Radclyffe: Oath of Honor

The guy whose job she’d probably taken smiled. “Pretty much no one, except the president’s chief of staff. Lucinda Washburn runs his schedule, which means she runs pretty much everything. If you need something that affects the president, ask her. Next in line is the head of his personal protection detail, Tom Turner.” Peter scanned the room. “He’s around here somewhere—tall, thin African American, about forty. He’ll provide our weekly itinerary and general assignments, updated every morning at briefing.”

At the mention of the Secret Service detail, Wes thought of Agent Daniels. She’d struck Wes as being a little humorless and a short step away from unfriendly—a lot like some of the military police she knew. Maybe that was just an occupational trait in closed groups with little regard for outsiders. “Where exactly do we fall in the chain of command?”

Peter waggled his hand. “We have to liaise with the Secret Service pretty intimately, because when he moves, they move, and we go with them.”

“Separate but equal?”

He shrugged. “That’s not exactly how they see it but, technically, yes. If a situation impacts his physical security, they carry the ball. If it has to do with his medical safety, we do.”

“And if we disagree?”

He smiled for the barest second. “Depends on who has the biggest bark.”

“Or bite?”

“That too.”

Wes sighed inwardly. She hated politics. What the hell had she been thinking?

*

Evyn made her way along the veranda to the rear of the house, where they’d set up their command post. After four hours outside in the wind and cold, she was ready for a cup of coffee or ten. She had no idea how much longer they’d be stuck out here in the ass-end of nowhere, but she was pretty sure she’d be outside again before they left. Departure time was fluid, depending on how long the postnuptial celebrations went on. It didn’t matter much to her. Other than being outside in the damn cold, she didn’t care how long she worked. The more she worked, the more overtime she made and the less free time she had to figure out how to fill until her next shift. There was only so much after-work socializing she could do with the other members of the detail, only so many movies she could watch while rattling around her apartment in Alexandria, and only so much clubbing she could take in search of a few hours’ company.

There had been less and less of the last diversion lately. Sometimes the effort just didn’t seem worth the payoff. She enjoyed the physical anticipation as she got dressed to go out and drove to one DC club or another. The tingle in her belly while she spent a few hours nursing a drink and scanning the room for possibilities kept her mind occupied too. Anything that got her adrenaline surging felt good, and it was hard to complain about sex in any fashion, but more and more when the night was done and she drove home alone after leaving some near stranger’s bed at oh-dark-thirty, she felt dissatisfied. Physically sated maybe, but with the nagging feeling whatever she’d been hoping to find, she hadn’t.

So on those more and more frequent nights when she was at loose ends, the best thing that could happen would be a text telling her the duty roster had changed once again and she had to report for an extra shift, or POTUS had decided on an early-morning run and they needed more bodies to go with him. She never minded.

A couple of her fellow agents were married, and they griped and grumbled about the frequent changes in the rotation, although not so loud anyone higher up could hear them. After all, they did have the premier protection detail. What could be more important than safeguarding POTUS? Some of them tried to have a normal life after hours. She wasn’t one of them and never expected to be. She’d always wanted to do exactly what she was doing—she craved the stress and challenge and satisfaction of her work. Except for the damn cold.

Nodding to the agent huddled in his topcoat on the porch of the truly awesome house, she stamped her feet on the deck to clear the snow from her boots and pushed through the door into the big kitchen that took up half the rear of the house. Caterers and waiters and busboys bustled around, replacing half-empty champagne glasses with full ones, pulling trays of hot hors d’oeuvres from the oven, and sliding cold canapés from the refrigerator. A huge coffee urn sat on a sideboard with a stack of what looked like honest-to-God china cups next to it. No way was she drinking out of one of those. She grabbed one of the paper takeaway cups pushed back under one of the cabinets and filled it to the brim with hot black coffee. Carefully making her way around the party staff, she eased through the door into the dining room, where several agents observed video feeds from external cameras, watched computer monitors displaying overhead satellite images, and manned the radio COM center. Several greeted her, and she flicked a finger in their direction.

She shed her coat, tucked it into the closet at the far end of the room, and meandered down the hall toward the noisy celebration. The coffee was hot and strong and she sipped it appreciatively. Her fingers and toes started to warm. Maybe there was life beyond December after all. She stopped in an archway with a view of the great room and automatically scanned the space looking for the other agents. Finding them posted strategically around the perimeter, and satisfied all was as it should be, she leaned a shoulder against the archway and relaxed.

She knew everyone at the gathering, either personally, by sight, or from reviewing the guest list at the morning briefing. The only person out of place was the woman standing directly across the room from her. Captain Wesley Masters. Evyn would have noticed her under any circumstances—and who wouldn’t? Her face was a striking combination of elegant angles and sweeping planes, her eyes that vivid sparkling green, her toned body showcased in the immaculate uniform. Uniforms really didn’t do much for her, since she was surrounded by people wearing them all the time, but just the same, Masters looked good in hers. Very good. Lean hips, medium breasts, narrow waist, and slightly broader shoulders. Evyn didn’t have to work hard to conjure up a fantasy of wrapping her legs around those tight hips and twisting her hands in those thick, sun-kissed locks. Instantly, she banished the image. Masters was not fantasy material. She was all too real and was probably going to be a pain in the ass.

POTUS was about to embark on his reelection campaign, which meant constant traveling, insane hours, unpredictable changes in the itinerary, and very real threats at every stop. It was game time, and no one, including the green medical officer across the room, was going to have the luxury of time to adjust to the new circumstances. Masters would have to hit the ground running, and hopefully she’d be able to absorb everything she needed to know in record time.

“Have you met the new WHMU chief yet?” a rumbling voice asked from beside her.

She turned toward Tom Turner, her boss and head of PPD. “Saw her when she came in. Surprise, surprise.”

Tom winced. “You know how it is. Decisions get made, people forget to share.”

“Uh-huh.” Politics—same old BS. “Kind of rushed to just drop her in like this, don’t you think? We never even had a briefing.”

“I’m sure the other members of her team will brief her on the medical end of things,” Tom went on.

Evyn sipped her coffee, watching Masters move away from Pete until she was standing alone at the edge of the crowd. Her face was composed, unreadable really, as she carefully focused on first one individual in the crowd then another, as if she was memorizing their faces. Maybe she was.