AllFreeNovel
Share Us
After he hit her with the look for two seconds, her breath snagged. That sparkling gaze flared.
And he glanced away.
Because you haven’t pulled enough cards out of the dumb shit deck already, that you have to go making Dom-guy eyes at the fucking vice president of your country?
Like that would work out—never.
On that heartening note, he re-squared his shoulders. Raised his stare back to her, snapping on the mien he’d always saved for officers way above his pay grade. She sure as hell met that qualification.
“If you change fast, you and Luke can probably get in a good twenty minutes,” he issued, and felt good about it. Yeah; he’d stuck that landing solid, with authority but not arrogance. Okay, maybe a little arrogance. He skewed toward Deadpool, dammit, not Captain America.
Rhodes jumped herself to a new level of his esteem by respecting that. As exciting as it had been to dance at the edge of flirtation, it was time to back off. Not wise to waltz on a precipice when the canyon was as big as DC politics. “I can work with twenty minutes. That’s enough time to check homework and catch up on his girl problems.”
He narrowed his gaze again. Way different motivation. “Girl problems? What about the groupies?”
“Hello?” She parried. “You think the groupies are puppies?”
“Point to Rhodes.” He ticked the air with a finger. “But he’s a good-looking kid. Seems smart, too. And has kick-ass taste in music.”
She slid a wry look. “Says the guy who argued Sondheim with me?”
“Says the guy who also jams on Green Day, U2, and hip-hop. So…American Idiot, Spiderman, and Hamilton for the point?”
Her lips quirked. “Given, renaissance guy.”
John shrugged. “Or a guy who’s spent a lot of down time waiting on orders for the last eleven years.” But sure as hell not in digs like this. Just the private portico entrance to the villas, with its ornate tiled fountains and marble statues, was luxury he’d never seen. This was a long damn way from sleeping on rocks.
Wasn’t tough to observe how Rhodes barely gave it a second glance. Was the princess feigning indifference, or had she gotten used to the high life after a year in office?
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The first half of it came as they approached the entrance, and her glances grew more impatient. By the time Shep set the Escalade’s parking brake on the Italian stone driveway, her agitation was tangible.
Not uncaring. Or jaded. Just a mother desperate for twenty minutes of solitary time with her kid.
Shep remained where he was while the agent in the passenger seat, a stocky Irishman named Donald, exited the car. As he stopped, hand on the backseat door, Tracy twitched like a shopping addict on Black Friday.
Donald didn’t budge. He knew not to until Franz gave the all-clear.
John wasted no time unfurling all six-and-a-half feet of himself from the car. As he did, all five senses jumped to high alert. Every moment of the trip before this was left behind, his energy funneled into instincts that’d kept him alive since joining the elite corps of Special Forces Group One.
Sight was his strongest ally. He swept keen eyes over the driveway, up to the rooftops, through the clean-trimmed Cyprus trees and lavender bushes, even into the depths of the fountains. All seemed peaceful.
Too peaceful.
He opened his ears next. Received nothing in return but the soft trickles of the fountains and the distant rush of Strip traffic.
Calm. Too damn calm.
What was it? What was out of place?
He’d studied the villa’s layout during the plane trip down from Seattle, along with mentally updating himself on the schematics for the convention center. He’d also reviewed the extra intel Bommer forwarded. These villas had dedicated housekeeping, butler, and food services. Why didn’t he see or hear any of those personnel? Shouldn’t they be out here to greet one of the most “VIP” guests they’d ever had?
He extended his hands out a little, palms down, fingers extended. The air itself was still. Too still.
“Franzen?” Donald’s brogue was gruff but soft. “We all cl—” He clipped it short when John raised a hand, fist closed tight. Full stop.
He took measured, nearly silent, steps toward the front of the car. Heel-toe, heel-toe; distributed weight; ninja silence. When Donald locked him with a significant gaze, he flung back a battle spear of a stare, forged with a solitary message.
Something’s not right.
