The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(33)

“A large black coffee,” White said. “And a bottle of water.”

“Anything to eat?”

“I wish,” White said between clenched teeth. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to eat anything but liquid food for the next day or so.

“Sorry?” the young man said. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Nothing,” White replied. “Just the coffee and the water, please.”

White chose a barstool facing the street and carefully took a sip of his steaming coffee, feeling the bitter acidity wash over his tongue and gums. He swallowed, enjoying the lingering taste of the roast in his mouth, which didn’t do much to soothe his dark mood.

White sighed. What had started as the best day of his life had turned into the worst nightmare. His colleagues—his friends, really—were dead. And his career with the Secret Service was virtually over.

White had been fully aware that his position within the VPPD—the Vice President’s Protective Division—had ruffled more than a few feathers among certain more senior special agents who had been waiting years to go on the detail. Following his graduation from the Secret Service Academy, the Service had assigned White directly to the Protective Intelligence Division—PID—instead of having him spend his first four to six years in one of the Secret Service’s field offices investigating credit card fraud, identity theft, or currency counterfeiting. Fortunately for White, who truly had no real interest in these types of investigations but would have been ready to pull his weight and do his time for a chance to one day join “The Show,” somebody in human resources had concluded that White’s exemplary military records and advanced medical training would be put to much better use if he was assigned to the protective division. After White had put in only two years with the PID, Alexander Hammond had pulled a few strings to have him transferred to the VPPD, where he became the detail’s DSAIC—or deputy special agent in charge. A great deal of resentment and jealousy had been generated by his quick ascension and his direct access to Hammond.

One evening, just a few nights after her dad had officially joined the presidential ticket, Veronica had told him she had overheard other special agents talking among themselves about him. White, who’d always been confident in a leadership role and had never felt the need to please every single one of his subordinates for fear of not being liked, hadn’t probed further.

“Aren’t you curious to know what they’re saying about you?” she’d asked, pushing him gently.

He’d shrugged at the question. “It wouldn’t change anything, Vonnie,” he had finally replied. “I do my best every single day, and I challenge my team to do the same. It’s true that I expect a lot from them, both on an individual level and as a group, but I like to believe that this creates positive peer pressure where members of my team support and encourage each other.”

She had thrown him a man-melting smile and said, “Keep talking, I like your voice.”

“The thing is,” he’d continued, serious, “we’re all in this together. Members of the team who are stronger in one area are helping the others who are weaker.”

“So everyone’s a teacher and a learner,” Veronica had said.

“Exactly. You never stop learning,” he’d replied, nodding at her. “My point, Dr. Hammond, is that whatever they say or think about me won’t change the way I interact with them. I’ll continue to treat them fairly and with respect.”

While he spoke, Veronica had poured two glasses of her favorite Barolo. She’d handed him one, which he had accepted.

“That means you won’t care that they all think you’ll be the next assistant special agent in charge of the JJRTC?”

That had startled him. “It’s flattering, but ridiculous. I’m not qualified,” he’d replied, rejecting the idea. The JJRTC was the James J. Rowley Training Center, also known as the Secret Service Academy. It was a good posting, and one known to be a springboard for higher office within the organization. But he wasn’t interested in a desk job. And never would be.

White took another sip of his coffee.

In the distance, a bolt of lightning split the night sky. Seconds later, heavy drops of rain hit the windows of the coffee shop. The few pedestrians brave enough to be out at this maddening hour were hurrying down the sidewalk, doing their best not to step into a puddle. White looked at his phone. Still no reply from Veronica. He resisted the urge to text her again. He’d done so too many times already. He had tried to call, too, but they had all gone directly to her voicemail. He missed her, but he was mostly worried. He was still shaken by what had happened at the Ritz-Carlton, and it hadn’t been his first rodeo either. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and then his Secret Service training, had prepared him well for these kinds of situations—as much as one can be prepared to take another man’s life, that is. But for Veronica, a brilliant archaeologist who’d spent most of her life sheltered from violent experiences, today’s events must have been traumatizing.

That said, she had conducted herself with courage and valor he had rarely seen in a civilian. Not that civilians didn’t possess those traits; they simply didn’t have the training to respond adequately to life-threatening scenarios.

And her courage almost cost her her life, White reminded himself. She almost died trying to save me.