“So this is off the books?” I ask.
“As far off the books as we can get,” he says. “I’ll be paying for this on my own, and very few people will know. Only my most trusted advisors in the White House.”
“The fewer the better,” Kynan suggests.
President Alexander locks his eyes on mine. Whatever he’s going to ask, I cannot say no to him.
“Cruce,” he begins, his voice slightly quavering. “I want you to be the one to personally protect her. She’s in a secure facility during the day as she works, but she’s vulnerable when not there. I want you stuck to her side when she’s not at work.”
I can do nothing but nod my agreement. This man I respect has just made it personal to me. While Kynan thinks the president is indebted to me, there’s an element that’s just the opposite. Once I became the man who saved his life, I became invested in his life as a whole. Besides, he’s a fantastic leader. He loves our country, and I believe in everything he stands for. And if it’s important to him that I keep his niece safe, then I’m going to oblige.
Kynan and Alexander start talking about what other resources he wants from Jameson. But I’ve already started thinking about what I’m going to need to adequately protect Barrett Alexander.
“She’s not going to like this,” the president says, the words catching my attention.
“What do you mean?” Kynan inquires.
Alexander blows out a huff of frustration. “Barrie is… well, she’s just super focused on her work. Always has been, to the point of being a bit antisocial. She’s also a little too independent, but worst of all… as independent as she is, she’s as equally naïve. Barrie won’t believe there’s a threat, or even if she does, she’ll push away efforts to protect her. She doesn’t like her routine being messed with.”
Kynan and I exchange a look. We’ve dealt with difficult people in our lines of work before, but we both know when protecting someone, they have to respect our position of authority over them so we can effectively do our jobs. For example, if I were to yell at the vice president to “get down” when I was on his protective duty, he should drop to the floor without a moment’s hesitation.
Sounds like Barrett Alexander might prove to be a little difficult.
The president continues. “I’d like to hit her with this immediately. As in now, if you two don’t mind an overnight stay.”
“We can do that,” Kynan assures him.
“Sounds like I’m going to need to have my stuff shipped to me,” I mutter, pulling out my phone to text Bebe to see if she would mind handling it for me. It’s clear I’m not returning to Pittsburgh for the foreseeable future.
“Thought you’d left DC for good, didn’t you?” Alexander murmurs with a wan smile.
“You know how much I hate driving around Dupont Circle,” I joke in an attempt to put him at ease.
The gratitude is clear in his eyes and voice. “Thank you, Cruce. This means the world to me.”
CHAPTER 3
Barrett
It’s hard to be annoyed by Uncle Jon wanting to have dinner with me tonight. Him coming over is a rare treat because as busy as I think I am, he’s a million times more so.
Seeing as he’s the leader of the free world and all.
But I am a little put out because in order to get ready to host him at my DC townhome, I had to cut out of work early and I never leave work early.
Work is my life.
My reason for living.
The entirety of my being.
Some would say I might be a little obsessed.
But I didn’t have to leave early to meet the Secret Service while they did a security sweep for safety. Not that anyone legitimately thinks I’m a threat to my uncle or there might be a rogue assassin waiting in my coat closet off the foyer in the remote chance the president happened to stop by.
No, the sweep was handled while I had my nose buried deep in my work.
But I did have to leave early all the same because if Uncle Jon was going to take time out of his busy schedule to come see me, then I was going to make his favorite meal.
Tuna fish casserole.
No, it’s not glamorous, but Aunt Janet doesn’t like tuna fish—at least not from a can—so he only gets it when I can make it for him. It’s about the only thing I know how to cook.
I check the timer, then peek inside the oven. The crushed potato chip topping is browning nicely, and, I have to admit… it will be nice to have a home-cooked meal. Most of my dinners are at my desk in my lab, and they consist of a granola bar or protein shake.
Which, sadly, is also my lunch and breakfast most days.
But I’m so close to a breakthrough, and I’m operating on pure adrenaline right now. I work, and I work hard. When I come home, usually around midnight, I crash hard—usually just falling face-first onto the bed. But then my alarm goes off at six, I get a run in and then a quick shower, and I’m back out the door to put in another eighteen hours.
Imagine… free energy for the entire world. Poor countries could have running water and heat, run irrigation systems for farming, and implement medical machinery in the hospitals to help diagnose and treat disease.
My doorbell rings, pulling me out of my dreams for all the good my work can do. I glance at the clock, wondering who it could be.
Seven PM.
How can it be seven already?
I’m still in the clothes I wore to work. I dress for comfort, not style, and the heather-gray leggings with a light blue button-down blouse isn’t as dressy as it should be to greet the president. My dirty, off-white Chucks have certainly seen better days.
I know my hair is a mess. It always starts in a short ponytail, but my bangs eventually get in my way, so I end up shoving a bobby pin in to hold them back. It’s my “hot mess” look, as my research assistant, Derrick, likes to say.
“Oh, well,” I mutter, patting at the top of my head in case I’ve got a big rat’s nest on top for some reason. I’ll often lean over my computer, my fingers clutching and twirling my hair in consternation, which tends to make it an even bigger hot mess.
When the doorbell rings again, I bolt for the door, my Chucks squeaking on the hardwood floors.
I twist the deadbolt, turn the knob, and throw the door open with a smile on my face. “Uncle Jon—”
My words fall flat, ceasing when I see my uncle standing there with two men I don’t recognize. Behind them are two Secret Service agents, recognizable in their classic plain dark suits with earbuds in place.
“Barrie,” my uncle says affectionately, using the nickname I despise. It’s what I was called when I was a kid, but now it just makes me feel like a 1970’s porn star. Still, I graciously accept his warm hug, lingering a bit since we haven’t seen each other in so long.
When he pulls away, he motions the men on the porch across the threshold. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought two guests I need to introduce you to.”
The two men move into my home, with the two Secret Service agents following. But when my uncle holds up his hand, they stop. “If you two will just wait on the porch.”
“But, sir,” one of the agents protests.
“I’m adequately protected, gentleman,” is all he says before he closes the door in their faces. He gestures to the first man, a tall blond with warm brown eyes and a stylish goatee. “Barrett… this is Kynan McGrath. He owns a company called Jameson Force Security.”