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“Good. Be ready to roll in five minutes.” Garret turned and rushed off down the long hallway.
Rivera watched him leave. On more than one occasion she’d visualized delivering a roundhouse kick to the man’s head. The scuttlebutt among the campaign staffers was that, win or lose, Garret wasn’t sticking around. He’d been chief of staff for a brief period under a previous administration and openly complained that it was the worst six months of his life. He was a hired gun who had accepted a rumored seven-figure fee to come in and bail out the campaign. Rivera had heard him say on more than one occasion that anyone willing to work for a government salary was a chump. This, of course, further endeared him to the agents who were assigned to protect his candidates.
Rivera started for the front door. She was dressed in a dark blue pantsuit with a light blue blouse. She never wore skirts or dresses, at least not when she was on duty. They simply weren’t practical. Every agent on the detail carried the new FN 5.7 pistol and two extra clips of ammunition. The FN 5.7 was the finest pistol she’d ever fired. It carried twenty armor-piercing rounds in the grip plus one in the chamber and had half the recoil of the old Sig. In addition to her weapon she carried her secure Motorola digital radio, a mobile phone, and a BlackBerry. All of that gear had to be stowed someplace and a dress just wasn’t going to cut it.
Rivera opened the large, front door and stepped out onto the stone terrace of the Dumbarton Mansion. She was a walking contradiction—understated yet beautiful, graceful yet athletic. Her shiny black hair was almost always pulled back in a simple ponytail. Thanks to her ancestors she was blessed with a wrinkle-free complexion. She wore very little makeup while on duty and made every effort to downplay her looks. The Secret Service was still very much a men’s club. A men’s club with an extremely difficult job. Part of that job was to be seen. To let people know they were there at all times monitoring the situation. At no point, though, were they to outshine the people they were protecting.
Donning a pair of sunglasses, she surveyed the scene from the elevated terrace and checked her watch. It was almost a quarter past noon. She couldn’t wait to get Alexander and Ross safely tucked away at the Naval Observatory. Then the vice president’s detail could take over, and she and her team could get a few hours of much needed down time before they had to fly to St. Louis.
Rivera spotted the man she wanted to talk to at the far end of the veranda. She started in his direction. It was drilled into agents to look presentable at all times. Clothes were to be cleaned and pressed. No ties with ketchup stains or dirty shirt collars. Footwear was stressed to the point where one would think they were training for the Olympics. Agents had to stand post for long hours. They needed to be comfortable. It was function over form. Rivera remembered an instructor she’d had at the training center in Beltsville, Maryland, who used to tell female agents if they couldn’t sprint two blocks in their shoes, then they shouldn’t be wearing them. This was the same instructor who used to admonish female agents for wearing skirts. He’d tell them, “Do you want to be remembered as the agent who saved the president’s life by wrestling a gunman to the ground, or do you want to be remembered as the agent who showed the world her panties while tackling an assassin?”
Rivera took all these lessons seriously. That was why she was wearing a pair of black, lace-up loafers with two-inch heels and rubber soles. They were made of patent leather because she hated shining shoes. The rubber sole made them comfortable and quiet. Rivera was reminded of this second attribute as she neared the agent at the far end of the veranda. He had no idea
someone was coming up from behind him. This was a bad sign, rubber soles or not. Her people were running on fumes.
A few feet away she decided to have some fun. She stuck out her finger and jabbed it into the small of the large man’s back. Matt Cash, a nine-year veteran of the Secret Service, jumped as if he’d just been startled from a nap.
“One wrong move and you’re dead,” Rivera laughed.
Cash wheeled around and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he was not amused. “What in the hell is wrong with you?”
Rivera grinned, showing her perfect white teeth.
“The press is right there on the other side of the fence,” Cash whispered.
She looked at the TV vans parked on the street and the photographers perched on ladders so they could shoot over the brick wall. She stepped in front of the agent and looked down at his groin. “You didn’t piss yourself, did you?”
“Yeah,” he said angrily. “Hurry up and give me one of those super jumbo maxi-pads you carry around. Maybe I can soak it up before it seeps through my boxers.”
“Wow…aren’t we in a good mood today?”
“Don’t start with me.” Cash grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and gave them a yank. “I’m sick of this shit.”
Such an open admission caught Rivera off guard. As the special agent in charge of the detail she wasn’t just their boss. She was also their den mother.
“By shit…are you referring to me, your job, or both?”
“Not you,” he snarled. “The job. I’ve been on the road for three straight months. My kids miss me, my wife hates me, and here I am back in DC for the day and I can’t even stop by my own house and say hello.”
Rivera smiled. “Well, I’ve got some good news for you. HQ is going to let us stand down for a few hours while the vice president’s detail babysits our boys.”
Cash’s jaw went slack. “You’re serious.”
“Yep. Take a few hours…go surprise the family. Just don’t miss the plane or I’ll shove one of my maxi-pads up your ass and transfer you to Fargo.”
“So once we get to the Observatory I can take off?” he asked with a smile.
“Not right away. You have to hang around for thirty minutes and then take the princess to her hotel. After that you’re free until five.” The princess Rivera was referring to was Alexander’s wife.
“Why me?” Cash complained.
“Because you’re her favorite, and she asked for you personally.”
“Send someone else.”
“You think this is fuckin’ democracy?” she shot back and waited to see if he would be stupid enough to disagree with her. “I didn’t think so. Take her to the hotel, put her to bed, and then go see your family.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
