Homefront Defenders. Lisa Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ a compassionate smile as he moved away.

      The aide paused long enough to say, “Seven thirty tomorrow morning.”

      Locke didn’t look happy, but he nodded anyway. She knew he liked his morning routine, whether they were in the White House or Hawaii or anywhere else in the world. She’d seen him with his coffee, reading his Bible. Fact was, he probably just didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, and Alana wasn’t that happy about it, either.

      Director William Matthews strode over, wearing sunglasses and the same earpiece with the clear coiled wire they all wore with their suits. The older man’s hair was silver and shined as brightly as his shoes. His tie was red because it was Thursday—Alana had figured that out after the first month.

      “Let’s go, Patricia.” William nodded toward the president. The aide turned and scurried along beside him.

      Alana glanced around again. Why did it feel like she was being watched? Likely there were multiple sets of eyes on her—Secret Service, local police and residents there to spot the president. Now that he’d moved through the area, they could take a break. The team who traveled with the president were tasked with his protection and kept a short distance from him. Director Matthews brought up the rear with the aide, Patricia.

      Alana hung back with Locke, the rest of their team around them. Nothing to do for the rest of the evening but field phone calls and man the office they’d created in a hotel conference room. She sighed. This was the team she was on, and if she wanted to get out of the rookie seat, she had to prove she was a team player. Too bad surfing was usually only a one-person sport.

      “Okay?”

      His question jerked her from her thoughts. Alana pasted on a smile. “Fine.” The sweat hadn’t let up. Her palms were sticky. What was wrong with her? She glanced around again. Staring. Locke’s attention was on her, but there was something else.

      “You’re not fine.”

      Alana kept her gaze moving. “Someone...”

      “You feel it, too. I thought it was just the president’s arrival, but maybe it’s something else.” He shifted closer to her. “Your instincts may very well be spot-on. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

      “Like I’m being watched.” She shook her head. “I mean, we are being watched.”

      “You said I, and that’s fine. It might be important. Someone targeted you this morning. Tried to kill you. Your instinct is telling you it’s you that’s in danger, not us in general as Secret Service agents. That instinct isn’t a bad thing.”

      She heard the edge in his voice, but he didn’t look at her. Logically she knew he cared. Probably because if she was killed it would be a pain to fill out all those incident reports and then find someone to replace her. Fine, he’d probably cry at her funeral. Or at least get a little teary. Afterward he’d go back to work, though. That was Locke.

      “Alana? Someone tried to kill you, remember?”

      “You think I forgot?” Alana turned. Too late she realized she’d twisted her torso without moving her hips and shoulders at the same time. Pain sliced through her middle, and she groaned.

      “Easy,” Locke said.

      Alana hung her head, hands on her abdomen as she sucked in the fresh air of home. They needed to follow up with the cops, find out how her sister could be linked to the sniper and why a yakuza soldier had tried to kill her this morning. She had a whole lot of questions, and while getting answers wouldn’t make her stomach stop hurting, it would help them get to the bottom of this.

      “She okay?” one of the team asked.

      Locke set his hand on Alana’s shoulder. “She will be.” He gave it a squeeze. “Let’s go, Preston.”

      Time to suck it up. Alana straightened. “I’m good.” Her stomach flipped over. She took a step, and her knees buckled.

      Locke grabbed her elbow. “Let’s get you to the car, and then we’ll get some food in you.”

      Alana nodded. “I know a place. It’s not far from here.”

      * * *

      “It’s right here.”

      “The restaurant?” Locke slowed the car to a crawl past the fourplex in a complex of buildings that were all exactly the same. Still, these looked like they were on the higher end of the rental spectrum. The cars outside were nicer, but that was hardly a gauge of upward mobility. So many low-rent, low-income neighborhoods had parking lots full of brand-new cars.

      He pulled up to the curb and put the SUV in Park.

      “That’s my sister’s place.” Alana motioned to one of the units, all lit by street lights. “Upstairs, left side. Lights are out, so she probably isn’t home. The car that’s registered to her isn’t here.”

      “Any reason why you couldn’t just tell me we were going to stop by your sister’s on the way to eat?” He wanted to say more, but the woman was seriously flagging. She’d deflated onto the seat, and though she’d thought he wasn’t watching, he’d seen her take painkillers. Why did she feel the need to hide it?

      Alana’s attention didn’t leave her sister’s apartment. Locke said, “Do you want to go knock on the door?”

      She bristled. “No, I’m sure she’s not there.”

      “Did you try to call her again?”

      “Sure. A couple of times.” Alana’s face gave nothing away.

      “I know you’re not close.” He didn’t know what else to say. “I could go knock on the door, if you want.”

      “No!” She didn’t even hesitate.

      “Okay.” Locke studied her. Maybe this was all because she’d had a long, rough day. They both needed rest—but they needed food first. “So is there a restaurant?”

      Alana told him where it was. Locke entered it on the GPS, which came up with the name. Not a chain restaurant—this seemed more like a hole-in-the-wall diner. “Is this place good?”

      Her eyebrows shot up. “Of course it’s good, and the coffee is thick enough it’ll put hairs on your chest.”

      There was no way he was going to let that throwaway comment go by. “Because I...”

      A tiny smile played at her lips. “It’s a dumb expression, but you know what I mean.”

      “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

      He drove to the restaurant, aware of her attention on him in his peripheral vision. When they pulled into a space outside, he said, “Okay, do I have mustard on my face or what?”

      “Sorry.” She shifted in her seat. “You just seem...I don’t know, relaxed?”

      “As opposed to uptight?”

      “Locke—”

      “It’s fine. СКАЧАТЬ