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Henry and I are up until after midnight on a conference call with Director Britton, going over the brawl. The UN turned over the security footage to the Secret Service, and there’s a clear image of one of the FSB agents throwing the first punch. It’s a fucking miracle no one was shot or killed.
Half of my people are sore in the morning, and I let the brawlers sit it out in the command center and rotate fresh agents in. The last thing we need today is for the global media to be focusing on stiff, limping Secret Service agents.
Sheridan shows up in the command center with a black eye, a split lip, and a grin.
Brennan eats breakfast in his room, running through a flurry of quick meetings with his staff. Then he sends everyone out, and Matt calls me in. He wants to phone my guys who were sent home. One doesn’t answer his cell, so Brennan gives him a little shit on his voicemail for missing the president’s call before thanking him for his actions and wishing him well. The other is woozy from pain meds, and there are a lot of slurred Yes, sirs before Brennan also wishes him well and hangs up.
“That will mean a lot to everyone.” Both of my guys were shit-scared when I found them at the hospital. I promised I would stand up for them against any disciplinary action, but they were more concerned about letting Brennan down than their own personnel files.We’re a world away from when my people were planning their funerals after that pull-up competition on Air Force One.
“It’s the least I could do.” We can’t say anything else, because Matt is in the room, but we share a smile until Matt announces it’s time to head out.
“Ranger coming down the elevator in two,” I say to my wrist mic.
When we hit the street, I have Sheridan waiting outside the SUV to load Brennan. As I expected, Brennan beams, pumps his hand, and thanks him for taking down Konstantin and giving us a path to escape.
Sheridan is electric with elation as he climbs back behind the wheel. Only he would get his ass kicked by an FSB agent and still think the General Assembly is his dream come true.
The day is long and dull, with pockets of frenetic activity as we negotiate moving Brennan through a building stuffed with world leaders. There’s an extra edge to our attitude today, and no one tries to play fuck-fuck games with the Secret Service.
The president of the UN opens the session, and by tradition, Brazil’s leader speaks first. After that, it’s the United States’ turn, and Brennan takes the podium to a more energetic round of applause than usual. The UN normally has all the excitement of a golf game.
Brennan searches the crowd and finds me. I’m against the wall with fifty other detail leads from other nations. Sheridan is next to me, sporting his black eye with pride.
Our eyes meet, and in front of 193 nations and the world’s media, Brennan smiles at me.
I can’t help it. I smile back. Black lightning between us strikes again. The world—literally, the world that surrounds us that moment—fades, until it’s just him and me.
Dangerous.
Brennan stays at the UN for the rest of the day, and in the evening, the second shift picks him up and delivers him to a restaurant uptown for a dinner with his advisors while I head back to the hotel with Henry and Sheridan. We order pizza and kick up our feet in the command center. Sheridan falls asleep while we wait, and he doesn’t stir when Henry starts throwing Skittles at him. When he finally opens his eyes, he hurls the Skittles he’s secretly collected at Henry in one massive fling.
I let them both go for the rest of the night. Day one has been a success, and there’s usually a pretty good gathering of security personnel filling up the Midtown bars. As they head out, I hear Henry say, “You can get any chick you want tonight with that black eye and your story of kicking Russian ass. Hell, you can probably get a handful of ’em.”
Sheridan’s eyes shift to me before the elevator doors glide shut.
By eleven p.m., Brennan is back from dinner and alone in his suite. His staff have wandered down to the hotel bar or are tucked in their beds. All is calm and quiet, at least on the surface.
I’m watching traffic from the window in my room.
Is Brennan getting ready for tomorrow? Trying to unwind?Does he do yoga on the road, or only when he’s sure to be alone? I’ve never heard a whisper of him doing yoga before he told me, and most presidents and politicians live with their staff inside their private lives. Staff gossip is where half of the Secret Service’s files are built from.
Is he thinking of me as much as I am of him?
Dangerous.
Stay away.
Vibrating buzzes from beneath my pillow. My eyes close, and my forehead hits the glass. If I were serious about walking away from Brennan, I would have destroyed that burner. But I kept it, and more than that, I kept it close. I kept my connection to Brennan in my hands.
Brennan: Are you there?
Stay away.
But I’m fighting myself, my mind at war with heart, both shredding between my duty and my longing.
It’s not about me. It’s not about what I want or what I crave. It’s not about how I’ve lost control or how this man has turned my life upside down.It’s about him.It’s about protecting him—not just physically, but protecting everything he’s trying to accomplish. All the good he can do. Am I selfish enough to rip him from the world? Tear apart the dreams and good deeds he has inside himself?
Stay away.
Don’t text back, Reese.
Me: I’m here.
Brennan: Can I see you?
You are bad for him.
Dangerous, to him and for him.
Me: I’m on my way.
