“It’s fine. Really.” He tried to force the sliding door closed, against Ethan’s hand.
Ethan pushed back, opening the door and striding forward, making the president-elect step back as he entered the man’s living room. Jack Spiers wasn’t a short man; none of the presidents ever were. He was just under six feet, but he was nerdier looking than the other presidents. Younger, too. Late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair that had gone prematurely gray from a lifetime of politics. He had a taut face, a square jaw, and a lean swimmer’s build. Black-rimmed reading glasses framed cornsilk-blue eyes—eyes that were hard and glaring at Ethan.
“Sir.” Ethan paused, breathing deep. It wouldn’t do to piss off the boss before Inauguration Day. That would be a new record, even for him. “It isn’t safe for you to go out and ‘mingle’ like you used to do. Things are different now. You can’t move around with a protective detail, and you can’t wander unprotected into crowds.” He exhaled. “Sir, all presidents go through this. It’s tough, getting used to these changes. Constant protection, security, and surveillance.”
President-elect Spiers turned away, his back to Ethan. His hands landed on his hips. “It’s like being a rat in a cage.” Whirling, Spiers’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you have agents here who can provide crowd protection? Where’s the rest of my detail? Aren’t they supposed to be on-call?”
Ethan’s stomach sank. His promotion, and the warm smile Director Peter Stahl had given him, flashed in his mind and then faded away. He swallowed. “Sir, I confirmed with your chief of staff that your plans this holiday evening were to stay at your home and have a quiet night in.”
“What’s Jeff have to do with this?”
Jeff Gottschalk, the president-elect’s chief of staff, was a quiet man, serious and dedicated to his service to the president. He was a man normally too busy for anyone else’s questions, but he’d given that much of the president-elect’s plans to Ethan. Perhaps he shouldn’t have trusted Gottschalk’s information. “Sir, based on your chief of staff’s information, I decided to give the rest of your personal detail the holiday evening off.” Ethan held the president-elect’s eyes. “This is the last Christmas they’ll spend with their families for the next four years. Maybe even the next eight years.”
Ethan watched him take a deep breath in, holding it in his lungs. Those blue eyes, so hard and frigid moments before, softened. He pulled his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose as he spoke. “My personal detail. Those are the guys who have been on the campaign, right? With you? I mean, they’re all coming to Washington with me? With us?”
“Yes, sir. Agents Levi Daniels, Harry Inada, and Scott Collard. We’ve all been by your side since the Republican nomination.” Agent Scott Collard was like an older brother to him, and they’d propped each other up with bullshit and good-natured harassment through the bitter end of the presidential campaign. When Spiers had won, they toasted to the loss of their social lives for the next four years with gas station vodka downed from chipped motel coffee mugs.
President-elect Spiers unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off his shoulders. He tossed it on the back of his couch, where he’d left a spread of binders and spiral-bound reports, all covered in official red seals with “CONFIDENTIAL” or “TOP SECRET CLEARANCE” borders and stamps. “Well,” Spiers sighed. “Looks like I am staying in tonight.”
Relief swept through Ethan, unclenching his stomach. “Yes, sir” was all he said, nodding once.
Chuckling, the president-elect collapsed back into the corner of his couch and reached for one of the binders. He sighed, long and loud, and pushed his glasses back on his face.
Taking it as his cue to leave, Ethan turned away. He wasn’t going far—maybe to the kitchen to scrounge up some food—but he didn’t need to be hovering in the same room as the president-elect. Jesus, he was going to see enough of the guy over the next four years.
The president-elect’s words made him pause. “Agent Reichenbach, that was a good thing you did tonight for your men. They’ve done a fine job on the campaign, and I know they’ll be excellent in Washington, too. They deserve a night off.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “And so do you.”
Ethan’s lips quirked once, a tiny smirk. “The cat stays and works while the mice play, sir.”
“I think that goes a different way.” Now the president-elect was smiling. And unbending. Some of the stiff formality leached away.
“I’m the loner of the bunch, sir. They’ve got families and loved ones. I don’t.” No partner, no lover, no long-term relationship. A few guys had tried, but he’d put an end to that quickly. He wasn’t the man for long-term relationships. He didn’t have that kind of life. He didn’t have that kind of heart.
The president-elect’s smile turned sad. Ethan kicked himself inside, nearly grimacing, and his lips thinned as his eyes darted to the folded flag encased in a memorial box on the fireplace mantle next to a picture of Jack Spiers’s deceased wife, Army Captain Leslie Spiers. The year of her death was printed on the memorial case. Fifteen years prior, in the height of the Iraq War. He’d been lucky; he’d lived through the war. The president-elect’s wife hadn’t.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ethan grunted.
“Would you like a drink?” Standing suddenly, he gestured for Ethan to join him on the couch, and to the shelves of liquor in the corner of the room. The sadness was gone from his eyes, replaced instead with a hard kind of pleading. A wish to not be alone.
Disappointment crawled over Ethan’s skin, sliding uncomfortably close to unease. “I can’t, sir. I can’t drink on duty.” Not to mention how he wasn’t supposed to get comfortable with the president-elect, or any protectee. No socializing. No distractions.
He’s just a job.
But he was also a human being, a lonely human being, and Ethan understood that better than most. “I, ah, have some reports to do. I could bring my laptop in here?” God, he hated how his voice rose at the end, uncertainty dripping from his words.
The president-elect grinned. “Sure. Plenty of room.” He pushed three binders from the DOD and one from the CIA onto the carpet, opening up the end of the coffee table for Ethan.
Ethan grabbed his laptop and fumbled with plugging in the power cord—first unplugging the Christmas tree lights—but then they were sitting down, absorbed in their own work, and quiet descended over the pair. Unease clung to Ethan, but it slowly dissipated as he buried himself in his reports. Still, with every turn of the page the president-elect made, and every shift on the couch, Ethan was uncomfortably aware that there was a line here that was being very seriously bent.
Not the best way to begin his new position.
Chapter Two
President Jack Spiers’s Inauguration Cheered by Millions
President Jack Spiers’s Inauguration was cheered by millions of Americans as they crowded along Pennsylvania Avenue. Others packed themselves in front of the Capitol watching the President take the Oath of Office and deliver his Inaugural Address. In the address, President Spiers reiterated much of what his campaign had centered upon: America’s strength, tempered by their commitments to their allies in a dangerous world, the perils presented by the increasing powers of the renegade Islamic Caliphate, and his commitment to strengthen America’s military in response to the shifting, uncertain political and military landscape. The president spoke about his commitments to NATO and America’s European allies, especially in the wake of the refugee crisis of the past decade and the increasing number of terror attacks within Europe’s major cities.
Much of President Spiers’s popular support comes from a broad base. On the campaign, pundits were amazed at how President Spiers was able to draw from such diverse support bases as the educational unions and the military, both of whom put their full support behind President Spiers. “The party leadership looks at President Spiers as a unifier,” RNC Chairman Rick Smith said. “He’s a likeable guy. He delivers on his promises. He believes in the greatness of America, and he wants what’s best for everyone. Not just you or me. But truly everyone.” President Spiers has enjoyed one of the highest popularity ratings of any recent candidate, but whether those numbers will translate into approval ratings is anyone’s guess.
Some wonder how much President Spiers’s deceased wife, Army Captain Leslie Spiers, who was killed during an ambush in Iraq during the War in Iraq, may have impacted his campaign. “Certainly his wife’s death impacted [President Spiers’s] life,” Chairman Smith said. “He never would have gone into politics had she not been tragically killed in action. He was a private practice lawyer in Austin, and she worked at Fort Hood. Then she was killed, and his whole life pivoted. He dedicated himself to serving active duty soldiers and veterans, and then spent years working with the Department of Defense in Iraq. When he returned, he ran in Texas on a platform to better our armed forces and provide better support to our veterans. In Congress, he served on the Intelligence Committee and the Armed Services Committee, two committees deeply entwined with America’s military efforts. He’s shown nothing but the strongest commitment to our nation’s heroes, and I fully believe that stems from the love he has for his wife, and how he honors her memory.”
* * * * *
By the time Ethan made it back to the White House after the Inauguration Parade, all of the snow had melted from DC’s streets, and the temperature was a blustery seventy degrees.
“I still can’t believe you got taken out by a bunch of punks.” Agent Scott Collard, Ethan’s best friend, swiveled in his desk chair, grinning like a madman.
Ethan chucked a pen at his head as he leaned against Agent Levi Daniels’s desk. He flexed his leg, straightening his knee, and then kicked at Collard’s chair. Collard scooted away just in time.
“I didn’t see you brawling on Inauguration Day.” Ethan crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Where was my backup?”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to walk around in the crowd with the intel dorks.” Collard held up his palms, shrugging. “Why you weren’t on the route with us is your business.”
“We had credible information that there was going to be an attempt to jump the perimeter and attack the Beast.” The Beast was the unofficial code name for the presidential limo.
“And by attack, they meant pelt it with tomatoes.”
“It’s still an attack.”
“You got your ass kicked by vegan vegetable throwers.”
“Hey, I kicked their asses!” Ethan stood, striding over to Collard’s chair and crossing his arms. He was trying to be intimidating, but his grin was ruining the effect.
“You had tomato dripping from your nose and hair.”
“What if they had hidden a bomb in one of those tomatoes? Huh? You wouldn’t be making fun of me then.”
“I’m giving you a new code name. Salad Reichenbach.” Collard spun in his chair, shouting out to the guys in all corners of their office. “You all hear? Quarterback is now Salad. Copy?”
Laughs and nods floated back to the two men. Ethan shook his head. He put his foot on the edge of Collard’s chair and pushed, sending his friend wheeling away, down the rows of desks and toward the lockers where the agents on duty at the White House kept their spare clothes, extra suits, and even their tuxes.
They were in the Secret Service White House command post, code-named Horsepower, directly beneath the Oval Office. Rectangular and the size of a soccer field, the agents used the command post as an all-around everything office. Bunk beds were pushed into a far corner near the lockers, and desks lined the front half of the room. Mirrors on the wall helped agents get into their suits and tuxes, if needed, and a projector at the front displayed intelligence on two screens, constantly updated and fed from the Secret Service Headquarters office on H Street. When the details didn’t need to be surrounding the president, or when they weren’t standing post, the agents spent their downtime in Horsepower.
“Hey, how’s Agent Welby doing?” Ethan headed back to Daniels’s desk and perched on the edge again, crossing his arms.
Daniels cast him a droll stare, barely looking up from the email he was typing. “Welby’s a’right,” he drawled. His eyebrows rose, nearly off his forehead, as he fixed his eyes on Ethan. “Stick up his ass, but he’s a’right.”
Ethan smothered a grin. Agent Welby had come in to replace him as presidential detail lead while he was out, recuperating from his sprained knee after the brawl during the Inauguration Parade. Collard had texted him almost daily, bemoaning Welby’s mulish, boorish behavior and his laugh-a-minute personality.
“You coming back in as lead?” Daniels eyes shone, hopeful.
“Hope so. Got to go through a few more stacks of paperwork first.” Ethan winked at Daniels and stood, stretching. He tried for casual, speaking as he rolled his shoulders. “How’s the president?”
He failed. Daniels’s eyebrows shot high again. “The president?” He stared at Ethan as if his former lead had just stated he was a prince from the planet Saturn.
“Yeah. How’s he doing?” No way to back out of it now. He might as well try to blunder his way through, as if asking after a protectee were the most natural thing in the world.
Daniels frowned. “I try to stay out of his way, and I make it a point to not listen whenever I’m in the Beast. I don’t want to know how his negotiations are going with Congress on the educational bill, or if he’s banging any aides in the West Wing.”
“Is he?” Frowning, Ethan folded his arms, not knowing he was doing it.
“Nah, man, the guy’s legit. Straight shooter.” Daniels’s wide smile broke his stern face for a moment. “But seriously, man, I stay out of it. Keep my distance, just like you taught us. Like you drilled us.” Daniels peered at him for a long moment. “This a test?”
Snorting, Ethan clapped Daniels on the shoulder. A way out, and he took it with both hands. “You passed. Good job, Daniels.”
The look in Daniels’s eyes said “fuck you,” and he buttoned his suit jacket as he stood from his desk. “I need a cup of coffee from the Press Corps Bullpen.”
“The White House Mess is six feet to the right.” Beneath the Oval Office on the basement level of the White House, the Secret Service command post shared space with the White House Mess, the Situation Room, and Homeland Security’s White House control center. It was an odd mixture of Top Secret Clearances and Navy stewards and chefs, but at least the coffee and chow was always close at hand. Agents went on fridge raids at all hours of the night, and the Situation Room hosted impromptu slumber parties at the drop of a Predator missile strike.