Radclyffe - Oath of Honor
Roberts accepted the matching ring from a young dark-haired
woman who leaned on a plain wood cane, and slipped it onto Blair’s
finger. With this ring, I thee wed.
An anticipatory breath shuddered through the crowd. Six
uniformed officers, the Guard of Honor, stepped in sync to form a path
from the proceedings area, facing one another in a line, white-gloved
hands on shining saber hilts.
By the power vested in me by the United States Army, the President
of the United States, and the Commonwealth of…
The three male and three female officers drew their swords with
a slick of steel, their blades raised and touching to form the Arch of
Sabers.
…I pronounce you wed.
The couple kissed, the crowd clapped, and Wes turned to Peter
Chang.
“I guess you know who I am.”
Chang held out his hand. “Welcome to the hot zone, Captain.”
• 27 •
RADCLY fFE
chapter three
Hot zone. The term wasn’t new to Wes, but somehow she
didn’t think Dr. Peter Chang was using it in the usual medical
sense, meaning an area of contamination—typically bacterial or viral
or chemical. In combat, the term referred to the region under fire. When
teaching battlefield evacuation, Wes stressed that the hot zone was the
area where the injured were still in the line of fire, and those charged to
secure their safety would be too. Working in the hot zone was a way of
life for a battlefield surgeon, and though her career path had been one
of teaching, she’d done her tour at the front.
She hadn’t had much time to think about the tactical aspects of her
new job, and she wasn’t sure who she should talk to about the specifics.
One thing any team leader learned quickly was to keep their inexperience
to themselves. She wasn’t too proud to ask for help when she needed to
know something, but she didn’t plan to walk into her first day on the job
acting like a rookie, either. No one needed to explain the critical nature
of her assignment; she had only to look around the room. The president
of the United States, his chief of staff, his military liaison, his daughter,
her newly wedded partner, several ranking members of the cabinet, at
least one member of the Joint Chiefs, the national security advisor, and
the president’s security chief were all gathered in one room. A strike
against this location would effectively paralyze the government of the
most powerful nation in the world. It wasn’t her job to worry about the
security of the nation, only the health, welfare, and safety of its leader.
Right now, that leader was dancing with his daughter, as any
father of the bride would. Ushers and valets in crisp white jackets and
black tuxedo pants had magically secreted the chairs somewhere out
• 28 •
Oath Of hOnOr
of sight. A four-piece band had set up adjacent to where the vows had
been exchanged and was playing soft jazz. Waiters passed through the
crowd with flutes of champagne on silver trays. The atmosphere was
boisterous and relaxed. Wes didn’t feel relaxed.
She might not have officially begun her duty, but she was all but
signed-on-the-dotted-line, making every individual in this room her
responsibility whether she carried the black field-trauma bag today or
not. She wasn’t here to socialize. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was
here, but as long as she was, she intended to work if necessary.
“What’s the evacuation route to the nearest medical facility?” she
asked Peter.
“There’s a EC145 Eurocopter standing by. The closest level one
trauma center is about a twenty-minute ride.”
“Who flies it?”
“One of the marine pilots out of Andrews. He and our flight nurse
are in the building.”
“And you’re in charge today?”
“Yes. We draw up the duty roster monthly, depending upon
POTUS’s itinerary and events scheduled at the House.” Peter’s
expression grew somber. “Len was supposed to have this detail.”
She wondered if Chang and the previous medical chief had been
close friends, although their personal relationship didn’t really matter.
The death of a colleague, especially someone you worked with every
day, was painful, and no words of sympathy were ever adequate. “I was
sorry to hear of his death.”
Peter nodded, watching the crowd. “Yeah. We all were.”
“I’ve seen the team roster.” Wes had been provided dossiers on
all the members of the team—three docs, three flight nurses, three
PAs. Not a huge group considering they covered the clinic for White
House staffers, visitors, and guests, oversaw routine and urgent care
for the president’s and vice president’s families, and accompanied the
president on all scheduled and OTR trips. “That makes for some pretty
intense scheduling.”
“It can get hectic.”
“We can pull personnel from Bethesda if we need to?”
Peter shifted slightly and met her gaze. “You can do pretty much
anything you want to do, Captain. It’s your show.”
She searched his eyes, looking for resentment or resistance or
• 29 •
RADCLY fFE
challenge. He was in his late thirties, about her height, clean-shaven
with a wiry build, and dressed in a navy suit, a plain pale blue shirt, and
a thin black tie. His straight, glossy dark hair was precisely parted on
the right side, and a thick shock fell over his forehead. His eyes were
chocolate brown, steady and calm. Understated, composed, with a hint
of reserve—he didn’t know her, and she was now his boss. She’d need
his cooperation, if not assistance, to make the transition a smooth one
and to ensure the team continued to function at top efficiency. Too much
was at stake for anything less. Taking a chance that professionalism
would trump personal issues, she exposed her underbelly. “Who do I
answer to, unofficially?”
The guy whose job she’d probably taken smiled. “Pretty much no
one, except the president’s chief of staff. Lucinda Washburn runs his
schedule, which means she runs pretty much everything. If you need
something that affects the president, ask her. Next in line is the head of
his personal protection detail, Tom Turner.” Peter scanned the room.
“He’s around here somewhere—tall, thin African American, about
forty. He’ll provide our weekly itinerary and general assignments,
updated every morning at briefing.”
At the mention of the Secret Service detail, Wes thought of Agent
Daniels. She’d struck Wes as being a little humorless and a short step
away from unfriendly—a lot like some of the military police she
knew. Maybe that was just an occupational trait in closed groups with
little regard for outsiders. “Where exactly do we fall in the chain of
command?”
Peter waggled his hand. “We have to liaise with the Secret Service
pretty intimately, because when he moves, they move, and we go with
them.”“Separate but equal?”
He shrugged. “That’s not exactly how they see it but, technically,
yes. If a situation impacts his physical security, they carry the ball. If it
has to do with his medical safety, we do.”
“And if we disagree?”
He smiled for the barest second. “Depends on who has the biggest
bark.”“Or bite?”
“That too.”
• 30 •
Oath Of hOnOr
Wes sighed inwardly. She hated politics. What the hell had she
been thinking?
v
Evyn made her way along the veranda to the rear of the house,
where they’d set up their command post. After four hours outside in
the wind and cold, she was ready for a cup of coffee or ten. She had
no idea how much longer they’d be stuck out here in the ass-end of
nowhere, but she was pretty sure she’d be outside again before they
left. Departure time was fluid, depending on how long the postnuptial
celebrations went on. It didn’t matter much to her. Other than being
outside in the damn cold, she didn’t care how long she worked. The
more she worked, the more overtime she made and the less free time
she had to figure out how to fill until her next shift. There was only so
much after-work socializing she could do with the other members of
the detail, only so many movies she could watch while rattling around
her apartment in Alexandria, and only so much clubbing she could take
in search of a few hours’ company.
There had been less and less of the last diversion lately. Sometimes
the effort just didn’t seem worth the payoff. She enjoyed the physical
anticipation as she got dressed to go out and drove to one DC club or
another. The tingle in her belly while she spent a few hours nursing a
drink and scanning the room for possibilities kept her mind occupied
too. Anything that got her adrenaline surging felt good, and it was
hard to complain about sex in any fashion, but more and more when
the night was done and she drove home alone after leaving some near
stranger’s bed at oh-dark-thirty, she felt dissatisfied. Physically sated
maybe, but with the nagging feeling whatever she’d been hoping to
find, she hadn’t.
So on those more and more frequent nights when she was at loose
ends, the best thing that could happen would be a text telling her the
duty roster had changed once again and she had to report for an extra
shift, or POTUS had decided on an early-morning run and they needed
more bodies to go with him. She never minded.
A couple of her fellow agents were married, and they griped and
grumbled about the frequent changes in the rotation, although not
• 31 •
RADCLY fFE
so loud anyone higher up could hear them. After all, they did have
the premier protection detail. What could be more important than
safeguarding POTUS? Some of them tried to have a normal life after
hours. She wasn’t one of them and never expected to be. She’d always
wanted to do exactly what she was doing—she craved the stress and
challenge and satisfaction of her work. Except for the damn cold.
Nodding to the agent huddled in his topcoat on the porch of the
truly awesome house, she stamped her feet on the deck to clear the
snow from her boots and pushed through the door into the big kitchen
that took up half the rear of the house. Caterers and waiters and busboys
bustled around, replacing half-empty champagne glasses with full
ones, pulling trays of hot hors d’oeuvres from the oven, and sliding
cold canapés from the refrigerator. A huge coffee urn sat on a sideboard
with a stack of what looked like honest-to-God china cups next to it.
No way was she drinking out of one of those. She grabbed one of the
paper takeaway cups pushed back under one of the cabinets and filled
it to the brim with hot black coffee. Carefully making her way around
the party staff, she eased through the door into the dining room, where
several agents observed video feeds from external cameras, watched
computer monitors displaying overhead satellite images, and manned
the radio COM center. Several greeted her, and she flicked a finger in
their direction.
She shed her coat, tucked it into the closet at the far end of the
room, and meandered down the hall toward the noisy celebration. The
coffee was hot and strong and she sipped it appreciatively. Her fingers
and toes started to warm. Maybe there was life beyond December
after all. She stopped in an archway with a view of the great room and
automatically scanned the space looking for the other agents. Finding
them posted strategically around the perimeter, and satisfied all was as
it should be, she leaned a shoulder against the archway and relaxed.
She knew everyone at the gathering, either personally, by sight,
or from reviewing the guest list at the morning briefing. The only
person out of place was the woman standing directly across the room
from her. Captain Wesley Masters. Evyn would have noticed her
under any circumstances—and who wouldn’t? Her face was a striking
combination of elegant angles and sweeping planes, her eyes that vivid
sparkling green, her toned body showcased in the immaculate uniform.
Uniforms really didn’t do much for her, since she was surrounded by
• 32 •
Oath Of hOnOr
people wearing them all the time, but just the same, Masters looked
good in hers. Very good. Lean hips, medium breasts, narrow waist, and
slightly broader shoulders. Evyn didn’t have to work hard to conjure
up a fantasy of wrapping her legs around those tight hips and twisting
her hands in those thick, sun-kissed locks. Instantly, she banished the
image. Masters was not fantasy material. She was all too real and was
probably going to be a pain in the ass.
POTUS was about to embark on his reelection campaign, which
meant constant traveling, insane hours, unpredictable changes in the
itinerary, and very real threats at every stop. It was game time, and no
one, including the green medical officer across the room, was going
to have the luxury of time to adjust to the new circumstances. Masters
would have to hit the ground running, and hopefully she’d be able to
absorb everything she needed to know in record time.
“Have you met the new WHMU chief yet?” a rumbling voice
asked from beside her.
She turned toward Tom Turner, her boss and head of PPD. “Saw
her when she came in. Surprise, surprise.”
Tom winced. “You know how it is. Decisions get made, people
forget to share.”
“Uh-huh.” Politics—same old BS. “Kind of rushed to just drop
her in like this, don’t you think? We never even had a briefing.”
“I’m sure the other members of her team will brief her on the
medical end of things,” Tom went on.
Evyn sipped her coffee, watching Masters move away from Pete
until she was standing alone at the edge of the crowd. Her face was
composed, unreadable really, as she carefully focused on first one
