Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

Price looked down the line of vans. “The louie in the back.”

“His name’s Morrison,” the lieutenant with the two agents clued them in.

“Tell him to bring two of the…what are they called?” O’Neil wondered aloud, searching his fatigued mind for the word.

“MOPP suits,” the lieutenant said.

“Tell Morrison to bring two MOPP suits to the bunk room,” O’Neil told Price. “You escort him and keep them in the duffels. I don’t want some steward catching sight of them and letting it slip.”

“Gotcha, Ted.”

O’Neil backed away and let the officers and two of his detail begin the chore of lugging the seventy-plus duffels into the dark and quiet basement of the East Wing, the smaller and less important sibling of the power center on the opposite side of the executive mansion.

“JESTER is down for the night,” the report came through O’Neil’s earpiece. JESTER was the Service code name for the president. The first lady was TULIP. And there was a third code name the agents now had to associate with the first family.

“Is SCOOTER quiet?” O’Neil inquired, speaking into the microphone hidden under his left cuff.

“For a change,” the agent reported.

O’Neil smiled to himself. The president’s son was an “active” child, and one who had demonstrated that he had a pair of lungs to challenge the most bellicose inhabitant of the Hill. And the code name was quite appropriate. O’Neil had personally taken two tumbles trying to avoid the tyke as he scooted out from behind some piece of furniture in the Oval Office or in the first family’s private area of the main building. He was a handful. He was also damned cute.

“Early wake-up tomorrow?” the agent asked.

“Five,” O’Neil reminded the night detail leader. “He has a speech at NYU.”

“All right. See you in the morning.”

O’Neil pulled his wrist away and checked his watch. Morning. That would give him about four hours of sleep, which was about the norm. Not as much as he wanted, but enough. Enough for this job.

A stiff breeze blew in without warning, reminding him that he didn’t have an overcoat on. But the chill was somehow welcome, just as the end of each day was welcome and satisfying. Another day behind them. The mission of the Secret Service presidential detail fulfilled. The president and his family were tucked safely into bed. As the snow tickled O’Neil’s face he had a feeling that all was right with the world.

Then, as the combination of agents and Army officers came back for a second load of the gear O’Neil hoped was never needed, that feeling became more a hope than a measure of reality.

“A little wine?” Anne half-asked, half-prodded.

Art held his finger and thumb an inch apart, spreading them to an inch and a half as Anne’s smile grew. He watched her walk back to the kitchen and wondered how any woman could look so good in sweats, or in nothing at all for that matter. Ease up, Arthur. You’ve got all night.

“I can feel your eyes on my behind, Art,” Anne said, glancing back over her shoulder with a smile.

“Can you blame me?”

“Hmmm.” She filled two glasses with Chardonnay, hers more than his, and re-corked the bottle.

“You’re the one trying to get me drunk, sweetheart,” Art said.

Anne walked back in and sat next to her own private G-man. She handed his glass over and clinked hers lightly against it. “A girl has to get lucky somehow.”

Art grunted. He was worried about being too forward all the time, then she would let loose with a line that made him feel like a prude. You gotta love her, Arthur . He did.

Anne leaned over, her T-shirt-covered breasts pressing against his arm, and kissed Art on the neck, tasting upward until the lobe of his ear was between her teeth. She nibbled, knowing it was having an effect by the long, slow breaths he was taking. “You like?”

“I love,” Art said.

“You’re going to let work keep you away from this?” To the neck again as she set her glass blindly on the coffee table, the newly free hand coming to his chest and undoing the shirt buttons from top to bottom.

“You’re bad, woman.”

“I’m good, too.”

Art swallowed hard. “I know.”

Anne pulled back, a Cheshire grin on her soft face, and rubbed his chest through the open shirt. “You know I’m just kidding about work.”

“I know,” Art assured her. He lifted her hand from his chest and kissed it. “I am going to be busy, though.”

“Really busy?”

“A night here and there, sweetheart,” he promised hopefully. “Maybe.”

“It sounds important.”

“It is,” Art said, knowing Anne would ask no more if he didn’t volunteer it, and he couldn’t. “So, how was your day?”

“I did another seminar tonight,” Anne told him.

“For Rabbi Levin?”

“Yeah. The sixth one.” She picked her glass up and sipped slowly. “Tonight was a little interesting, though.”

“Oh?”

She wondered for a second if she should say anything, but Griggs wasn’t really a patient yet, and she actually wouldn’t be revealing any confidential information. “Do you remember the St. Anthony’s massacre?”

“Sure,” Art answered. “Remember Thom Danbrook? He was the agent killed last year.”

“With you and Frankie,” Anne said.

“Yeah. He was involved in the investigation of the guy behind it. Thom was the one who could have closed the door on John Barrish, but he never got to testify.” Or do anything . “Barrish walked a few days ago.”

“I know,” Anne said. “I had a walk-in tonight, a face that you might say would stand out in the crowd.”

“Who?”

“The father of one of those four little girls.”

“You’re not serious,” Art said. “You are.”

“His name is Darren Griggs, and he’s just devastated,” Anne explained. “His family is in shambles. He saw the flyer and came to the seminar. He said he was starting to hate people in the same way Barrish does. Art, this man was suffocating. It was hard to talk to him because I could almost feel his pain. It has to be eating him up.”

Barrish. He was free because the legal system protected him from scurrilous prosecution, but who protected those he wanted to harm? You do , Art thought. “Jesus, Anne, I don’t know how you can handle what you do.”

“I do it to help people like Griggs,” she said, the admission worn like a badge of honor.

“Are you going to see him?”

“I made the offer. All he has to do is call.”

Art saw that glint of altruism in her eye. “Pro bono?”

“Drink your wine, G-man,” Anne said, skirting the issue.

Art smiled. It was her prerogative, one she seemed to exercise often. Then again, she made enough money for four people and felt it was something she had to do. Give something back. Such a soft spot for a very strong woman.

Anne made a loose fist and tapped Art’s stomach. “You may just win that race.”

“Well, I’m now officially in the senior division,” Art said, shaking his head. “Fifty. Can you believe that?”

Her hand opened and slid down over his belt. “You’re still eighteen in certain respects.”

Art put his glass down, taking Anne’s and doing the same. “Come on,” he said, putting his hand out. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She looked into his eyes, the mischief at the core of her personality seizing control. “What’s wrong with right here?”

“The couch?”

Anne glanced to the soft shag carpet at their feet.

“You little devil,” Art said.

“I’m a good girl,” Anne protested as she slid off the couch to the floor, pulling Art with her.