Radclyffe - Oath of Honor

She’d called her best friend Emory for advice—not just because she’d known Emory since they’d shared a cadaver at Penn, but because Emory knew intimately the landscape and the people Wes would be spending every moment of her life with for the next year, or maybe the next five.

“Are you kidding, Wes?” Emory had said when Wes reached her en route to the island. “It’s an amazing opportunity. God, you’ll have a front-and-center for events that might change the future of the whole world. And you’ll be doing what you’re trained to do.”

“But I’m a teacher, not a clinician,” she’d protested.

“Uh, excuse me—don’t you teach trauma care to military medical personnel?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t you spend ten months supervising a field hospital—”

“Yes, but—”

“And—”

“Emory,” Wes said patiently, “I suck at politics.”

“Huh.” Emory fell silent for a moment. “This is true.”

“So—”

“Should I mention honor and duty and—”

Wes sighed. “No. I already considered that.”

“And?”

And she’d said yes to this new job because to do otherwise seemed impossible. She’d rarely been faced with impossible decisions, and she wasn’t sure yet how she felt about a situation she didn’t control. Nevertheless, she’d called her boss, Rear Admiral Cal Wright, and said she was honored to accept, and he’d passed the word up the chain of command. Her final security interview wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, but she’d been told to liaise with her new unit today. Several teleconferenced interviews and a lot of rushed paperwork later, here she was.

Short of any more surprises, she’d be moving her hastily packed belongings to a government-provided apartment within walking distance of the White House as soon as she could arrange movers. Until then, she’d be in a hotel. She was used to moving at short notice, but she usually knew what she faced.

1155. In five minutes, she’d find out.

She slowed her rental car as a red pickup truck pulling a battered fishing boat on a rickety trailer edged onto the narrow two-lane in front of her. She could just make out a hard-packed-dirt boat ramp half-hidden in a narrow strip of pines separating the winding coast road from the pristine shore on the ocean side of the island. The pickup headed in the opposite direction, probably bound for the huge marina she’d passed a half mile back. The marina boatslips, marine offices, and waterside cabins that ringed a narrow-necked inlet were the only commercial development she’d seen since leaving the mainland.

Mentally she ran down the stats she’d received by e-mail that morning. Whitley Island was privately owned and home to one of the largest private military contractors in the nation. Tanner Whitley had inherited Whitley Industries on the death of her father over a decade before, and she’d expanded into government security as American geopolitics exploded globally. Personal info on Whitley was scant. She lived with a female naval officer, and from what Wes had seen of the island, industrialization had not followed Tanner Whitley home. The few visible private residences were separated by large tracts of untouched evergreen forests and set well back from the undulating shoreline along the Atlantic. The place was wild and beautiful, even snow-covered and frozen under the December winter.

As she’d been driving, the already scant signs of habitation gradually disappeared. When she reached the northern end of the island, the narrow road ended in a cul-de-sac bordering a wooded property. The drive leading up to a pair of closed ten-foot-high wrought-iron gates set into a natural stone wall was congested with signs of high-level security. Unmarked black SUVs with smoked windows lined the turnaround. A man and a woman, both in dark suits, monochromatic shirts, and dark glasses, stood side by side in front of the gates.

Squiggly radio feeds running from behind their left ears and steely expressions pegged them as security. The discreet lapel pins, conservative suits, and all-American good looks said federal agents. These weren’t rent-a-cops or gun-for-hire mercenaries. The man was six foot four and on the lean side. Wes would have pegged him for a runner, except the broad shoulders and solid thighs that stretched his not-off-the-rack suit said serious weight training. The woman was maybe five-six or seven and looked toned and fit, but next to him, she looked downright delicate. Wes doubted she was. Her tailored jacket and pants, crisp white opened-collared shirt, and low-heeled black boots screamed style while being completely functional. Definitely professionals. Considering the event—Secret Service.

Neither of them moved as Wes parked behind a long line of empty vehicles, exited, and walked toward them, but she knew they were following her every step. She couldn’t see their eyes behind the unnecessary shades. The sky was blanketed in a thick cover of gray clouds, and she doubted either of them had any trouble seeing in the flat midday light. Being able to observe without being observed was a power play. It probably worked on civilians.

“I’m Captain Wesley Masters,” she said when she stopped a few feet away from them, stating the obvious, as the insignia on her dress blues, visible under her open topcoat, clearly indicated her rank. “I’m here to liaise with the Medical Unit.”

“We know all the members of the WHMU,” the woman said in a surprisingly full, smooth alto. No intonation. Not aggressive, not challenging, not interested. Just the facts, thank you, ma’am. “You’re not on it.”

Up close, Wes could see that what she had taken for glossy dark hair was actually a deep burgundy—as if the midnight sky was flaming. Barely tamed curls fell to below the crisp white collar and fanned artfully around what appeared to be a sharply drawn but distinctive face. She’d put the eyes at blue on a guess, but the opaque shades made it impossible to tell. The agent had a body under those clothes, despite the suit being cut, intentionally Wes would bet, to blunt her figure. The tailored lines couldn’t hide the curves of her breasts and thighs—she was fit and flinty and quite attractively female. The guy with her still hadn’t said anything. The redhead was in charge.

“Your intel is out-of-date, then,” Wes said, and the agent stiffened perceptibly. “You might want to check with your boss.” She turned her wrist slightly. 1159. One minute. “If you could do that promptly, I’d appreciate it.”

One perfectly sculpted brow arched above the flat rim of the dark shades. “ID, please.”

Wes slid her hand into the pocket of her topcoat and handed over her military ID card. She smiled. “Here you are.”

The male agent’s lips lifted in a faint smile. The woman’s face remained blank. Beautiful and remote. Wes waited while the agent spoke softly into her wrist mic. A few seconds later, the agent held out her ID.

“You’re cleared to enter, Captain.”

The man turned to open the gate. Wes slid her ID back into her pocket. “Thank you, Agent…”

“Daniels, ma’am,” Agent Daniels said formally. “An agent will meet you just inside the gate to escort you.”

“Thank you,” Wes said. “I’m sure I can find—”

“It’s protocol. Captain.”

“Understood.” Wes stepped through the gates and they swung closed behind her. She had a lot to learn, and she was out of her element on every level. Hopefully the WHMU personnel would be a little more welcoming than Agent Daniels.

*

“She the one?” Gary Brown asked as the gates swung closed behind the naval officer.

“Looks like it.” Evyn scanned the approach road and the dense underbrush growing right up to the shoulders. The advance team had been on-site for four days and had locked down the north half of the island. Fire roads and beach-access lanes that might provide curious onlookers and those with more serious agendas a way to get close to Whitley Manor had been barricaded and were being patrolled by agents, on foot and ATV. A two-mile no-fly zone had been established around the island. As protective details went, this one was fairly close to ideal. One access road, no surrounding buildings with line of sight, and the only other approach by sea. They had the Coast Guard patrolling that. There was even an expansive lawn big enough and clear enough to accommodate Marine One, so no motorcade route to secure. The nearest hospital was a short helo ride away. All in all, today looked routine, but that wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. Complacency bred error. And she didn’t make mistakes.