Radclyffe - Word of Honor

Valerie followed her, and in comfortable silence they ground coffee, filled the coffeepot, and took down cups while waiting for the coffee to brew. She had never shared such simple domestic moments with anyone in her life. She had never lived with anyone, never had a long-term relationship, never been in love. She had loved another woman, one woman, and loved her still, but not with the consuming need that she felt for Diane.

Valerie leaned back against the counter and Diane put her arms around her waist.

“You told me that Cam hasn’t been able to uncover any evidence that the Company or anyone else is looking for you,” Diane said. “You said the cover story of you being killed in the boat explosion would be enough. Especially with your handler gone.”

“All of that is probably true. Henry was the link between me and whoever he reported to up the company food chain, and with him dead and the cover story Cam put out about my death, I might just be a line item on someone’s tally sheet.” Valerie knew the hole in the argument was that her handler might have given her identity away, but she wasn’t going to frighten Diane over things she couldn’t change. “So with everyone in the intelligence community focused on finding who was behind 9/11, I’m probably not on anyone’s to-do list.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

Valerie looked away.

“I know it’s hard for you to trust me—”

“No,” Valerie said immediately. “I do trust you. It’s just that— listen to yourself. You’re standing in your kitchen talking about handlers and targets and cover stories.” Frustrated and angry, hating the weakness that kept her in Diane’s life when she knew, she knew, it was wrong, Valerie plunged a hand through her short, thick red-blond curls. She’d cut her hair, she’d changed the color, she was wearing green contact lenses to cover her blue irises—another new identity, another new history. But at heart, she remained a cipher, even to herself. “Is this really what you want in your life?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Diane snapped. “Because I’m tired of answering it.” She gave Valerie a small shake and forced her to meet her gaze. “I love you,” she said with slow emphasis on each word. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Any of it.” Valerie closed her eyes and pulled Diane close. They were very nearly the same height, and she rested her cheek against Diane’s. The scent of Diane’s perfume lingered ever so faintly along her hairline. She’d gone to sleep countless nights dreaming of that fragrance. “I don’t have a clue why you love me.”

“Well, I’m tired of telling you.” Diane kissed Valerie’s mouth, then moved to her neck. “So I’ll have to work harder at showing you. Come back to bed. The coffee will keep.”

Valerie laughed softly and abandoned good judgment, letting Diane tease her into surrendering, for the moment.

A stocky young redhead sipped coffee from a tall paper cup as he stood at the window of his rental unit watching Blair Powell’s building. Directly across the gated park that occupied a square city block, the lights came on in Blair Powell’s loft. Shadows flickered behind the drawn curtains of what must be the bedroom. To the casual observer on the street, her windows appeared to be like all the others in the building, but he knew they were constructed of bulletproof glass. The doorman who stood inside the double doors in a topcoat and uniform was also a private security agent. A Secret Service agent would be stationed behind the desk. Secret Service Agent Cynthia Parker had been at that post when his brothers-in-arms had burst through those doors a little over two months before, firing automatic weapons. According to intelligence reports, the female Secret Service agent had killed one of his compatriots before she’d been gunned down. They had expected casualties upon entry, and one death was excellent. They hadn’t anticipated that Cameron Roberts would fire on her own agent without a moment’s hesitation. They had always planned for Secret Service Agent Foster to die during the assault, but not before he had assassinated Blair Powell. They had underestimated Cameron Roberts not once, but twice. That could not happen again.

His cell phone rang, and without taking his eyes off the first daughter’s bedroom, he answered it.

“Yes sir?”

“Good morning, Colonel,” General Thomas Jefferson Matheson said cheerily. “Enjoying the view?”

“Yes sir, very much, sir.”

“I’m happy to report you’ll have the afternoon off.”

Colonel Jonathan Perry frowned. “I’m not due to be relieved until eighteen hundred hours, sir.”

“I’ve been advised that our bird will be flying this afternoon. We’ll pick her up when she lands.”

“Sir, I would prefer to follow her my—”

“Patience, Colonel,” Matheson said, his deep baritone oddly soothing, “our time is very nearly at hand. I have something special planned for you.”

“Yes sir, whatever you say, sir.”

“You might use the time off to buy some new winter clothing. It’s cold in Colorado this time of year.”

“Yes sir,” Perry said with a slow smile. “I’ll do that.”

Chapter Two

Paula Stark halted just inside the reinforced steel door of the command center and surveyed the long rectangular room. Opposite her, floor-to-ceiling windows faced Gramercy Park. The glass was reinforced, shatterproof, and impregnated with filters to block UV and infrared penetration, making video surveillance from external sources impossible. The filters also distorted the view through a high-powered laser rifle scope.

A semicircular monitoring station covered with equipment— satellite receivers, radio transmitters, computers, and every other form of electronic hardware required for communication and intelligence assessment—took up the far end of the room. In addition, separate high-speed computer and surface lines maintained direct links to the NYPD and the New York City Transit Authority in case another 9/11 event necessitated the evacuation of Blair Powell—code name Egret—from the city. Just now, at a little before seven a.m., Secret Service agents from the night shift occupied rolling desk chairs in front of the bank of monitors displaying continuous feeds from the video cameras mounted above the entrance to the building, in the lobby, over the rear exit, and in the underground parking garage.

“Looks like they’re about done.” Renee Savard gestured to two workmen who stood on tall wooden ladders in the center of the room, riveting bulletproof shields to the subfloor of the loft apartment above. Should a bomb detonate in the command center, Blair ’s apartment would be partially buffered from the direct effects of the blast. “Finally.”

“Can’t be too soon for me.” Paula was very aware of Renee’s shoulder almost brushing hers, and she needed to remind herself not to touch her. An hour before they had been lying naked in bed together, which made the transition to being just colleagues a challenge. But what made maintaining her professional distance from Renee even harder was that Renee had come close to dying when the South Tower came down, and not much later had been wounded in the gun battle to apprehend the man believed to be partially responsible for the terrorist attack. Paula had a hard time not constantly touching Renee to reassure herself she was alive and well. Although only slightly taller than Paula’s 5’7”, Renee gave the impression of more height because she’d lost weight, and what had once been a naturally trim, athletic figure was now honed down to taut muscle and bone. Her coffee and cream complexion was as flawless as ever, but her blue eyes had lost their sparkle. In fact, Renee rarely smiled, and Paula missed not just her radiance, but her joy. She forced a smile and tried to keep her tone light. “After an hour of listening to this racket, I have a headache.”