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Why the hell does CIA Director Liu need to talk to President Walker off-site, in the middle of the night? Away from everybody, and so far off the books we’re operating in illegal margins?
Whatever the reason, this meeting is so classified that no one in Brennan’s administration can know it’s happening. I’m the closest person on the planet to Brennan, and he hasn’t even told me what’s going on.
Brennan is going to Langley in an SUV that will run dark. I don’t want him going anywhere without my impenetrable layers of security, but that kind of protection draws attention, and right now, he needs to go as unnoticed as possible.
Usually, presidential motorcades are half a mile long, flanked on each end with motorcycle patrols blocking traffic. There are pacer cars, dummy limos, the Counter Assault Team, an ambulance, the comms wagon, electronic countermeasures sweeping the airwaves, a helicopter overwatch, and, of course, my army of agents.
Tonight, there will be none of that.
Our misdirection started hours ago, when the Marine guard outside the Oval Office stood down. There’s a Marine on post whenever the Oval is occupied, and it’s an obvious signal to the world that the president is at work in the West Wing. Brennan’s schedule for the evening has been doctored—a statutory violation—and supposedly he dined alone, made some personal calls, and then turned in early. Right now, according to the official logs, he’s sound asleep.
My earpiece chirps. It’s Assistant Special Agent in Charge Henry Ellis, my deputy and second-in-command—and my best friend. In the stillness, his voice is loud enough for Brennan to hear. “Cupcake ready in the underground.”
That’s Henry. Always cute when he can get away with it. Especially over the radio.
“Time to go.” Brennan’s voice is soft as he takes my hand and kisses my fingers.
Black lightning sparks in Brennan’s eyes when I key my wrist mic and respond. “Acknowledged.”
We move through the silent West Wing, passing the dark offices of the chief of staff and the vice president, and then down the stairs and into the basement garage. Two agents on the doors, two holding position at the walkway. We’ve got the garage sealed, and for the next forty-five seconds, a loop of the surveillance cameras will show nothing but empty concrete and flickering fluorescents.
Brennan’s SUV is blacked out, like nearly every SUV in Washington, but this one is up-armored and bulletproof. There are shotguns in the doors, grenades in the trunk, machine guns beneath the seats. It’s got its own self-contained air supply. Blast plates line the undercarriage. If this vehicle were to roll over an IED, it would chuckle and keep on going.
My best and most capable agents are working tonight. We’re so close we know each other’s resting heart rates and breathing patterns. We’ve seen every side of one another, circled the globe countless times, and fought through the shit that comes with protecting the president of the United States. These guys know me.
So why don’t they know about my relationship with Brennan? We’re the Secret Service: we eviscerate secrets for a living.
It’s only a matter of time. We’re going to get caught. We’re going to give this away. His eyes are on me when they shouldn’t be. I know they are because I ignite whenever he looks at me that way.
Henry’s already behind the wheel, and his stare in the rearview mirror hits me through the open passenger door. You okay?
After years together, he and I can communicate without words, without even gestures. I can read Henry’s concern and heartburn as easily as I can read a crowd. I nod, and Henry’s eyes flick to Brennan as he climbs into the backseat.
Agent Stewart is in the right front seat. He’s one of the Counter Assault guys, and picking him for this assignment meant he had to change out of his black fatigues and put on a suit for a few hours. I only got a little good-natured complaining. Stewart is a good guy. Solid. Dependable. A friend.
Am I the only one who notices Brennan’s clenched fists, the hard ridges of his white knuckles? The indentations in the pouch where he’s gripping it too hard? Probably. I know him inside and out. Deeper, in some ways, than I know myself.
Right now, he’s apprehensive, the dread so thick in his throat he’s nearly choking on it.
It’s killing me to not ride with him, but I’m running this operation from overwatch at the White House.
The drive will be the riskiest part. I told Henry to take Brennan through Rock Creek Park, going north out of DC before turning southwest through Chevy Chase and the Palisades and over the Potomac. It’s an obscure route, darker and quieter than a straight shot to Langley. A few discreet calls to the NPS ensured the park was closed to the public for the night.
Brennan’s eyes meet mine through the ballistic glass as I shut him in—
And I hesitate. Only one second, but it’s a second that throws off the rhythm my agents and I have, and it’s enough for Stewart to glance over his shoulder and raise his eyebrow.
I slap the closed door twice, never taking my eyes off Brennan’s. I’ll be here when you get back to me, mon cher.
Henry rolls forward, through the garage and up the ramp, and Brennan—President Walker—sneaks out of the White House.
We have four hours until they return, and I’m already counting the minutes.
Sixty seconds outside of the White House: they’re clearing the light at Seventeenth Street.
If I could, I’d deputize the earth to serve as my agent, make castles out of forests and knights out of boulders. Whatever it takes to keep Brennan safe.
“Let’s pack it in,” I call.
