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

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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