Smirking, Daniels gestured for Ethan to join him. “Yes, it is, but the Mess doesn’t have Annie Perkins working down there.”
“Annie Perkins?”
As they strolled up the stairs to the first floor of the West Wing, appearing in the hallway just outside the Oval Office and the Cabinet Room, Daniels filled Ethan in on the voluptuous beauty that was Annie Perkins, reporter from the Tribune and a current project of Daniels’s. Ethan chuckled, already well ahead of Daniels in the script. He’d seen this story play out time and time again. Daniels could woo the ladies in droves, and he stayed with them for a couple of months before cutting them loose and playing the field again. Mixed in were one-night stands and nights of debauchery, and several memorable nights where Daniels had chanced to go with Ethan out to Adams Morgan and the gayborhood. Ethan had told him the secret of picking up chicks in gay bars—nearly all of them were straight, and they would swoon for a straight man confident enough to chill at a gay bar with his gay friend. Daniels never left alone.
“Have you asked her out yet?”
“Patience, bro. Patience.” Daniels held up his hands, gesturing for Ethan to slow the hell down. “She needs to want it more.” One eyebrow cocked up, offsetting his smirk.
Ethan shook his head, retort on the tip of his tongue, when a voice down the hall called out his name.
“Agent Reichenbach!”
Daniels’s eyes grew comically huge, and he snapped to attention in a smart second, wiping the smirk from his face and hitting “professional” just as President Jack Spiers broke away from his chief of staff, and strode down the hallway to the two agents. President Spiers held out his hand to Ethan.
Ethan shook his hand, stunned. “Mr. President. How can I help you, sir?”
“They told me you were injured and recuperating. I didn’t know you were back on duty.” The president was beaming at him, a radiant smile that went all the way to his eyes. The press had endlessly dissected that smile on the campaign.
Ethan suddenly understood why President Spiers had locked up the Soccer Mom voting bloc.
“First day back, sir.” Ethan let go of the president’s hand and stepped back. “I’m working over at Headquarters for now.”
The president frowned. Behind him, Jeff Gottschalk cleared his throat, a polite reminder to the president to hurry it up.
“Listen, I’ve got a meeting I’ve got to go to. Can you swing by my office in an hour?” The president waited for Ethan’s single head nod before he flashed his smile again. “Great. We’ll talk then.”
And then he was off, striding down the hallway and into the cluster of his staff. He reached for file folders and a binder and pulled out his smartphone all at once. His glasses were sliding down his nose, and he absently pushed them back up with one finger as he scrolled through the emails on his phone.
When Ethan turned back to Daniels, the younger agent’s incredibly unimpressed face stared back at him, eyes narrowed. Ethan sighed and rolled his eyes. “That was nothing.”
“Should I ask
you
how the president is doing?”
“Shut up.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Ethan stood stiffly in the Oval Office, alone, his feet shoulder width apart and angled at a perfect forty-five degrees, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, knees unlocked. His eyes darted around the office, taking in the changes the president had made. His predecessor had thrown the office back to the “good ole days” as a physical reminder of what his campaign had been all about, and heavy red curtains had hung from the windows while the carpet had been replaced with a deep navy plush, making the Presidential Seal in the center of the office stand out even more. Red and white striped couches had been added to the room, and the whole office looked like a Fourth of July parade had exploded within. President Spiers, on the other hand, preferred a more stately and refined look. Gone were the heavy curtains and the blue plush rug. White gauze curtains hung behind the Resolute desk, and beige carpet stretched out around the Presidential Seal. Cream and soft tan stripes lined the walls above the wainscoting, giving the room a soft, serene feel. The couches were slimlined with exposed wood arms, polished deep brown, and silk stripes in white, pale blue, and tan brought the room together. It was, all in all, eminently tasteful.
Ethan stared at the picture of George Washington over the fireplace mantle, a staple of the Oval Office for every president.
What the hell am I doing here? Why does he want to talk to me? I’m just a detail agent. Shit, was it something Welby did? That fucker.
He bounced on his heels, and his eyes tracked the sweeping minute hand of the nautical clock perched on the edge of the fireplace mantle. The president was late. Not much of a surprise. The world moved for the president. Time was something that happened to other people.
When the president breezed in—entering through his study and the private hallway on the left, Ethan jerked back to attention. The president didn’t notice. His head was buried in his smart phone as he spoke. “Sorry I’m late. Congressional leadership was here with an update on the education reform bill. They know how to talk.” He dropped his phone onto the Resolute desk with a clatter, sighed, and then smiled lopsidedly at Ethan. “I was one of them, and I’m still amazed at how much they can talk around a subject.” He gestured for Ethan to come closer. “Please, relax. This is informal. Totally off the books. Just a catch-up chat.” He crossed his arms and leaned one hip against the desk. “How are you doing, Ethan? Can I call you Ethan?”
“Uhh, yes, sir, you can if you’d like.” Ethan frowned. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. President?”
The president waved his hand. “Please, no need for the formality. Like I said, I just wanted to catch up with you. See how you were doing. See when you were coming back?” That last sentence ended on a higher note, a question, and his eyebrows rose.
It is fucking Welby
. “I still need to clear a few paperwork hurdles before I am cleared to return to duty on the detail, sir.”
“But you’re better? You’re feeling good? No long-term injuries, no pain, nothing wrong?”
“I’m better, sir.” Ethan grinned. “Someone got a lucky kick in while we were subduing some miscreants during the Inauguration Parade. Nothing life threatening. Mostly boring.”
The president smiled. “Glad to hear. And, if it will help, I’d be happy to call over to the Secret Service and request your reinstatement.”
Damn, Welby, what the hell did you do?
“Is there something wrong with your current detail lead, Mr. President?”
A long sigh, and the president looked away, squinting through the glass-paned door leading to the colonnade walkway and the Rose Garden. “Technically, he’s a great agent. Sound, knows his stuff, and is solid. Reliable.”
“But?” Ethan waited for the shoe to drop.
President Spiers winced. “He’s…stiff. There is nothing, not a thing, that he will consider outside of his mandate and his duties. He’s impossible to engage. He’s like…a jailer.”
“Sounds like a textbook agent to me. We have rules to follow, Mr. President, rules that keep you alive. Do you think I’ll be any different?”
The president’s eyes met his and held. “I think you have a heart, and you can see the bigger picture when you need to.”
Ethan shifted across his feet. Christmas flashed uncomfortably across his mind. He’d never told anyone about what he’d done, and how the president could have handed him his ass that night, but instead sat by his side and worked until the wee hours of the morning.
“You’re standing here talking to me now, Ethan. Not many other agents would do that.”
“We’re not supposed to do this, sir. I am supposed to be your oppressive shadow. And your jailer.”
President Spiers threw back his head and laughed. He uncrossed his arms and reached for his vibrating phone, clattering on the desk. A quick scroll, and then he was frowning, a single line creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I just want you to know that I’m looking forward to your return, Ethan.” He smiled and then waggled his phone. “I’m sorry. Duty calls. But we can catch up when you’re back on the detail.”
He shouldn’t be doing this. God, he shouldn’t be doing this. This had bad decision written all over it. Even the slightest hint of friendliness with an agent’s protectee was deeply frowned upon. But Ethan smiled back and nodded. “Mr. President.” Excusing himself, Ethan slipped into the hallway, leaving the president as he scrolled through his phone.
* * * * *
Three weeks later, Ethan was back as presidential detail lead, working alongside Daniels, Collard, and Inada in his main protectee team. There were over three hundred agents on the detail alone, spread out to cover every shift and hold posts in the White House offices and the Residence. They all traded barbs with the vice president’s detail and shot the breeze in Horsepower together, but the four main guys, the closest protection assigned to the president, were Ethan and his team. Ethan still had tactical command over the entire detail, and he doled out shifts and assignments and read the squeal sheets—reports of any incidents from the past twenty-four hours—in Horsepower while the president was in the White House. He kept his distance from him when he could and spent all of his time—that wasn’t with the president outside of the White House grounds—either in Horsepower or helping to train other agents on the detail.
He thought things were going well. He’d set the Beast’s radio to the president’s favorite stations and asked him if he saw the recent game—golf, basketball, or hockey, depending on the time of year. Then he’d shut up, monitor the radios, and advise Inada in the driver’s seat while the president scrolled through his phone or flipped through his padfolio of folders and briefs and memos. The president hadn’t asked to chat with him again, and Ethan was going out of
his
way to interact with a protectee, stepping out of the shadows to ask him a few meaningless questions. He was doing more, he knew, than Welby had done.
So, it was a surprise when Daniels cornered him in the White House Mess one morning—in between reviewing squeal sheets, authorizing the presidential advance party to Turin for the G-7 Summit, and finalizing security provisions for the president’s dinner out at the residence of the speaker of the house.
“Hey, Ethan. Got a minute?” Daniels had a cup of coffee in his hand—from the Mess, not the Press Office bullpen upstairs—and was staring Ethan down.
With a look like that, he couldn’t say no. “’Course. Here?”
Daniels shook his head. He motioned for Ethan to follow, and they headed out into the quieter area of the basement, tucked behind the stairwell. “It’s about the president,” Daniels said quietly, swirling a wooden stick through his coffee. “Something’s up.”
Ethan blinked. “What do you mean ‘something’s up’? Is this a security issue, or is it politically related? Or personal? You know we don’t get involved in the last two.” And, more often than not, if there was something on the president’s mind—on any president’s mind—it was either political or personal. They left the security concerns to their shadows.
“He’s cancelled his morning workouts.”
Ethan blinked. “Already?” Presidents occasionally cancelled their workouts when they were psychotically stressed—exactly when they should be hitting the gym more—but never this early. Was there a memo he’d missed about the next World War starting?
Daniels sighed. “And I think it might have something to do with us.”
“Us? Us as in the Secret Service? His detail?”
“Yeah. He was trying to pal around for a while, and then he stopped doing that. He tried asking us a few questions, but then even that stopped. We hold our posts when he’s working out, but we don’t get involved. Last time he was working out, he just kinda stared at us and then told us to not worry about it anymore.”
“‘It’ meaning his workouts?”
Daniels nodded. Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket and called up the president’s daily schedule. As part of the detail, he had to have the schedule at his fingertips at all times. Today was supposed to be a buttoned up day—a day entirely in the White House. That usually meant a packed day as well, full of meetings and phone calls. But, right in the middle, there might be a window. The president was eating lunch, ostensibly alone.
“Thanks for letting me know, D. I’ll try to talk to him.” Ethan shoved his phone back in his pocket, ignoring Daniels’s raised eyebrows.
A president had to work out. It didn’t matter what it was, but they had to do something. Anything. Even just walking, or worse yet, pacing. The stress would kill them if they didn’t, and they needed an outlet from their duties.
“Thanks, Ethan. Let me know what the guys and I can do.” Daniels nodded and stepped away, heading back for Horsepower.
Inhaling deeply, Ethan closed his eyes for a moment, planning how he would approach the president. Telling the leader of the free world to get back in the gym wasn’t the easiest of tasks. He could delegate, pass it off to the president’s chief of staff, or his secretary. But if his guys had done something to piss him off, he should know about it.
He checked his watch. He had two and a half hours.
* * * * *
The president’s secretary—who had the secret codename “Grandma” given to her by the Secret Service—let him into the Oval Office ten minutes after the Navy steward delivered the president’s lunch. “He’s not expecting anyone,” she warned, tsking Ethan with her eyebrows and the glare in her eyes.
He caught the president while he was eating, midchew as he looked up from his seat on the couch, hunkered over his chicken Caesar salad. Wide, shocked eyes darted to Ethan as he entered, and Ethan caught him sheepishly closing and tucking away the latest bestselling mystery thriller. Ethan grinned. “I’ve been meaning to read that one. How is it?”
“Good.” President Spiers wiped his mouth with his napkin and chuckled. “It’s good. I’m supposed to be reviewing the brief from Congress on their latest version of the education reform bill.” He shrugged, blushing slightly. “You caught me.”
“Sir, if you’re anything like the other guys who’ve held this office, you won’t be the first to sneak in some personal time.” Good for him. He’d seemed too rigid at times on the campaign, juggling his phone, his padfolio, and a dozen binders in between speeches and flights. And there were always more binders and reports and files spread out on the floor of whatever hotel room they were in for that night. Ethan hadn’t been up to the White House Residence much since President Spiers had moved in, but he’d seen stacks of binders and Top Secret reports cluttering the coffee tables and countertops as he’d checked in on his detail men.