Chapter 2
TWO
Twenty-six years old, and Britta White was sitting in the back of a government SUV, getting a performance review from her father on the subject of her life choices.
“The UN attack,” President Isaac White said, his face filling her phone screen. “The assassination attempt in Sydney. And now”—he pinched the bridge of his nose—“getting a civilian tackled by your security detail in a Key West airport.”
Britta looked out the tinted window. Other wedding guests were boarding the boat to Sunset Key, laughing and carefree.
“In my defense,” she said, “I didn’t ask him to help me.”
“You were traveling under a fake name. With an alias you weren’t cleared to use. While ditching your protective detail.”
“These are sanctioned. Every one of them real.”
Her father didn’t laugh.
Right. Not the time for jokes.
Martinez shifted in the driver’s seat. The leather creaked.
Patterson’s phone buzzed from the passenger seat—probably coordinating with island security, because heaven forbid Britta step foot on Sunset Key without a full tactical briefing.
Chávez sat beside her, silent, probably texting his own report about how the subject was currently arguing with her father.
The boat engine idled. Waiting. That pristine white vessel that would take her across five minutes of crystalline water to three days of potential freedom.
If she could just get through this call.
“I’m an adult,” she said. Tried to keep her voice level.
Professional. The tone she’d used in her law classes when defending a position everyone already disagreed with.
“I passed the bar. I have a degree. And I know I live in the White House, so—” She stopped.
Tried again. “I understand the security concerns. I do. But I can’t spend the rest of my life being escorted everywhere like I’m incapable of navigating the world. ”
“You’re not incapable.” Her father’s voice softened. Shifted from president to dad in that way that made her chest tight. “You’re vulnerable. There’s a difference.”
“Vulnerable because of you.”
He didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed around the edges. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Her throat burned. “I’m collateral damage in threats aimed at your administration.”
“Which is exactly why you need protection.”
“Which is exactly why they win.” She leaned forward, needing him to hear this. Really hear it. “If I spend my twenties locked down because someone might use me to hurt you, they’ve already accomplished their goal. I’m already neutralized. They don’t even have to touch me.”
Her father looked at her through the screen. That particular expression—the one she rarely got to see. Exhausted. Worried. Carrying the weight of knowing that every decision he made as commander in chief created risks for the people he loved most.
“After the UN incident—” he started.
“I know.”
“And Sydney—”
“I know that too.”
“Then you understand why I can’t just—” He stopped.
Rubbed his eyes under his reading glasses.
She could see the pictures on the credenza behind him—him and her mother, the family photos that had traveled with him when he’d gone from senator to president and she’d gradually become less daughter and more security concern.
“There’s a man—Alan Martin—still out there. The Petrov Bratva still operational. And this wedding—Britta, the entire Jones, Inc., team is going to be there. Everyone Martin has targeted. Everyone who’s been involved in stopping him. You’re walking into a concentration of his enemies.”
“With my security detail.”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
The floor tilted under her. “What?”
“I think you need to sit this one out.”
“Dad.”
“The wedding is—” He paused. Chose his words carefully. “—not an acceptable risk.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than she meant them. “No. I came here for this. I planned for this. I’m not leaving.”
“Britta—”
“I’m twenty-six years old!” Her voice cracked. She didn’t care. “For crying in the sink, Dad, when does this end? When do I get to make my own choices? When do I get to have friends and attend weddings and exist in the world without a tactical team analyzing the risk assessment?”
Silence.
Martinez’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Patterson had stopped texting. Chávez was very carefully not looking at her.
Through the window, she watched a couple board the boat, his arm around her shoulders, her laughing at something he said.
Britta’s throat filled. “I just want three days,” she said quietly. “One weekend. One friend’s wedding. That’s all I’m asking.”
Her father was quiet for a long moment. She could hear something in the background—the television, probably, because he always had the news on, even during personal calls. Someone knocked on his door. He waved them away without looking.
“If something happens—” he started.
“Chávez will be there. He’s good at his job. Better than I am at ditching him, apparently.”
“You made it eight hours.”
“New personal record.”
Her father almost smiled. Almost. “You can’t do that again. No more running. No more disguises. No more disappearing.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Britta. You scared me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
His mouth tightened.
“I can’t lose you,” he said finally.
And there it was. The real fear underneath the security briefings and threat assessments and professional protocols.
He’d already lost her mother. Car accident.
Drunk driver. Britta had been fourteen. He’d been senator then, campaigning for reelection to the Senate, and he’d gotten the call while on stage at a rally in Iowa.
She remembered watching him on television, seeing his face change, knowing something terrible had happened before the cameras cut away.
He’d never recovered. Not really. He’d thrown himself into work, into public service, into building a legacy her mother would have been proud of. And he’d held on to Britta with everything he had left, because she was all that remained of the life they’d built together.
“You won’t lose me,” Britta said. Her voice came out soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You went to Charlotte. Miami. Key West. Under a fake name.”
“Because I needed to breathe. Just for a little while.”
Her father closed his eyes. When he opened them, something had shifted. Resignation, maybe. Or acceptance. Or just the exhausted surrender of someone who’d been fighting a battle they couldn’t win.
“Three days,” he said. “Martinez stays on the island. Distant surveillance—meaning you won’t see him unless there’s a credible threat. You check in twice a day. Morning and evening. Text is fine unless I call. And keep the tracker on you.”
Britta touched the delicate gold necklace. The one she hadn’t worn to the airport because it had a tracker and she’d known—she’d known—they’d use it to find her. Patterson had handed it to her the minute they got into the SUV.
“I’ll wear it,” she said.
“You leave the island, the deal is off. Visible security resumes immediately.”
“I’m not leaving the island. It’s a wedding.”
“And if anything feels wrong—anything, Britta, I don’t care how small—you call Martinez immediately. You don’t wait. You don’t try to handle it yourself. You call.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I will. I promise.”
He studied her through the screen. That presidential appraisal that could negotiate peace treaties, unnerve foreign leaders, and also see right through his daughter’s careful promises to know which ones she meant and which ones she was saying to end the conversation.
“I love you,” he said finally. “Even when you’re making my job significantly harder.”
“I love you too. Even when you’re making my life significantly harder.”
He almost laughed. Almost. “Enjoy the wedding. Give Ford and Scarlett my congratulations. And Britta?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay safe. Please.”
“I will.”
The call ended. The screen went dark. Britta sat in the back of the SUV, her father’s exhausted face burned into her retinas, the weight of his fear settling into her chest like stones.
“He approved it,” Martinez said from the front seat. Not a question. He’d probably been on his own call the entire time, being briefed, getting the new parameters, being told to keep the president’s daughter alive while also giving her space. Fun assignment.
Beside her, Chávez harrumphed. “We’ll be in town, so don’t think we’re just disappearing.”
“Distant surveillance,” Britta said. “I won’t see you unless there’s a problem.”
“You’ll see me,” Martinez said. “I just won’t look like security.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It’s my job.”
She looked at him in the rearview mirror.
Martinez had been with her detail for three years.
He’d been there when she graduated from law school.
When she’d attended her first UN summit.
When she’d survived an attempted kidnapping by the Bratva and spent six hours in debriefing trying to describe the faces of men who’d wanted to use her as leverage against her father.
He was good at his job. Professional. Dedicated. And she’d made his life significantly harder by ditching him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to make you look bad.”
His expression flickered. Surprise, maybe. “You kept them chasing you all the way to Key West. That’s impressive.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to make me feel better. Means I need to update my training, not my résumé.”
Patterson turned in her seat. “For what it’s worth, the disguise was good. You worked that identity like a pro. Clearly absorbed more from our briefings than we realized.”
“I always pay attention.”
“You just don’t always comply.”
“Compliance is overrated.”
Martinez actually smiled. Small. Brief. But genuine. “Enjoy the wedding, Miss White. We’ll be around if you need us.”
“Thank you.”
He opened his door. Came around. Opened Britta’s with that professional courtesy that was both respectful and a reminder that she would never just open her own door and walk into a venue like a normal person.
She climbed out. The sun was just fading.