She had spent nearly half her life at the compound, from the time they’d adopted her from an orphanage in Australia at age six until she began taking missions seventeen years later. Like the rest of the ops, they gave the infant Harper the surname of a U.S. president and provided her with the best education possible. But she held no fond memories of the place. Her formative years had mostly been filled with weapons training, survival exercises, hand-to-hand combat drills, and other similar pursuits, not the normal fun of childhood, and she’d made no enduring friendships here. The ops were discouraged from making close attachments either inside or outside the organization, though many had disregarded that directive. Harper, however, did feel a sense of responsibility and gratitude toward the organization that had given her a higher education and the opportunity to discover and love Italy.
The dozen men and women gathered in the conference room were all ETFs, members of the organization’s Elite Tactical Force, comprised of seasoned agents who had the training, skills, and resourcefulness to handle almost any situation. Most had specialties: Fetch was skilled at infiltration and hostage rescue, Chase was a top-notch tracker, Domino’s marksmanship with any kind of gun was unparalleled, and Reno could hack into nearly any computer in the world.
When Shield joined them, the other ops were admiring a photo of Domino’s new daughter—who’d been born to her partner, Hayley.
Allegro, their breaking-and-entering expert and a close friend of Domino, was the only one not making a fuss over the redheaded infant, probably because, as their resident cutup, she was usually the center of attention at such gatherings. “I don’t know why no one is congratulating me,” Allegro complained. “I’m the godmother, you know. That kid’s future…” she pointed to the picture, “will depend on me.”
Domino quickly stuffed the snapshot into her back pocket. “The hell it will.”
The other ops laughed. Montgomery Pierce tried to keep a straight face, but as was often the case when it came to Allegro, he didn’t entirely succeed.
“I saw that.” Allegro pointed to him. “You’re taking their side.”
“You’re not exactly the…classic role model.”
“Typical. It doesn’t matter what I do, you always hammer on the small things,” Allegro replied. “Say what you want, all I hear is blah blah blah.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful example.” Joanne Grant, the Director of Academics and the second member of the EOO’s governing trio, chimed in. “The rest of you, stop goading her. That goes for you, too, Monty.”
Several of the ops chuckled at her comment. They all knew that Grant and Pierce, both in their sixties now, had become romantically involved and were living together. Though they still refrained from publicly acknowledging that fact, in deference to the no-close-attachments directive, their affection for each other was clear.
Pierce cleared his throat. “Everyone take a seat so we can begin.” He went to shut the blinds, a habit whenever anything important was to be discussed, then took his chair between Grant and Director of Training David Arthur, the third member of the governing trio.
“You are so negative,” Allegro replied, and took her place at the table. She turned to Domino. “No christening invitation for him.”
Pierce pretended he hadn’t heard. “By now, you all know about the attack on the president. Since all five of her guards were killed, we’ve been asked to provide additional security for her while the Secret Service conducts an internal investigation to determine how this could have happened.” He turned to Shield. “You’ll be assigned as Thomas’s primary or SAIC—Special Agent in Charge. The Secret Service Presidential Protective Division will fill out the rest of her detail but will be under your direction.”
“I imagine Director Alexander hasn’t entirely embraced this development,” Shield said. The head of the Secret Service was well known for maintaining rigid control of his department and had always resisted any effort by others to dictate how it was run.
Pierce nodded. “The request for our involvement came via a joint missive from the vice president and chief of staff. In light of what happened, Alexander really doesn’t have a say in the matter.” He gestured toward their crack computer op. “Reno will be your main contact, should you need any intel. The rest of you can consider yourselves on standby to provide additional support. Questions?”
When no one replied, he withdrew a folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table toward Shield. “A copy of the Secret Service’s file on Thomas. As you know, the White House Communications Agency has assigned her the code name Beacon, but in your communications with us, we’ll be using Lighthouse. The file also has your credentials and flight documents. You’re booked to D.C. in three hours.”
Chapter Seven
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Later that day
Ryden swiveled in the cushy leather chair, away from the massive Oval Office desk to face the three large south-facing windows behind her that overlooked the Rose Garden. The sun was just setting, so the external security lights popped on, illuminating the grounds. Two days after the switch, she’d so far done a very convincing job deceiving the world and those close to Elizabeth Thomas. But she was already exhausted. They hadn’t told her exactly how long she would have to play president, but she felt every bit the imposter she was with every minute that passed. For some reason, she’d thought it would get at least slightly easier over time, but forty-eight hours later, her nerves were raw and the headache wouldn’t go away.
The toughest moment had been when she appeared on TV that morning in the press briefing room, to show the world the president was still alive and well. She wasn’t ready for a full-blown press conference with impromptu questions she might not know how to answer, but she’d delivered a statement that she was uninjured by the attack and vowed that justice would be served. No one would stand in the way of a better America, and so on. The most difficult part for her had been in praising Thomas’s Secret Service agents for their courage and sacrifice, and extending condolences to their families.
Kenneth Moore, Thomas’s special advisor and her contact within the White House, had scripted every word that came out of her mouth. The whole operation to switch Ryden with the president would not have been possible without him. He had fed her mysterious employer the dates and location of the Democratic Party fund-raiser even before it was publicly announced, and he had been the one to pass on the president’s every move and details about her wardrobe, including her ensemble the day of the exchange.
Moore knew virtually everything about Elizabeth Thomas, since he was her right hand the same way he was now Ryden’s. He’d been with Thomas since her early days in the Senate, so Ryden couldn’t imagine what had prompted him to turn on her. She wanted to feel confident knowing he was there to tell her what to say and when, but the guy simply terrified her. With black beady eyes that constantly observed her, and a thin face and lips, he looked like a giant, dangerous rat. When they were alone, he prefaced most comments by leaning close to her ear and saying, “So far, so good. Keep it that way and you’ll live.” She’d tried to pull away earlier today before he got too close, but he’d grabbed her by the hair. She already loathed him so much she now wanted to hurt him more than she did her anonymous employer.