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By the third lap, we’ve loosened up, and we’re back to our usual give-and-take. He does an impression of McClintock’s low, warbling growl that nearly has me down on the lawn, I’m laughing so hard.
Half an hour passes, and we’re three miles into our run, when I open my big mouth and tell him about an idea I had no business thinking up. “If you want to get away from this place for an hour, I think I’ve got something.”
He spins in front of me and runs backward. “Seriously? How? Where would we go?”
He’s imagining something else, just the two of us and something romantic. That’d be fantastic, but the closest he and I are going to get to romance is four a.m. wake-ups and late-night make-out sessions when no one is looking. There’s no world where he and I can sneak out for a date.
“Not that,” I say carefully as we pass Agent Dominguez on the nadir of the track. “I was thinking we could run the National Mall at night. It’s deserted after dark. We could do it as an unscheduled event, which means no overt advance, no heavy security presence, and, ideally, no one recognizing you. We’d look like three late night joggers. You, me, and another close agent running a dot formation.”
The riskiest movements the president makes are the ones that are both public and scheduled in advance. Those give our adversaries time to plan and prepare, and that puts us on the defensive. Movement that is unscheduled, a surprise, is impossible to plan for and—counterintuitively—safer.
He mulls it over for a quarter lap.
“I know it’s not Baker Beach. But it’s what I can give you.”
His expression softens. “I’d love to. When can we?”
“I’ve got to run it by Henry first and set up the basics, but I was thinking Friday night, unless you have plans?”
We’re quiet as we pass Sheridan, the only sounds the slap of our sneakers against the track and our rhythmic breathing.
“Hmm.” He frowns. “There’s someone I need to check with first.”
My eyebrows rise.
“There’s this guy.” He leans into me. “This amazing, gorgeous guy—”
I flush and stumble, almost fall into his side, and that’s exactly what I can’t be doing in front of Henry and his hand-picked team.
“All right, if you can talk shit, we’re not working hard enough.” I pump my legs and fly past him. “First back to the Oval wins!”
He laughs, and the sound floats over me, settles inside me. His sneakers pound the track, but I stay out of reach. We cross the rough boundary that runs from the corner of the Oval Office patio to a sad little crab apple tree in a tie, hurtling past Henry at our absolute top speeds, all arms and legs and laughter.
Brennan collapses onto the Oval Office lawn, lying on his back as he catches his breath. I double over, hands on my knees, and all I can do is gaze at him and smile.
Of course, the president hitting the ground is a code red, and Sheridan, on his way in from his post, puts out the alert over the radio as he and the rest of the guys tear across the South Lawn. They reach us right as a dozen agents, six military officers, the White House physician, and two nurses burst out of the West Wing.
Henry and I spend five minutes calming down the cavalry. Sheridan is embarrassed, but he did the right thing, and Brennan is good-natured about it.
“I should have thought more before throwing myself down.” He shakes Sheridan’s hand. “Thank you for your diligence. Agent Sheridan, right?”
* * *
I bringmy idea to Henry later that day.
He and Sheridan are together, tossing a football in the back of the command center as Henry tests Sheridan on our emergency motorcade procedures. I join them, listening in as Sheridan aces Henry’s pop quiz.
“Hey, boss,” Henry says, tossing the football to me after a fake to Sheridan.
I catch it and spin the ball back. “Got a second?”
“For you? Always.” He nods to Sheridan, dismissing him.
I call him back. “Sheridan, stick around? I might want your assistance on this.”
Sheridan is all too eager to please, and he returns, trying to look like he’s at ease while being just shy of at attention. Henry and I share a private look, one of the hundred we have that speaks whole conversations without a single word.
“I’ve got an idea—”
