Radclyffe - Code of Honor

“Fifteen hundred for the big guns, eight hundred for the handguns.”

Graves looked through the scope again. “A thousand and five hundred.”

Quincy was silent for a moment, then one quick nod. “Agreed.”

“Let’s start with a hundred of each.”

“No problem,” Quincy said, like they moved a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of illegal guns every day. That was a big order, bigger than any Loren had witnessed. Wherever these guys were getting their money, it was someone with clout. And what were they going to do with a hundred assault rifles? Start World War III? But she kept her expression neutral and took the opportunity to get a good look at each of the three men, committing their features to memory. Her memory was eidetic—she never forgot a detail of a conversation, could sketch the exact specifics of a face, and was able to accurately pinpoint her location without GPS to within a few hundred feet, even after an hour’s ride. Those traits, her genetic inheritance from her mathematician mother and artist father, made her the best at what she did.

“Then we’re done here.” The general glanced at Loren. “Merry Christmas.”

Loren stared back. Ho-fucking-ho. She hadn’t even remembered they’d scheduled the meet for Christmas night. It wasn’t as if she’d been planning to spend the night cozied up in front of a fire with anyone. Like there could even be someone—at least anyone she could risk seeing for more than a quick tumble in the back room of the club. She did have to prove she was one of the guys, after all. She looked at Graves until his smile grew predatory and he finally turned away.

Quincy and Graves traded a few more comments about when and where the exchange would occur, while she and Armeo wrapped up the merchandise and secured the bedrolls back on their bikes. Five minutes later, they saddled up and turned around for the two-hour ride back down the mountain to Silver Lake, the home base of the Bitterroot Renegades. Her home, for the last two and half years. The burn phone vibrated against her leg again. A call from Skylar Dunbar, the only person with the number, could only mean trouble.

Loren ignored it.

*

“Merry Christmas,” Cam said to Brock Nunez, the newest member of Blair’s security detail, as she closed the door to the condo and left him outside in the hall. She shrugged out of her black wool topcoat, hung it on a coat tree, and leaned back against the door to watch Blair kick off her heels and drape her coat on the back of the sofa that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, the White House glowed like a jewel backdropped against black velvet. They’d just left there and hadn’t been alone since the Christmas festivities began more than twelve hours before.

For the president and his family, private traditions often gave way to public ceremonies. Even though today’s event, with only a few dozen of the family’s friends and supporters, had been a smaller, quieter affair than the official White House party that had hosted hundreds a few weeks before, politics was a silent, ever-present undercurrent. She didn’t care for politics. She’d grown up in a political world. Living abroad with her ambassador father, she’d learned young that every message had subtext and often another meaning entirely than what was said aloud. Nothing was as it appeared on the surface, anywhere but at home. In the laughter- and art-filled villa with her painter mother and a father who adored them both, she’d been safe and protected and loved. All that had ended the morning he’d gotten into a car that exploded before her eyes, destroying the myth of security her parents had so painstakingly created for her. From that moment on, securing the lives of those entrusted to her had become her life.

Blair threaded her arms around Cam’s neck and kissed her. Leaning into her, molding herself to the angles and planes she knew so well but never grew tired of exploring, she rested her cheek against Cam’s shoulder. “What is it? Something’s making you sad.”

Cam wrapped her arms around Blair’s waist and stroked the soft skin above the scooped back of her silk dress. She kissed the golden hair at Blair’s temple and nuzzled the fragrant waves. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. You know how I feel about festivities.”

“Oh, Christmas Grinch is back?” Blair laughed softly and smoothed her hands over Cam’s chest. “I know you don’t really mean it, there’s something else.”

“I was just thinking about being alone with you. Really alone.”

Blair tilted her head back, studied Cam’s face. “I’m really selfish. Sometimes I forget that I’m not the only one who lives in a fishbowl because of my father. I’ve dragged you right into it, haven’t I? The wedding is just going to make it worse.”

“Hey, no. I’m not complaining. I wouldn’t change one single thing about being with you.” Cam shook her head, trying to shake off the melancholy. “You were wonderful today, as usual. The press practically genuflects at your feet, although I can see why.” She buried her fingers in Blair’s hair and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. Her heart beat hard when she pulled away. “You’re smart, beautiful, charming—”

“Cameron,” Blair murmured, nibbling on Cam’s lower lip, “if you just want to get laid, you don’t have to flatter me.”

Cam laughed and the clouds lifted. “When you put it like that, who could resist?”

“Well, not you, I hope.” Blair brushed back the black wave of hair that insisted on falling across Cam’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re all right? Is it the new mission?”

“I won’t deny it’s on my mind.” Cam clasped Blair’s hand and led her toward the bedroom. “Terrorism doesn’t stop for holidays—in fact, holidays are a prime time to make a statement. I need to get my team together and start moving on this. Especially with Andrew scheduled to leave right after New Year’s.”

“You think they’ll try again?” Blair didn’t quite mask the tremor in her voice.

“No reason to think that.” Angry at herself for worrying Blair, Cam yanked off her jacket and tossed it over a stuffed chair near the bed. “But we can’t assume there isn’t a backup plan, and we can’t allow terrorists to believe they can launch an attack on the president of the United States without reprisal.”

Blair nodded, her jaw set and her eyes clear of fear. “What do you plan to do first?”

Cam unbuttoned her shirt and stripped it off along with the silk undershirt. “First thing is to decide who I can read in on this. Then I plan to talk to someone who might be able to give me a closer look at what’s going on with the militia groups.”

“Unzip me.” Blair turned her back to Cam. “Who?”

“I’ve got a few contacts who can put me in touch with other agents monitoring paramilitary organizations. I might have to call in some favors, but I’ll start there.”

“I guess you won’t be able to stay away from fieldwork.”

Cam teased the zipper down to the small of Blair’s back, brushed the straps of Blair’s midnight gown from her shoulders, and pulled her back against her chest. She kissed Blair’s shoulder at the curve of her neck. “I would if I could, but we can’t afford a leak. And the only way to contain a leak is to limit those in the know. Everyone who does know will need to be boots on the ground.”

Blair stiffened but kept her voice light. “You’re a deputy director of Homeland Security. You don’t have to get your boots wet.”

Cam pushed Blair’s dress slowly down over her hips where it gathered at her feet like a glimmering pool under the moonlight. Sliding both hands up Blair’s torso, she cupped her breasts and brushed her mouth over Blair’s ear. “I know what you want. I’ll do my best.”