Radclyffe - Price of Honor

“Lucinda emailed me the almost-maybe-for real-final itinerary,” Blair said. “We leave tomorrow at zero five hundred. First stop, Chicago.”

“I got one from Tom Turner too. The next countdown meeting is this afternoon. I want to pay a visit to Jennifer Pattee before that.”

“Cam, you could use another day in bed.”

“I won’t argue,” Cam said. “But I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

“I’ll come with you to the White House. I want to talk to my father about what he needs me to do, anyhow.”

Cam cupped the back of her neck and kissed her. “We’ve got the morning to ourselves, then.”

Blair shifted on the sofa and slipped her hand higher, caressing the underside of Cam’s breast. “I think you should go back to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Cam said, her stomach tightening in anticipation.

Blair lightly scraped Cam’s lower lip with her teeth, ending with a soft flick of her tongue. “I didn’t say you should go to sleep.”

*

Idaho Senator Franklin Russo clicked the remote and turned off the morning news. The local channels were still carrying follow-up stories to the destruction of the local paramilitary compound in the Bitterroot Mountains. They didn’t call it a paramilitary compound, but a wilderness camp owned by Augustus Graves, a local businessman who’d perished in the fire. The federal agents had obviously spun many of the details because there’d been no discussion of a firefight, hostages, or casualties. The story in the news was of an accidental explosion of a stockpile of weapons a local survivalist group had acquired in anticipation of future gun restrictions. From what he’d been able to learn from Hooker’s contact in the local sheriff’s department, the weapons exchange fronted by his money—or rather, the money of several of his wealthy donors—had never taken place. The Renegades, a biker group supplying the weapons, had started a shootout with the militia and all hell had broken loose. He’d helped instigate the gun battle by spreading a rumor that the militia was in bed with the ATF and planned to entrap the Renegades. He’d known he might sacrifice his money, but he’d had no choice once he’d learned the militia had captured a federal agent. As it turned out, not just one agent, but two. He couldn’t be involved with something like that. He’d needed distance, and the best kind of distance was the silence of the dead. There’d been no rumor in the news or anywhere else that could lead back to him. The only people who knew of his involvement with the militia were his aide, Derek, who he trusted completely, and his hired gun, Hooker, who he trusted quite a bit less. Still, Hooker had his uses.

Hooker was a mercenary with the kind of contacts Franklin couldn’t approach himself. As long as their association with the now-deceased Augustus Graves was unknown, he could continue to use Hooker. After all, he still had an agenda. His presidential campaign was growing in strength, but Andrew Powell was still a popular president among both the left and the center. Only the far right could see Powell for the debauched liberal he was, and in order to strengthen his own position with the less radical contingents, Franklin needed to weaken Powell’s. And what better way to shake voter confidence than to show the American people their president was incapable of leading. That he was vulnerable and weak. Franklin’s money was still out there, and if Hooker could find it, he just might be able to buy himself another weapon.

Chapter Two

Dusty stroked Atlas’s sleek, muscular back and read the question in the dark chocolate eyes that studied hers. Why are we wasting time in here when we could be working and having some real fun? “I know, I know. I’m not any crazier about this than you are. But public relations is part of the job, right?”

Atlas flicked an ear dismissively. He didn’t care any more for PR or politics than she did. Work was his only interest and his greatest joy, just like it was hers. His long, fluted tail brushed slowly from side to side on the cement floor of the training run, as measured and steady as his temperament. His right shoulder lightly touched the outside of Dusty’s left leg. She had him on a short lead, but it wasn’t really necessary. He wouldn’t leave her side unless she gave him the command to search or release. But since they were meeting a civilian, she wanted to send the message he wasn’t a pet and ought to be given the same respect as any other professional. Too many people didn’t think twice about approaching a strange dog, even when it was obviously a law enforcement dog engaged in serious work. Atlas would tolerate a stranger’s touch if she assured him first it was all right, but it wasn’t fair to him to put him in an awkward situation because of a human’s ignorance.

“I’ll get us out of there as fast as I can, I promise. It’s just a couple of questions and a few photo ops. The bosses say good publicity is always important.” Dusty wasn’t any more eager to be interviewed by a member of the press than Atlas was to be inside when he’d rather be out on the training course. Dog stories were apparently popular with the public and, according to public affairs, created sympathy and support for the federal agencies who employed them, helping to balance the more frequent critical portrayals that seemed the daily fodder of the press. She didn’t much care how those outside the unit viewed her. She much preferred the company of her dog to almost anyone.

She and Atlas had been together since he was just weeks old. They’d been living and training together over a year. They understood each other, communicating without words more effortlessly than she’d ever been able to communicate with anyone. They slept together, ate together, trained together, worked together, played together. What else could she possibly need? She stroked between his ears for a second and he nudged her leg.

“Eleven thirty. Time to meet the reporter.” She brushed a stray Atlas hair off the front of her dark blue BDU shirt and signaled him to heel. The reporter from the Washington Gazette was doing a feature piece on the role of the Secret Service K9 division in the protection of the president. She didn’t mind talking about Atlas—she loved letting people know how amazing he was. What she wasn’t about to admit was that tomorrow would be the first time she and Atlas took to the field as part of the PPD. She wasn’t a rookie, though. She’d worked with protection dogs on the White House grounds before moving to the explosives-detection unit. Atlas was young but seasoned, with one of the best noses in the division. He’d passed all his training certifications with flying colors, and she couldn’t wait to get started. Instead of preparing for the upcoming operation, she’d gotten stuck with this.

“Twenty minutes,” she muttered and led Atlas down the long hall of the training facility to the conference room at the front of the building. The small room was made smaller by a table too big for the ten-by-fifteen-foot space already crowded with wooden folding chairs and a whiteboard on wheels. The flat fluorescent overheads cast a harsh glow on the off-white walls and scuffed gray tile floor. A metal cart sat in one corner with a coffee urn, a stack of Styrofoam cups, individual plastic containers of cream and packets of sugar, and plastic stir sticks. Otherwise the stark, bare room was empty.

Except for the woman sitting at the end of the table who forced everything else into a monochromatic blur. Even sitting, she looked tall, possibly taller than Dusty’s own five-nine. She was ivory complected with dark, dark hair pulled back from her face and clasped at the back of her neck. Shorter strands slanted across her forehead above arched black brows. Lipstick just short of deep red highlighted a wide full mouth. Her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and heart-shaped face were too angular for conventional beauty, but her piercing dark almond eyes were magnetic, mesmerizing.