“By all means, let me clarify.” Dr. Kozinn eyed Adam warily.
Adam didn’t like the look one bit. It resembled the exasperated expression his father had always worn when Adam accidentally spilled some milk. Or dropped a ball in the outfield. Or forgot to tuck in his shirt. Fill in the blank with any number of petty childhood transgressions, but the look was always the same.
“I think it would be best if you ease back into your duties, Agent Lockett,” the doctor announced.
“But you just said—”
Dr. Kozinn held up a hand. “I said you could go back to work, but you’re still not quite recovered enough to be aiming a high-powered rifle accurately, much less leading the CAT team.”
“The hell I’m not! I didn’t miss a target at the range yesterday,” Adam argued.
He left out the fact that he’d had to wait several minutes between shots to let his eyes regain their focus, but it was the first time since the accident he’d aimed a rifle. His vision was bound to improve with practice.
The doctor shook his head, not bothering to admonish Adam for heading to the rifle range before he’d been given the okay. The look on the other man’s face said it all. Swearing under his breath, Adam slumped back down into the chair.
“CTE can be debilitating,” Dr. Kozinn explained as though Adam was a kindergartener and not a thirty-one-year-old trained in special ops who, despite a “debilitating” concussion, could still kick this guy’s ass a thousand ways from Sunday. “Your brain needs time to heal. Exposing it to exacting tasks could be too taxing at this point.”
“How long?” Adam managed to grind out through his clenched jaw. “How long do I have to sit on my thumbs in the dark?”
The doctor sighed. “I realize this has been frustrating for an adrenaline junkie like you, Agent Lockett. But there’s no reason for restrictions that severe any longer. As I said, you can return to some form of active duty. In fact, it will help us better assess your cognitive skills if you’re doing something constructive. I’m sure there is a job less physically demanding you can perform within the White House until you’re one hundred percent.” He arched an eyebrow in question at Director Worcester.
“We can certainly find Agent Lockett a detail that won’t be too taxing,” the director replied.
Adam swallowed a groan. The only protective detail he could think of that would qualify as not “too taxing” was babysitting the president’s father-in-law, an octogenarian crippled with Alzheimer’s.
“How long?” he repeated. “How long until I can return to my actual duties?”
“Given how well you’re progressing and if you keep up your therapy, I should be able to give you the all clear at your next appointment in a few weeks,” the doctor replied.
A few weeks.
It sounded to Adam like a life sentence. Especially since the president and First Lady were leaving on a two-week world tour in a couple of days. He hated having to hand over the helm of the CAT team to his rival. The idiot led by intimidation and swagger. Not only that, but he couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Adam bit back a few choice swear words before reminding himself he was a survivor. He’d been through worse before and come out the other side hungrier and more focused.
Failure is never an option.
“Fine.” He stood and made his way to the door. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Doc.”
“And I’ll see you at the Crown at seven thirty tomorrow morning, Agent Lockett,” the director called after him.
Adam didn’t bother responding. His training as a cadet at West Point combined with years in the army’s elite special forces ensured he never broke rank. Both Adam and the director knew he’d be at the White House—or the Crown as the agents referred to the presidential mansion—bright and early the following morning ready to be assigned a boring protective detail. It didn’t mean he had to like it though.
*
Adam took a long swallow from his cup of coffee. He had a feeling he’d need the caffeine to get him through the tedious day looming ahead. The sun was just beginning to peek out over the horizon on the crisp October morning, but he’d been up for over an hour, getting himself ready to return to duty by jogging the familiar route through the streets of his Capitol Hill neighborhood. It felt good to finally be able to resume most of his normal activities.
The key word being most.
“Hey, now that you’ve returned from zombie status, maybe you could open some of your mail?” His roommate since their days at West Point, Ben Segar, shoved a stack of envelopes across the kitchen counter toward Adam. “Assuming you can still read after Professor Plum bashed you on the skull with the lead pipe in the billiards room.”
Adam glared at his asshole buddy. “Can still read. And can still kick your ass.”
Ben chuckled as he popped a breakfast burrito into the microwave. “I’d say we put that statement to the test, but you look so GQ in your suit, I wouldn’t want to muss you up on your first day back.”
Here was another thing that felt good—getting back to the familiar bantering with his friends. Ben and the third member of their trio of West Point brothers in arms, Griffin Keller, had been treating Adam with kid gloves for the past several weeks. While he appreciated their concern more than he’d ever let on, Adam wasn’t used to the hovering and nurturing. Hell, he hadn’t been mothered since he was ten. The loss of his mom had seen to the end of his childhood.
“I could take you without wrinkling the crease in my pants, but then I’d have to hang around helping you fix your glasses, and I don’t want to be late for my first day on the drool detail.” Adam grabbed the keys to the dull four-door sedan he’d rented until he was cleared to ride his Ducati motorcycle again. He missed the feel of straddling the sleek bike. Hell, he missed the feel of wrapping his legs around a woman, too. At least the doctor hadn’t put any restrictions on sex. The pretty physical therapist in the neurosurgeon’s office had been coming on to Adam for weeks. She’d be a convenient distraction while he waited out the rest of his mandatory recuperation.
“You’re seriously going to ignore all those letters?” Ben asked before Adam could make a clean getaway. “Whoever they’re from seems pretty adamant about getting in touch with you. They’ve been coming two or three a week since you were attacked.”
Adam glanced down at the pile of envelopes at Ben’s elbow. The top one was postmarked Leavenworth, Kansas. He had no doubt the ones beneath it were as well. The chicken scratch on the front of the letter wasn’t hard to recognize. It hadn’t improved any over the past two decades. More than likely, the false promises and apologies on the inside hadn’t either.
“Toss ’em,” Adam said without a shred of guilt.
His friend studied him speculatively. It was the touch of pity flashing in Ben’s eyes that had Adam turning for the door. He was fairly certain, in Ben’s capacity as the Secret Service’s number one cyber asset, his housemate knew exactly who the stack of mail was from. Knowing how much his friend loved to solve puzzles, Ben had likely long ago put together the pieces to Adam’s backstory. Adam was reminded what a solid friend the other man was for not pressing him on it.