“We’re not talking about job security here, we’re—”

“If you did the job you were—”

Cam followed the thinly veiled insults being hurled back and forth, as to who knew what and who had the final say, for a few minutes, then interrupted. “I take it this is about Blair.”

Paula and Adam looked at her as if just now realizing they were discussing her wife. Paula blushed. Adam just shook his head in apparent disgust.

Paula said, “For the record, I’m opposed to Ms. Powell accompanying the campaign entourage given the recent circumstances.”

Adam made a sound like rocks tumbling down a metal chute. “What the hell does that mean?”

Lucinda said, “We’ve had a recent spate of death threats aimed at POTUS.”

“So what else is new? That’s part of the job description.” He cocked his head at Cam. “Isn’t the whole point of the Secret Service to see nothing comes of it?”

“Yes,” Can said, aware that Lucinda had purposefully not told Adam about the actual attack, “but when the density of threats increases, we take notice.”

“So—put more bodies around him.”

“Then you’ll complain we’re keeping him away from the public,” Stark muttered.

“Cam,” Lucinda said calmly, “what are the chances the security threat level will be lowered by the time we depart?”

Cam sighed. “A situation like this can change quickly—there’s no way to say.”

Adam grunted. “There you have it. We can’t keep the president under wraps, and if he goes on the trail, Blair goes.”

“Blair isn’t essential,” Paula said. “Not enough to outweigh the risks. She’s been a target before. She’s an obvious secondary now.” She glanced at Lucinda. “I can’t order her to stay, but you or the president could.”

“Look,” Adam said. “No one wants anyone in harm’s way, but that’s the reality of the game. None of you can say whether next week, or next month, or four months from now will be any safer.” He glared at Cam. “Right?”

“Yes,” Cam said reluctantly.

Paula sat forward in her chair. “From a security point of view, it makes sound tactical sense to remove an obvious secondary target and put all our resources into securing the primary, at least until we can investigate some of the potential threats.”

“I agree,” Cam said. “If we could have a few weeks to get this cleared up before Blair—”

“You just said you can’t guarantee a quick resolution,” Adam said, “and the president has a fight on his hands right now.”

Lucinda rubbed her eyes. “Cam, I know how you feel, but I’m afraid Adam is right. The opposition is gaining strength all the time, and Andrew, right or wrong, has gotten the reputation of being remote and removed from the people. Never mind that he’s working thirty-six hours a day handling foreign crises and economic upheaval here at home. The voters need to believe that he is one of them, that he understands their problems, that he can walk in their shoes. And the only way for him to do that is to get out there, with them.”

Adam stood and looked pointedly at Cam. “You’ll just have to see that the people assigned to protect them do their jobs.”

“Thank you for your time,” Lucinda said, rising. “Anything you need, Cam, just let me know.”

Stark’s jaw looked tight enough to crack, but she said nothing as Adam turned and walked out.

“Thank you.” Cam appreciated Lucinda’s offer of support, but the one thing she needed, Lucinda couldn’t give her. A guarantee that Blair would be safe.


*


“So,” Sky said, glancing once around the cavernous garage. Three motorcycle bodies in various stages of disassembly occupied the center of the room, and one entire wall was taken up by a counter covered with tools. Shelves above and below sagged under jumbles of spare parts. A few small windows on one long wall let in a little light, casting everything in a gray pall. Despite the clutter, the place seemed unusually clean for a garage. “This is home?”

Loren hung her leather jacket on a peg beside the double-wide pull-down door and hit the button for the automatic closer. She kept the temperature in the garage in the high sixties—cool enough to weld damaged motorcycle chassis in comfort, but high enough to inhabit when not working. She pointed to a half wall toward the far end of the room. “I sleep down there.”

“Cozy,” Sky said.

“It suffices.” Loren poured water into a glass coffeepot, filled the reservoir of a drip coffeemaker, dumped grounds into a filter, and set the pot to brew. Leaning against the counter, Loren braced her elbows on the wooden ledge and surveyed Sky. She’d unzipped her jacket and stood with her hands on her hips, looking sexy and cocky and unsettlingly seductive in her tight tank and hip-hugging jeans. Loren ignored the twinge of attraction. “So, why are you here?”

“I already told you,” Sky answered with mock patience. “Things are heating up and I wanted a firsthand look.”

“If Ramsey finds out you’re not Lisa Smith, he’ll kill you. Or worse.”

“He won’t find out. Lisa gave us all the details of her assignment, including when and how she’s supposed to report to Jerome’s man. As long as she checks in on time and provides them with some intel, they’ll be happy.”

“Is the international president really interested in the club’s finances?”

Sky laughed. “The New Year’s run is coming up and he heard about the guns. He wants to make sure he gets his share.”

Loren swore. “So we have a leak.”

“Possibly not on your end—maybe whoever you’re buying from is talking around, looking to leverage your offer into something better.”

“Whoever I’m dealing with?” Loren asked. If the redhead was who she said she was, she’d know.

Sky sighed. “You are a hard sell. The Russians don’t care who they sell their guns to, only who is willing to pay the most.”

“Okay—you pass,” Loren said. And Sky was right—all the guns moving along the West Coast were coming by way of the Russian mob. Two and a half years ago, when she’d first set up shop in Silver Lake and put out the word she was in the business of procurement again, she’d called on contacts she’d made in the Middle East to vouch for her with the mob. Only this time, she was working for the Renegades and not the U.S. Army. “My arrangements with the Russians are solid—they won’t try to outbid me.”

“You know there’s no such thing as loyalty with these guys. And if there’s a struggle going on internally, someone may be trying to build a power base by allying with the Soledads.”

“Stupid, then,” Loren muttered.

“Yes, but no one ever said these guys were geniuses.”

“So we need to move quickly before our guns end up in the Soledads’ armory.” The Soledads were a Salvadoran offshoot and one of the most violent gangs to spring up in the last decade. They were annexing territory all over the country by killing off their rivals. So far, they hadn’t made a move on Renegades territory, but if they got their hands on two hundred assault rifles, they might.

“I’d say the sooner the better.” Sky straddled a demo Harley—one Loren had rebuilt and outfitted herself. Sky leaned forward and gripped the handlebars, her legs hugging the smooth rise of the black tank with red flames dancing along its sultry curves. “Nice bike. Your work?”

“Yeah,” Loren said, her throat unusually dry. She reached into the small fridge under the counter, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a long drink. The cold did little to extinguish the simmering heat that burned hotter the longer she looked at Skylar.

“Where is FALA getting that kind of money?” Sky asked casually.

“I don’t know yet.”

Sky peered at her from beneath a sweep of glossy red. “What are they going to do with them?”

“Don’t know that, either.”

“We can’t afford to have a bunch of fringe lunatics use guns we helped them get in some kind of homegrown terrorist attack.”

Loren’s lust cooled. Her voice hardened. “They won’t. By the time the exchange is set and the guns are moved to an intermediary holding point, we’ll know what we need to know, and we can arrange for a raid by the ATF. The guns will never get into the militia’s hands.”

“Yes,” Sky said, lifting one long leg gracefully over the bike and dismounting. “That’s the plan. And I’m here to be sure it works.”

Loren watched her silently. Sky hadn’t really said very much, and what she hadn’t said was telling—who’d sent her, why now, and what she was really looking for. Of course, that assumed anything she’d said was really true at all. Loren had no choice but to play along, and the game would have been simpler if Sky didn’t have the unusual and unwelcome effect of clouding her mind with a haze of desire. A distraction like that could get her killed.

Chapter Eight


Duggin’s was a corner bar in Adams Morgan that had escaped gentrification, projecting a casual air of disregard for appearances typical of local taprooms that had served DC neighborhoods for generations. The wood-paneled, low-ceilinged bar was lit by dusty, shadeless bulbs in sconces along the wall opposite the long wooden bar whose varnish had long since been scoured away by countless bartenders’ rags and gallons of spilled beer. Behind the bar, liquor bottles stood sentry in rows, from rotgut on the counter within easy reach to top-shelf brands almost as dusty as the light fixtures. The big mirror behind the bottles threw back distorted images of bottles and faces, discolored in smoky patches from years gone by. The bartender was a burly Irishman in a white open-collared shirt and shapeless black pants who’d inherited the place from his father, whose father’s father and those before him had stood behind this bar serving the local police and firemen and, eventually, scores of federal agents.