Radclyffe - Honor Guards

Blair wasn't certain that Cam had heard the question, but it was clear to her that no previously determined official destination was secure. Suddenly, she leaned toward the front and spoke to Felicia in a low voice. "Drive to the Mass Turnpike and head east. And I need to use your phone."

Briefly, Felicia flicked her eyes to Blair's in the rearview mirror, then back to the road as she removed her cell phone from the pocket of her sweats. Handing it through to Blair, she murmured, "Yes, ma'am."

While what was left of her security team attempted to coordinate their safe passage, the president's daughter decided to make arrangements for a temporary sanctuary on her own. She'd spent half her life disappearing, and she'd been very good at it. Praying that she could get an open line in the midst of a panic that must be overburdening the telephone systems, she pushed 411. Sighing in relief when an operator finally answered, she gave a name and address and waited for a connection. Answer. Please answer.

Expelling a pent-up breath at the sound of a voice on the line, Blair said urgently, "Tanner? It's Blair. I've got a problem."

Blair closed the phone just as Stark and Cam finished their calls. She looked from her lover to Paula Stark. Both were hurt. Both at the very minimum needed first aid for their wounds, if not professional medical attention. Felicia was holding up, but she looked shell-shocked. What she was about to say was only going to add immeasurably to everyone's pain, but there was nothing she could do. In a voice dry as tinder, she repeated what she'd just been told. "The South Tower of the World Trade Center just collapsed."

"No!" Stark jerked forward on her seat, her eyes wild. "That's impossible. There are 50,000 people in that building." Renee! Renee is there!

"Paula," Blair said softly.

"Listen," Felicia said abruptly from the front seat. "I've got something coming over the scanner here."

The vehicle grew eerily quiet as the sound of a disembodied voice filled the silence.

United Airlines flight 93 has crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, presumably en route to a target in Washington, DC.

"Is that number four?" Blair's voice was tight with disbelief. "This can't be. This just can't be."

Cam reached for Blair's hand as Stark slumped in her seat, her face ashen. "It's imperative now that we maintain radio silence. No one makes any calls except me."

"Renee is in the South Tower," Stark said, her voice trembling. "Can I call her?"

"I'm sorry, no." Cam's tone revealed none of her regret. "We have no idea who is behind these attacks, or how much they know, or where the next target might be. We can't risk broadcasting our location."

"Cam," Blair said quietly, her heart aching. "One more call couldn't hurt, could it?"

"I don't know what might hurt at this point. I can't risk it." The disappointment in Blair's face stung, and Cam's question came out more abruptly than she intended. "Who were you just talking to?"

Taken aback, Blair stared, and caught the flicker of pain in Cam's eyes before they went flat. That brief glimpse of her lover's anguish dispelled her own mounting anger. Cam's leg was rigid beneath their joined hands. The only visible sign of the terrible strain she was under was the low, tight tone of her voice. The depths of her charcoal eyes, however, were nothing more than opaque obsidian reflections, more impenetrable than Blair had ever seen. Oh, darling, I can't imagine what it's costing you to do this.

Gently, Blair replied, "An old friend of mine from prep school. We can go there—it's as secure as any place right now. Probably more."

Cam narrowed her eyes. "Were you lovers?"

Blair blinked. "I hardly think that matters now."

Impatiently, Cam shook her head and bit back a grunt of pain. "No, if you were, it's probably a matter of record. Somewhere, someone put it in a file, and we don't know what intelligence has been compromised."

"God, do you really think something from so long ago—"

"I don't know, Blair. Jesus, I've got one dead agent—"

"Mac?" Felicia cried.

"No," Cam replied swiftly. "Parker. Reynolds said Mac was unconscious but alive when he reached him. He managed to commandeer a NYPD cruiser off the street to transport Mac to NYU hospital." In a gentler tone, she added, "That's all I know, except that Mac is tough."

Blair stroked her hand absently along Cam's thigh. "Tanner was never my lover. And she lives in a fairly remote area. I told her we were coming."

Cam sorted through options, ranking them in order of possible security risks. Until she had more information about the nature and extent of the attacks, she couldn't be certain that any federal or military installation was secure. In all likelihood, Foster had passed along the details of their internal evac routes to whoever was behind the assault. She had to admit they'd be better off lying low in a civilian location. "All right. Where are we going?"

"Whitley Island."

1005 11 September 2001:

The skies over America are empty.

For almost a minute, there was complete silence in the vehicle. Felicia drove east toward the Mass Turnpike at a steady sixty-five miles per hour. Stark leaned against the door, her face turned to the window, her eyes glazed. She was shivering uncontrollably.

"Cam," Blair said quietly, nodding in Stark's direction. "She needs medical attention. And so do you."

"I don't want to stop yet." Cam kept her voice low out of habit, although in actuality, the only people she could absolutely trust were in the car with her. Other than Mac, and she missed him tremendously now. "I don't think we're being pursued, but I don't know if there's another assault team looking for us or already on an intercept course. The last thing I want to do is go to a hospital and televise to the world where you are."

"Can't we drop her off at a hospital somewhere, then?"

A brief, sad smile crossed Cam's face. "You don't really think she'd go, do you? Plus, I can't afford to lose another agent. I need her on the job."

"You can assemble tbe rest of the team in a few hours once we reach Tanner's."

"No, I can't." Cam rubbed her eyes. "Foster was part of the attack, Blair. I can't trust any of the agents now. Every one of them is a suspect."

"All right," Blair conceded. Carefully, she moved to the opposite seat, knelt facing the rear, and leaned over the back of the seat into the storage compartment behind it. She rummaged around until she found the emergency medical kit, which she lifted back over the seat and set on the floor. Then she resumed her search and, a few minutes later, swiveled around with a bundle of clothing in her arms. "The Suburbans may be ugly as hell, but they're very well equipped. I've got the ever-present blue polo shirts and one-size-fits-all khaki pants. Felicia and Paula can at least get out of their damp clothes."

"Davis," Cam said. "Pull into the first drive-off you see. Park well away from any other vehicles."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ten minutes later, Davis pulled the Suburban into a rest stop, drove to the far end of the narrow parking lot, and stopped. Blair slid over next to Stark.

"Paula," she said gently, putting her hand lightly on Stark's arm. "Let's get your T-shirt off so I can take a look at your shoulder. I've got a dry shirt for you, too."

Stark, her gaze slightly unfocused, searched Blair's face. She blinked. "Thank you. You don't need to do that. I can take care of it. You should see to the commander."

"Yes, I will. But you first." Patiently, Blair waited.

After another few seconds' hesitation, Stark lifted her T-shirt with her left hand, but couldn't mange to raise her right.

"Let me help you with that," Blair said, carefully manipulating the garment and working it slowly over Stark's injured right arm. The sports bra she wore beneath was wet with sweat and blood. "Take off the bra, too."