Chapter 3 #3
“I went to school at Georgetown—undergrad and law school—but I took the Montana bar. Dad has property there. I thought maybe—” She stopped. Shrugged. “I don’t know what I thought. That distance would help. That being somewhere less political might make things easier.”
“Did it?”
“Not really. I felt like Dad needed me in DC. Without mom there, I fill in some of the duties of the First Lady, so for now…” She took a sip of her sugar-coffee. “What about you? What were you doing before Jones, Inc.?”
“Marine Corps. Explosive Ordnance Disposal.”
“Bomb squad.”
“Essentially.”
“That’s”—she paused—“a job where one mistake means you don’t get to make another one.”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Good question. But the truth was more than breakfast conversation so—“I wanted something different,” he said. “Jones, Inc., offered that.”
“Different how?”
“Choice. I pick my assignments. I walk away when I want. Nobody owns my time unless I agree to it.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is.”
She broke off a piece of croissant. “I can’t remember the last time I had that kind of freedom. Even small choices—what to eat, where to go, who to see—they all require security assessments and background checks and approval from people who decide if my choices are acceptable risks.”
“Hence the wig. Sarah Miller.”
“Yeah.” She set down her coffee. Looked at the ocean instead of him.
“After the UN attack, my father got scared. Really scared. He’d already lost my mom.
I’m all he has left. So the security got tighter.
The restrictions got worse. And I started feeling like I was suffocating.
Like I was going to spend my entire twenties—maybe my entire life—being protected instead of living. ”
“Your father is trying to keep you safe,” West said carefully. “That comes from love. But sometimes love holds on so tight it forgets to let you breathe.”
She looked at him. Really looked. “You sound like you know that from experience.”
Right. “My dad was Secret Service. Gave everything to the job. Died protecting the governor’s family while barely knowing his own.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
And suddenly the morning turned raw, the sun hot, sweat dragging down his spine.
So he stepped back into safe territory. “The rehearsal dinner’s on a boat tonight,” he said. “Sunset cruise around the island. Should be—”
“Dramatic?”
“I was going to say nice. Hopefully not dramatic.”
“Right.”
Movement caught West’s eye. The women—Scarlett, RJ, Coco, Glo—approaching from the path. All of them in resort casual. All of them looking purposeful.
“Britta!” Scarlett waved. “There you are. We’ve been texting you.”
Britta grimaced. “Sorry. I left my phone in my cottage.”
“Well, come on. Spa day starts in twenty minutes. Mani-pedis, massages, the whole thing.” Coco grinned. “It’s mandatory. Bride’s orders.”
“Oh.” Britta looked at West. “I don’t want to abandon you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll somehow manage to finish my not-bacon myself.”
She rolled her eyes and got up. “Thanks for breakfast.”
Then she was gone.
West sat alone at the table. Finished his eggs. Watched Patterson emerge from the shadows and follow the women at a distance.
Ham appeared. “So, breakfast with the president’s daughter.” He claimed the seat Britta had vacated. Looked at West with that expression that said he’d been watching and had opinions.
“We were both hungry.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not—we were just talking.”
“About?”
“Her life. My life.”
“So, just lighthearted banter.”
“Stop. I saw her on the beach. We ate breakfast at the same table. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch.”
Ham raised an eyebrow. “Really.”
West looked at the ocean. At the sunrise that had fully arrived, turning everything golden and possible. “I’m not getting involved. Calm down, boss.”
Ham stood. Clapped him on the shoulder. “Okay. Listen, we’re taking a charter boat out. Doing some diving, if you want to hang out with us former SEALs.”
“Is that a gauntlet thrown?”
Ham grinned. “We leave in thirty.”
West cleared his plate. Headed back to his cottage. Showered. Changed into swim trunks.
And refused to think about the sunset cruise.
Alan sat at a corner table in the Blue Heaven café on Thomas Street, nursing Cuban coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. The ceiling fans turned lazy circles overhead, doing nothing against the Florida heat that pressed down like a wet blanket.
His phone sat face up on the scarred wooden table. No calls. No texts from Tomas since the single message two days ago:
Tomas
Key West. Wait for instructions.
The Sydney operation had been a catastrophe. Eight Roombas loaded with neurotoxin, all disabled before they could deploy. The sniper dead. The president alive.
And Jones, Inc., had been there. Ham’s people. Dakota Rivers, the analyst who was too smart for his own good. That woman, Lynx, the one who’d somehow gotten away—again.
They were ghosts, these Jones people. Appearing at every operation, thwarting every plan. Sixteen years, and Alan had never faced an enemy this persistent, this coordinated.
Maybe it was over.
Tourists ambled past the café in their flip-flops and tank tops.
Maybe Tomas knew it was over.
His phone buzzed. Finally.
Tomas
Incoming.
Alan’s chest tightened. He scanned the street, hand instinctively moving toward the weapon holstered at his back—
Then he saw them.
Two women, walking down Thomas Street with shopping bags. The older one wore a sun hat and oversized sunglasses, linen pants, a flowing top. She moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d finally learned to relax.
The younger one—dark-haired, maybe sixteen—laughed at something her mother said, tossing her hair back, the sun catching it like spun gold.
Alan’s coffee cup slipped from his fingers, clattering against the saucer.
Timea.
Fia.
His wife. His daughter. Alive. Real. Twenty feet away.
Time fractured. The noise of the street—car engines, tourist chatter, reggae music from a nearby bar—faded to white static. Just his own pulse hammering in his ears.
Fia holding up a bracelet, asking a question.
Alan stood without thinking. His chair scraped against the concrete. His legs moved on autopilot, carrying him toward them. Sixteen years. Sixteen years of not knowing, the last six being told they were alive, being shown photos, being promised One more job and you’ll see them—
“Sit down.”