Radclyffe - Price of Honor

Dusty patted Atlas’s head. “Good work, boy. Time for a break.”

His eyes gleamed. He loved his work. Outside, she put Atlas in the rear of the SUV to wait along with a handful of kibble in a bowl. Once the motorcade arrived, she and the other K9 agents would rotate surveilling the exits and keeping watch on the vehicles while the president was inside.

“How far out are they?” she asked Phil Virtucci, who had just finished talking into a radio.

“Ten minutes.”

Dusty jumped into the SUV to warm up, slid her personal phone out of her pants pocket, and texted, How was your flight?

Wonderful. Yours?

Bumpy.

Sorry! Is it cold out there?

Dusty laughed. It’s Chicago in January. Balmy.

LOL. Almost there. Stay warm. C u later.

Warmth flooded her chest. She hadn’t let herself think about what she was doing when she’d texted, or she might not have. She was glad now she had. Viv seemed to like hearing from her, and she really liked thinking about her. Usually she spent a lot of her downtime with her mind blank, in that state of ready awareness that marked the mindset of any soldier or law enforcement agent who needed to spring into action in a split second. She hadn’t thought about Viv while she and Atlas had been patrolling. That was right. Being able to think about her in these rare free moments felt right too. This feeling of connection that persisted even when she was alone was powerful and amazingly exciting. The only time she’d ever felt anything even close was the always-present link she shared with Atlas. He pushed back the dark corners of loneliness. Viv did more than that—she opened a door to possibility.

She heard the approach of the motorcycle escort leading the motorcade and tucked thoughts of Viv away in a special place to be revisited later. She climbed out, zipped her jacket against the wind, and clipped Atlas’s lead to his collar.

“Come on, boy. Back to work.”

Atlas grinned.

*

“Look at him,” she murmured to Cam. “He’s having fun.”

“I think he likes being out in public as much as Bill Clinton,” Cam whispered back.

Blair laughed. She and Cam rode in the presidential limo, tagged the Beast by the agents, with her father and Lucinda. Tom Turner occupied the front passenger seat while another PPD agent drove. Only Secret Service agents drove the vehicles with the president aboard. They had the best evasive driving training, recertified every month at the training center, and could whisk POTUS away to a safe house along a preplanned evacuation route in the case of an attack. The rest of the PPD and Stark with her shift rode in the SUVs following them.

Lucinda said, “Do you want your notes?”

“I’ll look them over when we get there,” Andrew said.

“You won’t have much time if you want to stay on schedule. And we’ll need to leave by nine.”

“Are you trying to remind me I shouldn’t talk too long?” He grinned, looking boyish and disgustingly fresh for the early hour.

Blair had consumed two cups of very good coffee on the flight and still felt a little sluggish. Of course, it was still dark out.

Lucinda smiled, a fond smile, but her tone was all business. “I was going to suggest you not go off script.”

“That’s asking a lot, Luce,” Blair teased. “You know he likes to ad-lib.”

“Much to Adam’s chagrin,” her father said.

“And the press secretary’s,” Lucinda added.

“At least you can think fast enough to stay out of trouble,” Blair said. “Most of the time.”

“I promise to stick to the draft.” Andrew squeezed Luce’s hand.

The brief gesture might have been simple familiarity, but Blair thought otherwise. They were incredibly discreet, as they would have been under any circumstances. The public and many White House insiders loved to speculate about the relationship between the president and his female chief of staff. There’d never been anything beyond the never-ending speculation to suggest there was anything intimate between them, but Blair had known them both since childhood, and being with Cam had taught her to recognize the look of love. For a while, she’d felt sorry they couldn’t be more expressive, that they couldn’t own what was between them, but then she realized they were adults and had chosen this path. She suspected they were happy with where the relationship was now. Luce was an incredible asset to the presidency. She was brilliant, decisive, commanding when she had to be, and a peacemaker when called for. She gave the president good counsel and protected him when need be. What the two of them had worked, and Blair suspected eventually there would be more.

She leaned closer to Cam, letting their shoulders touch. She needed the physical contact as much as she loved it. She was the opposite of her father where love was concerned. She never wanted to hide what was between them, even at the risk of creating public controversy. She would’ve tried if her father had asked, but she doubted she would’ve been successful. What she shared with Cam was too important, too critical to the core of her existence, to pretend their relationship was other than the center of her life. She slid her hand into Cam’s and Cam smiled. That smile and the heat in Cam’s eyes was all she needed.

The motorcade turned down the broad avenue leading to the convention center, and surprisingly, she found herself looking forward to the morning. Her father was an excellent speaker, and she was incredibly proud of him.

“Hey, Dad,” she said quietly.

Andrew smiled at her. “What, honey?”

“I’m glad you’re going for another four years.”

“I’m glad I’ve got you on my side.” His eyes sparkled as his gaze took in Lucinda and Cam. “All of you.”

*

Cam mentally reviewed the route they’d walk from the limo into the building. The site team had mapped everything out, and she knew every step Andrew and Blair would take. Large crowds pressed against the barricades lining the path from the parking lot to the convention center’s main doors. The rope line was one of the most dangerous places for the protectee since screening individuals outdoors for weapons was an impossible task. Instead, dozens of agents mingled with the crowd—checking faces, looking for individuals dressed inappropriately for the weather or carrying oversized backpacks or satchels, people whose hands were in their pockets. Agents could be heard walking the line uttering, “Hands out of your pockets, please. Hands out of your pockets.”

All the same, it only took an instant to grasp a concealed weapon and fire.

As they stepped from the limo, Blair’s detail was already waiting and moved in on all sides. The president and Lucinda were ahead of them, similarly sheltered. Blair slid her hand into the crook of Cam’s arm. The walk had been shoveled free of ice, but the wind was a force of its own, blustery and fierce, and Cam pulled her close. Reporters and TV crews extended cameras and booms to record the short procession into the building. A few shouted questions, but no one lingered to answer.

Once inside, the lead agents directed the president down a side hallway where he would enter the stage from the rear. Stark indicated a side entrance to the auditorium through which they could reach their front-row seats. As they entered, a handful of reporters from the local and national news surged forward against the inner rope line. For the moment, this was the only story to be had.

“How does the president really feel about having a lesbian daughter?” someone called.

“How do you think your marriage will affect your father’s position in conservative states?”

“Will he push for a federa—”