The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(8)

For the first time, White noticed that Hammond’s eyes were bloodshot and sunken, as if he hadn’t slept for days.

“Thank you, sir. So that others may live, right?”

“Right,” Hammond replied, looking a little uneasy. “So that others may live.”

Then there was an awkward moment of silence. White spoke first.

“How’s Veronica, General?” he asked. “I haven’t heard from her since she left for Greece.”

At the mention of his daughter, a faint smile came upon Hammond’s face. Veronica was her father’s pride and joy. Hammond cleared his throat and said, “She’s doing fine. I told her you were injured. She’s on her way to see you.”

White was confused. There was no reason for Hammond to have done so. It wasn’t as if he and Veronica were in a romantic relationship. They were friends. That was it. “Sir, you shouldn’t have—”

Hammond interrupted him. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Clay,” he said, an unfamiliar gruffness in his voice.

White felt an involuntary tightening of his chest and shoulders. There it is, he thought. Here’s the real reason he’s here.

“It’s about your dad,” Hammond said, his face suddenly ashy white. “His helicopter was shot down south of Bagram by the Taliban two days ago. There were no survivors.”

White felt all the blood drain from his face.

“I’m so sorry,” Hammond said.

White met the general’s eyes for a moment, then nodded. He had so many questions, but his first thoughts were for his mother. “Does my mom know?”

“I spoke with her a few hours after Maxwell’s helicopter went down. Heather is with her now.”

White’s mother was one tough lady, and famously spare with her emotions. Still, the loss of her husband was going to create a huge void in her life. She’d been married to Maxwell for almost thirty-five years. This was almost one hundred times longer than White’s longest relationship. He was glad Hammond’s wife would be by her side to provide emotional support if needed.

“Your father was quite a hero, Clay,” Hammond said. “He spoke often of you.”

White didn’t know if it was true or not, but it was nice of Hammond to say.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I appreciate you coming all this way. You didn’t have to.”

“Your dad was a good friend,” Hammond said, almost to himself. “I had to.”

Somehow, that didn’t make White feel any better. In fact, he felt sick to his stomach.

So many missed opportunities, he thought. His mother had tried her very best to bring the two of them closer, but their respective careers and deployments hadn’t made it easy. Still, White should have made an extra effort to be more present, to call more often. But he hadn’t. And now he regretted it.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” he said after a moment. His eyes were sad but dry.

“If there’s anything I can do, Clay, you let me know,” Hammond said.

“I appreciate that, sir,” White replied. “Means a lot.”

Hammond placed his hand on White’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t be today or tomorrow. Maybe not even next year. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there when you need me. In the meantime, I’ve got your six.”

White nodded. “Thank you. What about the Taliban fighters? Were they ever found?”

For the briefest of moments, Hammond looked puzzled; then he quickly said, “Two Apache helicopters were dispatched minutes after the crash. Our choppers easily caught up with them. We got them all.”

There was a reason White was a great poker player, why he’d finished in second place a few years back during a World Series of Poker event in the Bahamas. He was good at spotting microexpressions, the subtle subconscious clues someone gave out when he was lying or being dishonest—just as Hammond had a moment ago.

For whatever reason, General Hammond had chosen to lie to him. And White had no idea why.





PART TWO PRESENT DAY





CHAPTER SIX


The Ritz-Carlton


San Francisco, California

Clayton White raced up the elegant spiral staircase that led to the second floor. The balcony, which encircled the majestic ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton San Francisco, was the perfect vantage point from which to oversee what was happening among the four dozen round tables set for tonight’s event. Located near Union Square, the hotel’s nine-story 1909 landmark building was a stunning tribute to beauty. The cable car stop just outside the modern yet timeless lobby made the Ritz-Carlton the perfect place from which to explore the city. The hotel’s location was one of the main reasons the Society of American Archaeology had picked it for its annual awards gala.

White spotted Special Agent Marcus Thompson the moment he reached the balcony level. Marcus, a bald Black man dressed in a tuxedo who towered well over White’s own six-foot frame, was standing behind the cast-iron railings at the edge of the balcony, looking down toward the ballroom, his powerful arms crossed over his chest.

“How are things, Marcus?” White asked, approaching the man from behind.

“Nothing unusual to report,” Marcus answered without looking back.