bar to get a drink.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” he said, in what he probably thought was a low sexy voice.

  “Well, I can sorta tell from the way you’re looking at my tits.”

  He laughed. “Baby, if you’re not doing anything later—”

  “Have to check my list.” She laughed and he good-naturedly winked and moved down the bar to take the blonde’s order.

  Sandy turned casually, cocked her head, and said, “Hey, do you remember me?”

  The blonde didn’t answer for a second, as if she wasn’t sure Sandy was talking to her. Finally she looked over at her, a disinterested smirk on her face, and said, “I think you got the wrong girl, honey.”

  “No—I don’t think so.” Sandy put as much eager into her voice as she could. A little bit of airheadedness too. “Let me think…it was March, maybe.” She flashed a proud smile. “Yeah, that’s it! March. March up at University. You know, when the guy from…Intensity America…was there talking.”

  “You mean Identity America,” the blonde said, a bit more interested now but still suspicious. “You were there? I don’t remember you.”

  “Oh yeah. I was standing, like, right near you.”

  The blonde’s brows came down. “Jeez, there were an awful lot of people there and everybody was yelling and shouting.” She laughed. “That was something, wasn’t it?”

  “Amazing.” Sandy smiled like she was used to being overlooked, while mentally bringing up the crowd shot Sloan had shown with the blonde standing by the stage. “Yeah, I guess that’s why you don’t remember me. I was with some other people. Tall skinny guy wearing a cowboy hat?”

  The blonde snapped her fingers. “I remember him. Oh yeah, you too. That was a cool demonstration, huh?”

  “Totally. Do you go there…to school, I mean.”

  The blonde snorted. “Not hardly. A friend…my boyfriend,” she added, lowering her voice like she was exposing a big secret, “he knew the speaker…you know, the guy on the stage. That’s why we were there.”

  Sandy leaned closer, as if sharing the secret. “No kidding. Wow. So you’re, like, part of their…what do you call it…”

  “Organization,” the blonde said.

  Sandy smiled widely. “Yeah, that.”

  “Well”—the blonde straightened up a little bit, almost preening—“yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  Sandy moved down the bar carrying her drink. Now they were shoulder to shoulder. The bartender had passed the blonde a beer and moved off. “That is so cool. Is there, like, you know, someplace I can join. I’d love to, you know, do something to help out. They’re so”—she looked around and lowered her voice—“right, you know. Their what do you call it…message or whatever. About the people who really matter, and the ones who don’t.”

  Sandy figured she’d laid it on enough and backed off a little bit, waiting for the blonde to pick up the tune.

  “I know, huh,” the blonde said, looking around the room. “You know, my boyfriend, he’s really tight with the important people.”

  “No shit,” Sandy whispered. “I bet that’s like…hot.”

  The blonde rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you’d think so, huh. But it’s all I can do to talk him into getting it up. He’s always so busy making plans.”

  “Guys.” Sandy laughed. “And they say we’re the ones that are always holding out.”

  “Hey,” the blonde said, holding out her hand, “I’m Trish.”

  Sandy took the bony hand bedecked with a couple of cheap silver rings with turquoise stones and shook it, keeping her fingers limp and lose. A girly handshake. “I’m Elle—you know, like the letter.”

  Trish brightened. “Yeah? Cool name. Say, you want to get a table?”

  Sandy said, “Yeah, that would be awesome.”

  Washington, DC

  11:05 p.m.

  A motorcade of four vehicles, visible by their taillights all in a line, waited for them at Andrews in front of one of the outlying hangars. Ari wasn’t exactly sure what she should do after they landed. She still needed to get to DC. Fortunately, she wouldn’t be dragging luggage around. Call a cab? An Uber? Probably the better choice at that hour.

  Apparently reading her mind, the agent in the right front seat turned and looked into the back.

  “We’ll be happy to escort you home, Ms. Rostof.” He looked over at Oakes, sitting across from Ari. “You’re on your own, sport.”

  Oakes grinned. “I’ll just ride back with you to the motor pool. I can find my way home from there.”

  “You’d be closer if we dropped you off with Ms. Rostof,” the agent said.

  Ari had a feeling she was missing something in this back-and-forth.

  Oakes narrowed her eyes, wondering if she’d heard a bit of a taunt in O’Cleary’s voice. Sometimes her fellow agents could be such assholes.

  “I’ll manage,” Oakes said.

  Abruptly, Ari said, “I’m actually too wired to sleep. I know it’s late, but if you’re not working tonight and have an hour or two, we could get that briefing out of the way. There’s a great all-night diner…” She hesitated. “Of course, if that’s not convenient or…”

  “It’s fine,” Oakes said. She was pretty certain she heard a snort from the front seat. Across from her, Nika Witt tensed. Huh. She didn’t seem to like Ari’s suggestion very much. Of course, she might have had plans of her own that didn’t include shadowing Rostof in the middle of the night. Or maybe it was something more personal, although Oakes kinda doubted that Witt would compromise her position with Rostof Protective Services by making a move on Rostof’s daughter, but you never knew. After all, Cameron Roberts was sitting in the first car with her wife, the First Daughter of the United States, and way back when, Roberts had been the chief of Blair Powell’s detail. Sometimes, life just happened and you had to roll with it. At the moment, she kinda felt like rolling with it.

  “The question is,” Oakes added, “does this place have decent coffee?”

  “It’s not an espresso boutique, but they’ve got good french roast and,” Ari said with a playful smile Oakes hadn’t seen before, “they’ve got killer cinnamon buns that they’ll grill for you.”

  “Butter and raisins?”

  “And walnuts.”

  “Sold,” Oakes said.

  Witt’s facial expression hadn’t changed an iota, so either she didn’t mind extra work or she was very, very good at keeping her thoughts to herself. Likely both.

  As if just realizing that she had an extension to her life now, Ari turned on the seat and faced Nika. “The diner’s a couple blocks from my apartment. I’m not sure what living arrangements you’re going to make, but I won’t need you for the rest of the night.” She frowned. “As a matter of fact, do you even have a suitcase? Or a hotel reservation somewhere?”

  Witt finally cracked a smile, and Oakes had to admit, she was good-looking. For some reason, that bothered her. Okay, so Witt was gonna spend a lot of time up close and personal with Ari Rostof. So what? That made Oakes’s life easier. Because after what happened to Adam, accident or not, somebody was going to need to worry about Rostof. She was pretty sure Tom Turner had already thought about that, and he wouldn’t be above suggesting to the president that Ari needed security. She wasn’t the usual protectee, but that wouldn’t be th
e first time Secret Service agents were detailed to civilians. At the president’s pleasure, Secret Service agents could be assigned to anyone for protection—visiting dignitaries were the most common, but government hopefuls, cabinet members, and anyone else the president deemed at risk. Why not someone in a key position like Rostof’s? Maybe with Witt in place, that wouldn’t be necessary. The idea should have pleased her, but it didn’t, actually. She didn’t know Witt, and just because Witt was a former Secret Service agent didn’t necessarily mean she’d been good at it. Oakes made it a priority to find out.

  Witt said quietly, “I have an apartment in the Kennedy-Warren. All of my things should have been delivered earlier, according to your father.”

  “An apartment in the Kennedy-Warren,” Ari said slowly and decidedly coolly. “And where exactly would that be?”

  Witt hesitated for just a moment too long. That was a big mistake.

  Ari’s shoulders stiffened. “Ten floor? North wing?”

  Witt bit the bullet. “1014.”

  “Across the hall from my apartment.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that is correct.”

  Ari blew out a breath. “Of course you knew that when we left Newport. And forget the ma’am.”

  “Yes, I’d been briefed,” Witt said.

  “But it wasn’t your place to mention it. I understand.”

  Oakes could put the picture together as well as Ari. No way did that apartment just come available. Nikolai Rostof had been keeping an eye on her, or at least had planned to by having an apartment available if needed.

  “Did someone need to move out so you could move in?” Ari asked.

  What she was really asking was if someone had been watching her all this time without her knowing it.

  “That information is not available to me,” Witt said.

  Ari’s jaw was set, and Oakes was pretty sure she could hear her molars grinding. Couldn’t blame her. Finding out your father was spying on you had to suck.