Baxter Road, Nantucket
Iwoke on Thursday to the sound of a ringing cell phone. After a few fumbles trying to find the damn thing, I answered and heard the familiar automated instruction: “Go secure.”
I punched in the code and waited.
Soon the automated voice was replaced with a human one. One of the CSTC computer guys was on the line, reminding me of the systems upgrade scheduled for this morning. I must have missed the memo, but I needed the boost in order to receive additional updates from the smorgasbord of national intelligence agencies. I took the phone downstairs to the kitchen to make some coffee, and fired up my laptop as the tech on the other end fiddled with the behind-the-screen gibberish.
The vast sums Tristan had invested in our IT infrastructure bought quick results: The guy back in Maryland was able to make the necessary adjustments by simultaneously interconnecting the computer of every CSTC principal across the globe.
As the software was downloading, Rowan Anderson waltzed back into my house without knocking.Since when were Secret Service agents authorized to walk into my living room at will?Another memo I must have missed. But she was very good-looking, so I didn’t complain too much.
I waved her over, and motioned that she should help herself to some coffee.
As Rowan made her way to the kitchen, I noticed she was wearing her pistol. Her radio gear was strapped to her belt too.
“Sorry, Nat—just came by to let you know that it turns out Idohave to work today. Dinner tonight instead?”
“No sweat. Come on over when you’re done—I’ll be here.”
She was clearly trying to get a look at my laptop screen, but CSTC operations were none of her damn business. I especially didn’t need the Secret Service prying into our operations, so I obscured her view of the screen by tilting it down a little.
“Sorry, Curious Georgette,” I said with a smile, “the Man in the Yellow Hat says you lack the clearance to see the stuff I’m working on.”
Rowan gave me a grin, flipped me the bird, and blew me a kiss. Then she marched out the door, waving goodbye over her shoulder.
Guess I’d have to prove myself over dinner.
I finished the computer download and decided to check in with Tristan about his latest endeavor. He could hardly contain himself as he asked what additional equipment we would need. Tristan was practically bubbling over with the new operational possibilities we would have to be prepared to execute.
We talked for almost an hour, giving me plenty of time to make some lists. I told Tristan that we would review the concepts in detail when the team arrived on Friday.
That’s when my boss mentioned the information in my third missed memo of the day: He was flying the team up on one of the CSTC jets to maximize our time. He had already drawn up the itinerary; all I had to do was collect them at the airport.
At least we wouldn’t be workingallweekend. We had the party at the Wilsons to relax a little.
Si Wilson pulled up in an old Jeep CJ-5, then jumped out and jogged to the door. He told me how much his parents had enjoyed meeting me and thanked me again for the job offer. Si said he was anxious to get to Maryland to see the compound—and, hopefully, get in some trigger time on the shooting range.
His excitement reminded me of when I began my career with the Rangers. That kind of enthusiasm was contagious and I knew he would do well.
* * *
The Special Agent in Charge looked incredible. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress that showcased her bronzed shoulders and muscular arms, not a tan line in sight. The simple design—plain enough not to reveal too much, but figure-hugging enough to draw attention—complimented her athletic body perfectly.
We headed to the Rope Walk, my favorite restaurant in town. A dinner that fit my budget at a table overlooking the million-dollar boats lined up along the docks and mooring buoys of the Nantucket Boat Basin was my idea of pure capitalist fantasyland.
We enjoyed a sunset cocktail and talked like old friends.
Like most people in her profession, Rowan Anderson was never really off duty. She constantly checked her phone for messages from her fellow agents. After watching the way sherelated to her team, I couldn’t imagine anyone other than her running the detail.
In a lot of ways, Rowan reminded me of Meg Fuller. Their personalities were so similar that they could have been sisters. Or colleagues, given the effortless way each slid into teammate roles in male-dominated professions.
We finished dinner and took a walk along the dock to admire the yachts. The sun was setting, and the view of the floating estates—and the generations of wealth they represented—was striking.
As we stood there admiring one of the mega-boats, Rowan leaned into me, inspiring me to go for broke: I put my arm around her and pulled her closer. Her firm body nestled against my chest and I felt her arm wrapping around my waist. We were a good fit.
I wanted to get to know her better. Of course, she was leaving for Chicago on Monday. And after that, who knew?
We drove back toward my place, still with the same easy conversation. We talked about relationships and recounted some of the more notorious dating disasters we’d each had over the years. Though mine eclipsed hers in drama, I was thoroughly content to imagine a positive outcome for the evening.
