CHAPTER 27
Baxter Road, Nantucket
Iwoke on Thursday to the sound of a ringing cell phone. After a few fumbles trying to find the damn thing, I answered and heard the familiar automated instruction: “Go secure.”
I punched in the code and waited.
Soon the automated voice was replaced with a human one.
One of the CSTC computer guys was on the line, reminding me of the systems upgrade scheduled for this morning.
I must have missed the memo, but I needed the boost in order to receive additional updates from the smorgasbord of national intelligence agencies.
I took the phone downstairs to the kitchen to make some coffee, and fired up my laptop as the tech on the other end fiddled with the behind-the-screen gibberish.
The vast sums Tristan had invested in our IT infrastructure bought quick results: The guy back in Maryland was able to make the necessary adjustments by simultaneously interconnecting the computer of every CSTC principal across the globe.
As the software was downloading, Rowan Anderson waltzed back into my house without knocking. Since when were Secret Service agents authorized to walk into my living room at will? Another memo I must have missed. But she was very good-looking, so I didn’t complain too much.
I waved her over, and motioned that she should help herself to some coffee.
As Rowan made her way to the kitchen, I noticed she was wearing her pistol. Her radio gear was strapped to her belt too.
“Sorry, Nat—just came by to let you know that it turns out I do have to work today. Dinner tonight instead?”
“No sweat. Come on over when you’re done—I’ll be here.”
She was clearly trying to get a look at my laptop screen, but CSTC operations were none of her damn business. I especially didn’t need the Secret Service prying into our operations, so I obscured her view of the screen by tilting it down a little.
“Sorry, Curious Georgette,” I said with a smile, “the Man in the Yellow Hat says you lack the clearance to see the stuff I’m working on.”
Rowan gave me a grin, flipped me the bird, and blew me a kiss. Then she marched out the door, waving goodbye over her shoulder.
Guess I’d have to prove myself over dinner.
I finished the computer download and decided to check in with Tristan about his latest endeavor. He could hardly contain himself as he asked what additional equipment we would need. Tristan was practically bubbling over with the new operational possibilities we would have to be prepared to execute.
We talked for almost an hour, giving me plenty of time to make some lists. I told Tristan that we would review the concepts in detail when the team arrived on Friday.
That’s when my boss mentioned the information in my third missed memo of the day: He was flying the team up on one of the CSTC jets to maximize our time. He had already drawn up the itinerary; all I had to do was collect them at the airport.
At least we wouldn’t be working all weekend. We had the party at the Wilsons to relax a little.
Si Wilson pulled up in an old Jeep CJ-5, then jumped out and jogged to the door.
He told me how much his parents had enjoyed meeting me and thanked me again for the job offer.
Si said he was anxious to get to Maryland to see the compound—and, hopefully, get in some trigger time on the shooting range.
His excitement reminded me of when I began my career with the Rangers. That kind of enthusiasm was contagious and I knew he would do well.
* * *
The Special Agent in Charge looked incredible.
She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress that showcased her bronzed shoulders and muscular arms, not a tan line in sight.
The simple design—plain enough not to reveal too much, but figure-hugging enough to draw attention—complimented her athletic body perfectly.
We headed to the Rope Walk, my favorite restaurant in town. A dinner that fit my budget at a table overlooking the million-dollar boats lined up along the docks and mooring buoys of the Nantucket Boat Basin was my idea of pure capitalist fantasyland.
We enjoyed a sunset cocktail and talked like old friends.
Like most people in her profession, Rowan Anderson was never really off duty. She constantly checked her phone for messages from her fellow agents. After watching the way she related to her team, I couldn’t imagine anyone other than her running the detail.
In a lot of ways, Rowan reminded me of Meg Fuller. Their personalities were so similar that they could have been sisters. Or colleagues, given the effortless way each slid into teammate roles in male-dominated professions.
We finished dinner and took a walk along the dock to admire the yachts. The sun was setting, and the view of the floating estates—and the generations of wealth they represented—was striking.
As we stood there admiring one of the mega-boats, Rowan leaned into me, inspiring me to go for broke: I put my arm around her and pulled her closer. Her firm body nestled against my chest and I felt her arm wrapping around my waist. We were a good fit.
I wanted to get to know her better. Of course, she was leaving for Chicago on Monday. And after that, who knew?
We drove back toward my place, still with the same easy conversation. We talked about relationships and recounted some of the more notorious dating disasters we’d each had over the years. Though mine eclipsed hers in drama, I was thoroughly content to imagine a positive outcome for the evening.
Until I almost killed us both.
About two miles from home, doing about sixty beneath a moonless sky, I suddenly spotted a lawn-service truck pulled only halfway off the dark stretch of road. I was almost a second too late.
I had to jerk the wheel hard to miss clipping the big Ford, the ass end of my Defender sliding left then right like it was on ice.
I swear we came up on two wheels as I turned into the swerve, the vehicle barely under control and my headlights wildly raking the countryside.
I cursed the lawn guys as I recovered from the fishtail.
“Guess they had a flat,” Rowan deadpanned. She was calm enough given the situation.
“Probably.” Though my adrenaline was amped up several notches, I was dead serious when I asked, “Still up for a nightcap?”
“Twist my arm,” she said coyly. Nothing like a brush with destiny to get the heart racing a little.
We walked inside holding hands. Before the door even closed, I pulled her to me and kissed her. We stood in the open doorway for a good minute or two before she stepped away.
“Pour me a drink,” she commanded matter-of-factly. Then she headed upstairs.
Tonight was shaping up to be a special occasion, so I went looking for the bottle of Pappy that Tristan had given me a few years ago. Once I found it, I poured us each a couple of fingers.
I turned at the sound of Rowan coming back downstairs. She was leaning against the newly repaired front door, beckoning me with a crooked index finger. She was wearing an old button-down of mine and clutching the fabric so close to her body that I was pretty sure nothing else was touching her skin.
I left the two glasses sitting on the kitchen counter and walked toward her, while she let the shirt fall open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of what was underneath.
Please don’t screw this up, I told myself.
She placed a finger on my lips as she grabbed my hand and started to lead me upstairs.
We hadn’t gone two steps when someone rapped insistently on my door.
“What the fuck?!” I yelled.
Rowan’s come-hither smile disappeared. She dashed upstairs as I squinted through the peephole, then unlocked the door.
Standing on my front porch was a young man dressed in what I guessed was the summer Secret Service uniform: tan pants, blue polo, and pistol belt.
“Um, sir, is Special Agent in Charge Anderson here, by any chance?”
The little pervert knew damn well she was here.
“Bad timing, dude—but I’ll go take a look.” I gave him a hard stare, telegraphing my eternal grudge against the Secret Service for not only fucking up my door the other night but now fucking up my date night too. I shut the door and left him standing out there.
Rowan was already heading back down the steps, gazing at her phone. She shook her head sadly.
“I’m sorry, Nat. Apparently Walt Fitzgerald has called an all-hands-on-deck meeting at midnight to talk about security for the next few days. The fucking asshole wants me there too.”
It was the first comment she’d made about Senator Harrison’s staff. Despite my hope that missing an evening with me was the root of her frustration, I could sense that she and this Fitzgerald guy saw eye to eye on very little.
“I’ll try to make it back,” she said doubtfully. “But no promises.”
Now I hated this Fitzgerald guy too.
“I understand: Duty calls.” I knew we’d probably both be tied up for the rest of the weekend, but I made an offer anyway: “Maybe we can grab a quick bite over the next couple of days, if you’re free.”
“Here’s my card and my cell number. Call me when you can, okay? Please.”
She had such a downcast look on her face that I couldn’t resist giving her a hug and a quick peck, almost on the lips.
“No worries—of course I’ll call you. I won’t let you go that easily.” She seemed to enjoy the encouragement.
Then Special Agent in Charge Rowan Anderson put on her boss persona: She flung open the front door and barked out an order to the junior agent, and the two of them headed across the yard to the big meeting.
If Harrison won the primary, she would be detailed to his campaign that much longer.
If he lost, she would undoubtedly be switched to provide security for someone else, which would last all the way through the general election.
Either way, I hoped we could see each other just often enough to provide a future where we always had something to look forward to. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.
I gulped down the two glasses of bourbon and pouted my way up to bed.