The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(25)

Despite the number of pills the paramedic had given him, the beginning of another headache was gnawing at his temples. The muscles in his neck were tense and sore, and his back was killing him. With a groan, he got up from the chair he’d been sitting in for the last fifteen minutes and carefully stretched his back. The hotel room he’d been ordered to stay in was similar to his own on the fifth floor, minus the connecting doors. The FBI agent in charge had made it clear to White that he wasn’t permitted to leave the room. A quick phone call to the special agent in charge of the Secret Service San Francisco field office had confirmed that White was to abide by the FBI directive. White had also been relieved of his service pistol. It had been placed in an exhibit bag along with his spare magazines, Spyderco knife, and radio. At least he’d been able to sneak back into his room to get his ankle holster and snub-nose revolver from his safe.

“We’re just following protocols,” one of the FBI agents had said, his discomfort apparent. “Sorry about that.”

White understood. Thank goodness Veronica was safe. Shaken, but safe. He took a few steps toward one of the windows. He parted the curtains and peered out the window at the activity below. Emergency vehicles ringed the perimeter of the hotel. Police cars, fire trucks, and at least half a dozen ambulances were on scene. Behind them, news vans were parked on the sidewalk opposite the hotel. Hundreds of onlookers had also gathered, most of them with smartphones in hand. The hotel had become like a movie set.

Or a morbid tourist attraction, thought White. In all fairness, that was to be expected. This was the kind of news that eclipsed everything else. What he didn’t appreciate was the fact that he was being kept in the dark. With his radio now in evidence, he had no way to contact his men. The FBI had let him keep his personal phone, but nobody had replied to his texts or calls.

Growing more restless by the minute, White grabbed the television remote and turned on the flat screen. As he flicked from one channel to another, he realized that each channel was more or less using the same news footage. Commentators were arguing among themselves. One of them, a man White recognized as a former Secret Service agent who’d been let go due to an accidental weapons discharge inside the White House, was thumping his fist on a desk, his too-long mustache moving in concert with his upper lip.

White turned off the television just as there was a knock at his door. There was a click, and the door opened. A medium-size, stocky man sharply dressed in a navy-blue suit entered. He had a broad forehead, a graying crew cut, and sharp blue eyes. He offered his hand to White.

“Alan Summers,” the man said, introducing himself. “I’m the SAC of the field office here in San Francisco.”

White shook the man’s hand. “Yes, sir. I believe we spoke on the phone.”

“We did,” Summers said, looking around the room, his eyes stopping on the two small empty bottles of vodka on the night table.

“To take the edge off?” he asked, turning his attention back to White.

White shook his head. “They’re not mine,” he said truthfully. It was the paramedic who had added them to his coffee, but it wasn’t White’s job to denounce him.

Summers didn’t seem to care if they were or not. White presumed the SAC had more than enough on his plate already. Summers gestured to the two armchairs near the window. “May I?” he asked.

White took a seat, doing his best to look calm despite his internal turmoil. Summers was about to give him some news about Veronica and the rest of his team. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He studied Summers’s face for any clues. The man looked weary, like someone stretched to the breaking point by emotions. It didn’t bode well for White.

From his jacket’s breast pocket, Summers took out a recorder and placed it on the small table next to him. He pressed one of the tiny buttons. White raised an eyebrow at him.

“I need to record this for accuracy,” Summers explained.

White grabbed the recorder and turned it off. “No. You don’t,” he said.

“What are you doing?” Summers asked. It was clear he hadn’t anticipated White’s resistance.

“Before I answer any of your questions, I want you to tell me how my team’s doing. I’ve waited long enough.”

“Shit, man,” Summers said, lifting his hands in surrender. “Didn’t the FBI tell you?”

A small amount of bile crept up into White’s mouth. “Tell me what?”

Summers hissed out a lungful, and his shoulders sank. “They’re all dead. All of them.”

White felt as though he’d been kicked in the balls by a mule. His breath left his lungs in one long whoosh. That wasn’t possible. There was no way this could be true. He had spoken to Vigil-Three, a young special agent named Lester, less than one hour ago. Lester had told him the rounds had hit his vest. And what about Marcus? What about the drivers? White tried to speak, but no sound came out. The inside of his mouth had turned into a desert. He tried again.

“I spoke with Lester—”

“Yeah,” Summers cut in. “Lester died on his way to the hospital. Apparently he’d been shot three times. Two rounds hit his vest, but a third one entered his lower back.”

“But I spoke to him,” White insisted. “He told me he was fine.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Clayton,” Summers said, his eyes watering. “I really don’t. I knew Lester. He was a good kid.”