Radclyffe - Code of Honor

“It is a betrayal—of the worst kind.” Cam slid her arm down around Blair’s shoulders.

“Do you really think letting him take this trip now is wise?” Blair sighed.

“Not my call.” Cam kissed the top of her head. “But we all know what to do.”

“You didn’t mention anything about having an inside line on the militia in the meeting just now.”

“That’s because I don’t have anything definite yet. I’ve made a few calls and I’m getting stonewalled. I’m not sure why.”

“Sometimes I think we have more secrets from the people who are supposed to be on our side than we do from those against us.”

“Unfortunately, even the good guys are human.”

“Yes.” Blair slid her arm around Cam’s waist and closed her eyes. Human and vulnerable. And that’s what frightened her most of all.

*

Franklin pushed his coffee cup aside and rose from his seat at the head of the formal dining-room table. He kissed his wife absently on the cheek as he passed her at the opposite end, his mind already on the interview he was doing for the Christian Broadcasting Channel that afternoon. Christmas was an excellent time to reinforce his image by linking it to that of the Messiah. His core constituents, far to the right of most Christians, would eventually forget the difference.

His wife’s voice, soft and diffident, reached him just as he was about to step out into the hall. “I know how busy you are, darling, but can’t you stay home this morning at least? Jac said she—”

The muscles in his back tensed and he kept his voice even with effort. “Jac couldn’t manage to be present for Christmas services and missed an excellent opportunity to show the media a united family front. I don’t see why I should change my plans for her today.”

“Perhaps if we had invited her—”

“I’ve made it perfectly clear to Jac that as long as she insists on having this public relationship with another woman, she’ll have to carry it on somewhere else.” He turned and regarded his wife steadily. She shrank back in her chair. “You understand, don’t you, my dear, that I’m only doing what’s best for the family. We couldn’t stop Jac from making the bad choices she’s made over the years, but we must necessarily let the American people know we don’t support her. She hasn’t left us any other alternative. Whatever pain has come of all this, it’s her fault.”

Charlotte looked down at the table, her slender fingers picking anxiously at the fine linen napkin by her plate. “I understand you feel her choice of relationships is a problem, but even the president’s daughter—”

Rage flared in Franklin’s throat. “Yes, the president’s daughter is a pervert. And so is ours. Jac has chosen to make her deviance a matter of public record, and I’ve labored under that black mark in the eyes of my supporters for years. She almost cost me the nomination. But the difference between Andrew Powell and me, among many things, is that I don’t embrace her abnormality. And for that, I will be rewarded in November.”

Charlotte’s gaze rose to his, frightened, but unexpectedly resistant. “I know you must do what you think is best. But Jac is our child, and I want to see her.”

“And that is your choice. It isn’t mine.” He turned and walked out. He’d tried for years to relegate Jac to the background, to keep her out of the public mind, and while she’d been deployed overseas he’d actually been able to put a positive spin on her service as a sacrifice he was willing to make for the sake of his country. But when she’d returned and made the ridiculous decision to become a smokejumper, the best he could do was call in a few favors and have her assigned to a remote outpost.

Even that hadn’t worked. She simply would not remain invisible. Not only had she taken a woman for a lover, this time apparently permanently, but she’d insisted on being open about it. She’d even appeared at one of his fund-raisers with that—woman. Yes, Andrew Powell might choose to parade his dyke daughter around the national stage, assuming, almost certainly falsely, that his liberalism would garner him favor and ultimately votes. But Powell was wrong, and he would realize that sooner or later. Franklin rolled his shoulders, making a note to contact Nora and arrange a few hours alone with her after the broadcast. The tension in his groin reminded him he hadn’t seen her much recently, what with all the necessary family obligations around the holidays. Nora was more than his campaign manager. She understood his needs.

Derrick appeared from the library where he had been researching scripture to pull appropriate quotes for Franklin’s interview that afternoon. He stopped, a sheaf of paper in hand, when he saw Franklin striding toward him. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“Just bring the car around. I want to stop by the campaign office before we head over to the studios.”

“Of course.” Derrick held out a square of note paper. “This is the only call you should return before you leave.”

Franklin took the paper from him. It held nothing except a telephone number. “I’ll see to it.”

Derrick turned away, and Franklin detoured into his study and closed the door. He sat down behind his wide desk and adjusted his trousers absently, his erection uncomfortably restrained. The antique clock on the mantel over the fireplace chimed ten times. Perhaps he would have time to see Nora before the afternoon recording.

Hurriedly, he unlocked the top right-hand drawer of his desk and removed the unregistered phone. He punched in the number on the paper—this week’s burn phone number. Hooker answered immediately.

“What is it?” Franklin asked.

“The mountain men need an infusion of funds.”

Franklin rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Why?”

“Big weapons deal.”

“Are you really sure it’s worth doing business with them? They cost us a great deal with the last fiasco, and we cannot risk exposure.”

“If you want direct action, they’re the ones to provide it. It’s your call.”

“I suppose we have to keep them close for a while. Their methods might be crude, but they are effective. How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“We had better be buying more than just talk.”

“You will be. When you’re ready to point them at a target—if that’s really the way you want to go—”

“Neither our objective nor our target has changed.” Franklin registered a ripple of concern. Hooker seemed to be losing his will, questioning the direction of their shadow campaign more and more recently. If Hooker was growing soft, Franklin would need to find another mercenary to carry out his wishes. Hooker would bear watching. “Is there any word from DC?”

“Nothing so far. The White House will want to bury the story. Any sign of weakness now will hurt Powell’s standing—and probably rekindle the gun control debate. He won’t want that because he can’t afford to look soft, and he can’t support armed retaliation.”

Franklin smiled. He loved closing the vise on Powell’s nuts, and the screws were getting tighter all the time. “And the person responsible? Are we sure they won’t be connected back to us?”

“No way. I used a number of go-betweens, none of whom knew each other or can be traced back to us.”

“What about the woman in Georgia—the one who supplied the agent.”

“She wouldn’t talk. She’d be facing treason charges. Anyhow, she’s disappeared. Gone to ground, probably indefinitely.”

“Good.” Franklin preferred she be under the ground, but that order of business could wait. “See that you’re careful. This isn’t over yet.”

Hooker was silent for a few seconds. “Washington will be expecting something else.”