Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
West woke to the smell of the Coast Guard ship’s medical bay, lying on a table, an IV running into his arm.
His shoulder throbbed. Everything hurt.
Britta! His first thought. And even as he came to consciousness, he groaned, her name on his lips but indecipherable.
“He’s waking up.” A male voice. “Sir, can you hear me?”
West’s eyes opened. The world was still blurred, and he blinked, struggling to focus on the medic leaning over him.
“Yeah.”
“Good. You’ve got a nasty head wound. Possible concussion. Shoulder was dislocated, but we were able to relocate it. Nothing’s broken. You’re lucky.”
Lucky. The word almost made West laugh. Or cry. He couldn’t tell which.
Not lucky.
Saved.
“We’re taking you to Jackson Memorial, in Miami,” the medic continued. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Britta.” West’s mouth formed the name right this time. “Did you find her?”
The medic hesitated. His hands paused on the bandage. “Sir—”
That look—everything inside West seized. He raised himself up on the table. “Did you find her?”
“Stand down, soldier.”
A man stood in the doorway. The captain, an older man, clean-shaven, a few days’ stubble under his Coast Guard cover, came into the room. “Captain Mack Alder.” He held his hand out to West. “We hope to have news on your friend shortly.”
Friend? Oh—that didn’t begin to cover it, but…yes, at the very least, friends. But also: “She’s the First Daughter.”
“I know.” He gave West a grim smile. “There’s a call for you.”
What?
The captain gestured to a sailor standing outside the room. He came in with a portable radio.
West reached out, took it. “Britta.”
“Sorry, man—just me. York.”
West pressed his other hand to his face. Breathe. “Do you know—”
“Britta’s alive.”
The world stopped.
Everything stopped.
West couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process the words that had just come through the radio.
After a moment: “Oh, thank God.” His voice broke. Cracked. “How—”
“She’s alive. Banged up. Shaken. But alive. Coast Guard picked her up a couple hours ago. She’s on the yacht with her father. They kept it quiet until they could get her secure.”
“And Martin?”
“In custody, but he’s shot.”
West’s vision blurred. Not from the concussion this time. From tears he didn’t bother hiding. Didn’t bother wiping away even though the medic was watching and the captain was pretending not to.
“She’s really okay?” His voice shook now, clearly obliterating any question of “friends.”
“She’s okay. Back in the custody of the Secret Service.”
He wished it made him feel better, and couldn’t say why it didn’t. “How did Martin get to her at the wedding?”
“One of her Secret Service agents. He helped Alan escape, and we caught him boarding a plane in Miami. Tomas Smirnov got to him.”
“Who?”
“Long story. Listen, I’ll meet you in Miami.”
West’s chest knotted. “Yep.”
“West—” York paused. “You did it. You saved her.”
West shook his head even though York couldn’t see the gesture. “No. I didn’t save her. I—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “God did. I just held on.”
Silence on the other end. Then York’s voice came through quieter. More personal than the radio channel warranted. “Yeah. That’s the way it goes in the end. See you soon.”
The radio clicked off. West passed the handset back to Captain Alder, noting how his hand shook. In fact, his entire body shook.
The last of the adrenaline leaving him.
Britta was alive.
She’d survived the jump. Survived hitting the water. Survived whatever had happened after Alan Martin took her out that door.
West let his head fall back. His shoulders shook, and he covered his face with his hands.
The captain’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Just try to rest, son.” And then he left.
West lay back, eyes closed.
The medic lifted his wrist and took his pulse. Yeah, it would be off the charts. Then he let go. “Your girlfriend?” the medic said, as if trying to make conversation.
Three hours ago? Yeah, maybe.
But now…
“Yeah,” West said finally. “Something like that.”
The medic smiled. “Then let’s get you to that hospital so you can see her.”
They docked at the Coast Guard base just outside Miami and loaded West into an ambulance. They must have given him a sedative, because he just sort of floated to the Jackson Memorial trauma center.
He opened his eyes as they wheeled him inside the trauma center and set him in a bay.
“Hey, I’m good—really.” He shook free of the last of the fuzzy edges brought on by the sedative and sat up. “I just need some apple juice or something.”
A female nurse pulled the curtain back, came in. “Sir, just lay back.”
“Yeah, no, I’m good.” He reached for the IV.
“Sir, you have a head injury—”
“We’re done here.” He eased out the IV needle and she grabbed a cotton ball, handed it to him.
“Sir—really.”
He held the cotton ball on the wound and looked at her. “Has Britta White arrived yet?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “I can’t—I don’t—”
“Yeah, whatever.” He moved to get off the table, but the world suddenly tilted.
She grabbed his arm. “Sir—”
“I’m fine.” But he didn’t shrug off her assistance as he stood.
He blew out a couple breaths to scatter the nausea. Then took a deep breath and looked at her. Mid-forties, short dark hair, wore the name Miriam on her badge.
“Miriam, I’m going to need you to point me in the direction of any Secret Service agents you saw come in.”
“Sir, you really should—”
“I’m signing AMA forms if I have to.”
She sighed, then nodded and took his elbow, guiding him out of the room.
They walked—West determinedly upright—through the emergency department, the smell of antiseptic and blood, and down another hallway.
And there, Secret Service agents stood on either side of a door.
He wanted to collapse right there, but that would land him in a gurney again, so he turned to Miriam. “Thanks. I got it from here.”
Her mouth pinched. “I’ll just…be over here.” She stepped back, away, but didn’t leave.
The agents wore dark suits despite the Florida heat. Earpieces. Sunglasses even inside. Coiled. Alert. Missing nothing.
Watching West.
One agent stepped forward. Tall. Broad. The kind of build that said former military. “Sir, this area is restricted.”
“I need to see Britta White.”
“I’m sorry, sir. No visitors at this time.”
“I’m not a visitor,” West snapped, then drew in a breath. No need to pick a fight. “I was on the plane. I need to see her. Need to know she’s okay.”
“Sir, I understand, but—”
“Where is she?” West took a step forward.
Two more agents moved in. Positioned themselves. Not aggressive but definitely blocking.
“Sir, you need to step back.”
“Listen, Jack. I jumped out of a plane to save her. I’m not stepping back.” West’s hands fisted. His head throbbed. “Just tell me she’s okay. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Let him through.”
The voice came from behind the agents. Authoritative. Unmistakable.
The agents parted.
President Isaac White stood in the hallway. Gray hair slightly disheveled. Tie loosened, collar open. Sleeves rolled up. Face lined with exhaustion and something else West couldn’t name. Relief maybe.
West’s spine straightened automatically. Military training. Years of conditioning that said you stood at attention when the commander in chief entered the room.
“Mr. President.” West’s voice came out hoarse.
The president’s gaze swept over West. Taking in the soggy, ripped clothes. The bandage wrapped around his head. The way West swayed slightly despite trying to stand steady.
“I need to talk to you,” President White said. A command, not a request. He stepped past the agents.
Oh. “I’d like to see Britta—”
“Come with me.” He motioned with his head and walked down the hallway toward a small conference room.
West followed and tried to ignore the terrible rushing in his head, his chest.
Here came federal prison.
A Secret Service agent held open the door, and West walked through, behind the president, into a generic conference room. A blond wood table with rolling chairs, a whiteboard on one wall. Windows overlooking the parking lot.
The president closed the door, cutting off the hallway noise, and silence filled the room. All but the thundering of West’s heart.
“Sit down.” President White gestured to a chair.
West dropped into the chair, more from failing legs than choice, but he managed to sit at attention.
The president remained standing. His hands gripped the back of a chair. Knuckles white. Face drawn.
“I owe you my daughter’s life.” The words came out quiet. Heavy. “Everything you’ve done this last week. The yacht. The protection. The airport. Getting on that plane somehow—” He stopped. Took a breath. “I can’t repay that.”
West shook his head. “I don’t want repayment, sir. I just want—”
The president held up a hand. “I know what you want. And we’ll get to that. First, I have a question.” He looked at West directly. Assessing. “Do you want a job?”
West blinked. His concussed brain struggled to process the question. “Sir?”
“Secret Service. Presidential protection detail. I’ve seen your record.
Your father’s legacy. Frank Young has a reputation as one of the best agents in the Service.
We never worked together directly, but I know of his courage, and his sacrifice.
” The president’s expression was unreadable.
“If you’re anything like your old man, you’re exactly the kind of man we need.
I can make one call and you’re in. Full benefits. Fast track to leadership positions.”
The words should have meant something. Should have triggered the dream inside, the hope of legacy.
But West sighed and shook his head. “No, sir.”
The president’s eyebrow rose. “No?”
“I appreciate the offer. But no. I don’t want to be Secret Service.”
“Why not?”
“Because that life consumed my father. Took everything from him. From us. And yes, I was proud of him, but I want a different life. I won’t do that to—” He stopped. Couldn’t finish the sentence.
To anyone I love. To Britta. To the family we might have.
President White straightened, folded his arms, and studied him.
West swallowed, said nothing.