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ChapterThree
Brennan
Then
Procedures flow past me. Details of advance teams and travel routes, everything from Air Force One to the motorcade, fall from my mind.
I should be focusing. I should be remembering every detail. I’m certain I need to know the things Reese is telling me: Where the Secret Service posts agents in the White House. How I signal for help. The call buttons that will bring agents to my side in less than three seconds. What happens if an evacuation is ordered.
My mind splinters.
Years ago, I buried a black box on a beach inside myself, full to the brim of truths I couldn’t face. Reese’s voice is the tide, and his words are waves crashing against my hidden shores. The box is unearthing. Rising.
I can’t look away from his eyes.
Not much rattles me anymore, or even surprises me. Twenty years as a humanitarian, and then almost ten as a politician, give you a Möbius strip view of the world.
My political journey began in my home state—mayor of San Francisco, then governor of California—and it was my inability to keep my mouth shut about the frustrations of witnessing a bloodthirsty and ravaging inhumanity spread unchecked that led me here, to the presidency.
A journey like that inures you to shocks to the system.
Or so I believed. My thoughts chase each other, chase the sound of Reese’s voice, try to capture the words falling from his lips.
Damn it, I put this away. It’s been years.
Reese’s brown eyes are flecked with gold, and his light hair is cut short, military precise. Most everyone I’ve seen so far has worn the DC standard of black or deep navy blue, but Reese is in a dove gray suit and a starched white dress shirt, his blue plaid tie flecked with lines of pale yellow.
I’m not supposed to notice how stunning he looks, or how the soft gray sets off his tanned skin. Or the sharpness of the angle of his jaw and the way a muscle has been flexing along the bone there every time he takes a breath.
His voice is a low rumble, too rough for Washington. He’s from somewhere else. Somewhere with daylight lingering between syllables, and where words finish on a subtle growl.
“There’s one last thing, Mr. President,” Reese says. “The relationship between the president and their Secret Service agents is one of the most misunderstood in the world.”
Danger. I want to do a little misunderstanding with Reese, but I’m certain that’s not what he means.
“For us to work seamlessly together, both parties need to operate with two certainties: that you are the president and your job is to be the president, and that we are your protectors and our job is to keep you safe and out of harm’s way.”
“Sounds right.”
“Easy to say, but consider, Mr. President, that your detail agents will spend more time with you than your family. We see everything. We hear everything. We’re often closer than your shadow—and we have to be, to do our jobs.”
Reese as close as my shadow—
“Our badges say, ‘Worthy of Trust and Confidence.’ That’s not just the motto of the Secret Service, Mr. President. It’s the definition of our characters. And it’s important for you to know that. The worst thing that could happen would be for you to lose your trust in us. If you felt you couldn’t trust your detail or thought that you needed to distance yourself from us, we would not be able to do our jobs. The bottom line is, what an agent hears or sees goes with them to their grave, Mr. President.”
I blink. Reese’s words echo in my mind. To the grave. Closer than your shadow.
Something is reaching for him on an atomic level.
The nerves connecting my brain and my vocal cords refuse to work. It’s difficult to believe I was sworn into office today, much less that I ever won an election.
“We work in rings. Your closest circle of protection will be the most senior agents: me and my command team. If you need anything clarified regarding your security, you or your team can reach out to me at any time.”
I should distance myself from Reese. I can have Valerie Shannon, my chief of staff, handle everything. I never need to speak to Reese again, other than “Hello” and “Goodbye” and “Thanks.” I should slam this door and turn my back. Do my job, like he said. Be the president.No distractions.
Because he is a distraction, from a promise I made years ago.
“I’m looking forward to working with you.”
