Romances

Innocent Hearts

Promising Hearts

Love’s Melody Lost

Love’s Tender Warriors

Tomorrow’s Promise

Love’s Masquerade

shadowland

Passion’s Bright Fury

Fated Love

Turn Back Time

When Dreams Tremble

The Lonely Hearts Club

Night Call

Secrets in the Stone

Desire by Starlight

Honor Series

Above All, Honor

Honor Bound

Love & Honor

Honor Guards

Honor Reclaimed

Honor Under Siege

Word of Honor

Justice Series

A Matter of Trust (prequel)

Shield of Justice

In Pursuit of Justice

Justice in the Shadows

Justice Served

Justice For All

The Provincetown Tales

Safe Harbor

Beyond the Breakwater

Distant Shores, Silent Thunder

Storms of Change

Winds of Fortune

Returning Tides

Sheltering Dunes

First Responders Novels

Trauma Alert

Firestorm

Oath of Honor

Short Fiction

Collected Stories by Radclyffe

Erotic Interludes: Change of Pace

Radical Encounters

Edited by Radclyffe

Best Lesbian Romance 2009-2011

Stacia Seaman and Radclyffe, eds.

Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments

Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love

Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions

Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games

Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery

Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

Breathless: Tales of Celebration

Women of the Dark Streets

By L.L. Raand

Midnight Hunters

The Midnight Hunt

Blood Hunt

Night Hunt


Oath of Honor

© 2012 By Radclyffe. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-712-7

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: July 2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editors: Ruth Sternglantz and Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgments

Some characters live on in the back of an author’s mind, waiting for the right story to come along in which to make an appearance. The First Responders series is a group of stories linked by the theme of featuring those who serve on the “front lines”: firefighters, law enforcement agents, medics, soldiers, environmental engineers, and many others. When I conceived of the idea of writing about the First Doctor, the physician assigned to the president of the United States, I instantly thought of the characters I had created in the Honor series as natural cast members, and thus this crossover novel was born. This is a standalone spin-off from the Honor series, with a new central main pairing, but I think those of you who know the Honor series will be happy to see a few old friends. Old friends or new, I hope you enjoy!

Thanks go to Sandy Lowe, for shouldering a gargantuan task with energy, enthusiasm, and remarkable calm; to author Nell Stark for close reading and expert advice; to Ruth Sternglantz for editing with insight and dedication; to Stacia Seaman, for being the one I count on in the final stretch; and to my first readers Connie, Eva, Jenny, and Paula for reading the early drafts and never failing to encourage.

Sheri shines, and the covers are always proof of that. Thanks for a great one.

And to Lee, who never falters—Amo te.

Radclyffe, 2012






For Lee, for patience, understanding, and belief

Chapter One

Wes glanced at her watch as she turned off the coast road onto the narrow causeway leading to Whitley Island. 1142. With luck, she wouldn’t be late. Luck wasn’t something she usually relied on. She believed in schedules and ran her life by the clock. Unfortunately, death had a way of interrupting even the most finely tuned schedules.

Until thirty-six hours ago, she’d been looking forward to spending her upcoming annual leave with her mother and sisters over Christmas, not dealing with a new job, no place to live, and no idea of what the next day would bring. She definitely hadn’t planned on attending the wedding of the year.

All that had changed when she’d gotten a call informing her she was at the top of a very short list for a job most people in the navy, let alone the nation, had never even heard of. The anonymity of the position didn’t bother her—in fact, she preferred working alone and was happy contributing behind the scenes. The next rung in her planned career ladder had been a professorship at the Uniformed Services University where she was stationed. She’d joined the navy because she’d needed the scholarship to go to medical school, and while she liked the structure, she was an academic at heart. She wanted to teach, take care of her patients, and let others wage war. She hadn’t been sure she wanted a job that was going to throw her into close contact with the most powerful people in the world on a daily basis. She’d asked for a day to think it over—they’d given her four hours.

Heading into an unknown situation without the proper preparation made her wary. Order, discipline, and perseverance had brought her from her working-class neighborhood in South Philadelphia to the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis and finally to the National Military Medical Center in Bethesda. Knowing what she faced—in the ER, in the field, in life—kept her cool and in control. If she never relied on anyone or anything to run interference for her, she had no one to hold accountable for the outcome except herself.

She’d called her best friend Emory for advice—not just because she’d known Emory since they’d shared a cadaver at Penn, but because Emory knew intimately the landscape and the people Wes would be spending every moment of her life with for the next year, or maybe the next five.

“Are you kidding, Wes?” Emory had said when Wes reached her en route to the island. “It’s an amazing opportunity. God, you’ll have a front-and-center for events that might change the future of the whole world. And you’ll be doing what you’re trained to do.”

“But I’m a teacher, not a clinician,” she’d protested.

“Uh, excuse me—don’t you teach trauma care to military medical personnel?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t you spend ten months supervising a field hospital—”

“Yes, but—”

“And—”

“Emory,” Wes said patiently, “I suck at politics.”

“Huh.” Emory fell silent for a moment. “This is true.”

“So—”

“Should I mention honor and duty and—”

Wes sighed. “No. I already considered that.”

“And?”

And she’d said yes to this new job because to do otherwise seemed impossible. She’d rarely been faced with impossible decisions, and she wasn’t sure yet how she felt about a situation she didn’t control. Nevertheless, she’d called her boss, Rear Admiral Cal Wright, and said she was honored to accept, and he’d passed the word up the chain of command. Her final security interview wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, but she’d been told to liaise with her new unit today. Several teleconferenced interviews and a lot of rushed paperwork later, here she was.

Short of any more surprises, she’d be moving her hastily packed belongings to a government-provided apartment within walking distance of the White House as soon as she could arrange movers. Until then, she’d be in a hotel. She was used to moving at short notice, but she usually knew what she faced.

1155. In five minutes, she’d find out.

She slowed her rental car as a red pickup truck pulling a battered fishing boat on a rickety trailer edged onto the narrow two-lane in front of her. She could just make out a hard-packed-dirt boat ramp half-hidden in a narrow strip of pines separating the winding coast road from the pristine shore on the ocean side of the island. The pickup headed in the opposite direction, probably bound for the huge marina she’d passed a half mile back. The marina boatslips, marine offices, and waterside cabins that ringed a narrow-necked inlet were the only commercial development she’d seen since leaving the mainland.

Mentally she ran down the stats she’d received by e-mail that morning. Whitley Island was privately owned and home to one of the largest private military contractors in the nation. Tanner Whitley had inherited Whitley Industries on the death of her father over a decade before, and she’d expanded into government security as American geopolitics exploded globally. Personal info on Whitley was scant. She lived with a female naval officer, and from what Wes had seen of the island, industrialization had not followed Tanner Whitley home. The few visible private residences were separated by large tracts of untouched evergreen forests and set well back from the undulating shoreline along the Atlantic. The place was wild and beautiful, even snow-covered and frozen under the December winter.

As she’d been driving, the already scant signs of habitation gradually disappeared. When she reached the northern end of the island, the narrow road ended in a cul-de-sac bordering a wooded property. The drive leading up to a pair of closed ten-foot-high wrought-iron gates set into a natural stone wall was congested with signs of high-level security. Unmarked black SUVs with smoked windows lined the turnaround. A man and a woman, both in dark suits, monochromatic shirts, and dark glasses, stood side by side in front of the gates.