Right now, President Andrew Powell looked like every other proud father she’d ever witnessed. He wore a dark blue suit, snowy white shirt, and red tie. His face still held a hint of summer tan, and his thick blond hair made him appear younger than his fifty years. Blair, her arm linked with her father’s as they descended the staircase, had the same midnight blue eyes, although her hair was a deeper gold. Her full-length cream-colored dress, with its square-cut bodice and figure-hugging design, accentuated her svelte, athletic body. Her arms were sleek and muscular, her carriage confident and graceful. She was beautiful. Cameron Roberts was just behind her, holding the hand of a beautiful woman who looked very much like her. Marcea Casells, Roberts’s mother. Roberts—tall, thick black hair brushed back from her face, intense charcoal eyes—was dressed formally in a gray morning coat, silver-gray pleated tuxedo shirt, and dark trousers with a satin stripe down the side. Her gaze followed Blair as if no one else was in the room.

At the bottom of the staircase, Blair and her father turned toward an area ringed with arrangements of wildflowers and white roses in front of the glass doors opening out onto the veranda. An army chaplain awaited them. The president moved a few steps away from his daughter, allowing Cameron Roberts to take her place by Blair’s side. The guests filled the seats set up in one half of the room.

Wes made her way around the perimeter toward Peter Chang. She wasn’t officially the head of the medical unit yet. Until her final security clearance, she was in limbo. She hadn’t felt quite so displaced since the day her mother met her at the bus stop after school one late June day when she was eight and said they were moving in with her grandmother. They couldn’t afford to live in the house she’d grown up in any longer. Wes pushed the uneasy feeling aside. She wasn’t eight anymore, and she had learned since then that destiny was hers to determine.

Chang nodded to her when she stepped up beside him. He’d obviously been briefed too, but there was no time for conversation. The chaplain’s deep voice filled the room.

Dearly beloved…

The president’s daughter and Cameron Roberts faced each other, hands lightly clasped, eyes locked.

I, Blair Allison Powell, take you, Cameron Reed Roberts, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children, and my wife. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and to stay with you, for all eternity.

A willowy blonde stepped to Blair’s side, and Blair lifted a gleaming gold band from her palm. She lifted Cam’s left hand and slid the ring securely on her third finger. With this ring, I thee wed.

Cameron Roberts’s gaze never wavered from Blair’s face, her voice ringing strong and clear. I, Cameron Reed Roberts, take you, Blair Allison Powell, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children, and my wife. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and to stay with you, for all eternity.

Roberts accepted the matching ring from a young dark-haired woman who leaned on a plain wood cane, and slipped it onto Blair’s finger. With this ring, I thee wed.

An anticipatory breath shuddered through the crowd. Six uniformed officers, the Guard of Honor, stepped in sync to form a path from the proceedings area, facing one another in a line, white-gloved hands on shining saber hilts.

By the power vested in me by the United States Army, the President of the United States, and the Commonwealth of…

The three male and three female officers drew their swords with a slick of steel, their blades raised and touching to form the Arch of Sabers.

…I pronounce you wed.

The couple kissed, the crowd clapped, and Wes turned to Peter Chang.

“I guess you know who I am.”

Chang held out his hand. “Welcome to the hot zone, Captain.”

Chapter Three

Hot zone. The term wasn’t new to Wes, but somehow she didn’t think Dr. Peter Chang was using it in the usual medical sense, meaning an area of contamination—typically bacterial or viral or chemical. In combat, the term referred to the region under fire. When teaching battlefield evacuation, Wes stressed that the hot zone was the area where the injured were still in the line of fire, and those charged to secure their safety would be too. Working in the hot zone was a way of life for a battlefield surgeon, and though her career path had been one of teaching, she’d done her tour at the front.

She hadn’t had much time to think about the tactical aspects of her new job, and she wasn’t sure who she should talk to about the specifics. One thing any team leader learned quickly was to keep their inexperience to themselves. She wasn’t too proud to ask for help when she needed to know something, but she didn’t plan to walk into her first day on the job acting like a rookie, either. No one needed to explain the critical nature of her assignment; she had only to look around the room. The president of the United States, his chief of staff, his military liaison, his daughter, her newly wedded partner, several ranking members of the cabinet, at least one member of the Joint Chiefs, the national security advisor, and the president’s security chief were all gathered in one room. A strike against this location would effectively paralyze the government of the most powerful nation in the world. It wasn’t her job to worry about the security of the nation, only the health, welfare, and safety of its leader.

Right now, that leader was dancing with his daughter, as any father of the bride would. Ushers and valets in crisp white jackets and black tuxedo pants had magically secreted the chairs somewhere out of sight. A four-piece band had set up adjacent to where the vows had been exchanged and was playing soft jazz. Waiters passed through the crowd with flutes of champagne on silver trays. The atmosphere was boisterous and relaxed. Wes didn’t feel relaxed.

She might not have officially begun her duty, but she was all but signed-on-the-dotted-line, making every individual in this room her responsibility whether she carried the black field-trauma bag today or not. She wasn’t here to socialize. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was here, but as long as she was, she intended to work if necessary.

“What’s the evacuation route to the nearest medical facility?” she asked Peter.

“There’s a EC145 Eurocopter standing by. The closest level one trauma center is about a twenty-minute ride.”

“Who flies it?”

“One of the marine pilots out of Andrews. He and our flight nurse are in the building.”

“And you’re in charge today?”

“Yes. We draw up the duty roster monthly, depending upon POTUS’s itinerary and events scheduled at the House.” Peter’s expression grew somber. “Len was supposed to have this detail.”

She wondered if Chang and the previous medical chief had been close friends, although their personal relationship didn’t really matter. The death of a colleague, especially someone you worked with every day, was painful, and no words of sympathy were ever adequate. “I was sorry to hear of his death.”

Peter nodded, watching the crowd. “Yeah. We all were.”

“I’ve seen the team roster.” Wes had been provided dossiers on all the members of the team—three docs, three flight nurses, three PAs. Not a huge group considering they covered the clinic for White House staffers, visitors, and guests, oversaw routine and urgent care for the president’s and vice president’s families, and accompanied the president on all scheduled and OTR trips. “That makes for some pretty intense scheduling.”

“It can get hectic.”

“We can pull personnel from Bethesda if we need to?”

Peter shifted slightly and met her gaze. “You can do pretty much anything you want to do, Captain. It’s your show.”

She searched his eyes, looking for resentment or resistance or challenge. He was in his late thirties, about her height, clean-shaven with a wiry build, and dressed in a navy suit, a plain pale blue shirt, and a thin black tie. His straight, glossy dark hair was precisely parted on the right side, and a thick shock fell over his forehead. His eyes were chocolate brown, steady and calm. Understated, composed, with a hint of reserve—he didn’t know her, and she was now his boss. She’d need his cooperation, if not assistance, to make the transition a smooth one and to ensure the team continued to function at top efficiency. Too much was at stake for anything less. Taking a chance that professionalism would trump personal issues, she exposed her underbelly. “Who do I answer to, unofficially?”

The guy whose job she’d probably taken smiled. “Pretty much no one, except the president’s chief of staff. Lucinda Washburn runs his schedule, which means she runs pretty much everything. If you need something that affects the president, ask her. Next in line is the head of his personal protection detail, Tom Turner.” Peter scanned the room. “He’s around here somewhere—tall, thin African American, about forty. He’ll provide our weekly itinerary and general assignments, updated every morning at briefing.”

At the mention of the Secret Service detail, Wes thought of Agent Daniels. She’d struck Wes as being a little humorless and a short step away from unfriendly—a lot like some of the military police she knew. Maybe that was just an occupational trait in closed groups with little regard for outsiders. “Where exactly do we fall in the chain of command?”