“Very,” I confirm, giving him a quick rundown of the tense discussion. He lets out a low whistle when I finish.
“Sounds like trouble in paradise.” He rubs his chin. “Could be good for us.”
Whenever we’re not working, we’re doing this.
Discussing Aubrey and the people around him, looking for weaknesses to exploit, searching for something, anything, we can use to keep him from making good on his promise to have Selene hurt if she steps out of line. With all the time we spend immersed in his world, you would think it’d be easy, but it’snot. He’s always careful to expose us to only the most mundane parts of his life, ordering us out of rooms at the White House or banning us from entering whole structures at Camp David whenever things get interesting.
He obviously wasn’t anticipating the conversation with Cordelia to go left or else he would have dismissed me before it even began.
“Possibly,” I agree. “There’s also something weird happening between them and Jordan. I haven’t quite put my finger on it yet, but I know it’s there.”
“Do you want to do some digging?”
“No, let’s give it time to play out. If we start pushing for information, they’ll close ranks. The last thing we want is to be an enemy they can unite against.”
“I hate this shit, Drake,” he mutters, dark eyes narrowing into slits that indicate he’s preparing to go into a rant I’ve heard a million times. Hell, I’ve even participated in it a time or two, matched his anger with my rage, paired it with the burn of hard liquor and the bliss of a blackout knowing that it won’t change a thing.
“I know, Beckham.”
The enraged speech I’m expecting doesn’t come. I watch Beck choke it down—swallowing his disappointment in the people who betrayed us as well as the frustration at having the assignment we worked so hard to earn be weaponized against us—and when I open my mouth to ask him why he’s gone quiet, he tips his head towards the door.
I turn to find Sam Granger staring at us through the sliver of glass meant to provide light in the windowless room. With a quick dip of my chin, I invite the agent into our space.
“Drake. Beckham,” he says, closing the door behind him. Granger isn’t a big man. He’s average height with a solid build and an unimposing presence, but the room still feelsovercrowded now that he’s in it. His entire existence is an affront to my nervous system, putting me on high alert and setting my teeth on edge.
The discomfort is a familiar sensation, something I experience every time I’m around the men on our team. Men Beck and I hand-selected. Men we vetted independently. Men we should trust with our lives but keep at arm’s length because experience has taught us that we can only trust each other.
That distrust, that anticipation of betrayal, keeps me silent in moments like this, leaving Beck to navigate conversations while I watch for the signs I missed with Charlie and Harris.
“You’re early,” Beck says, glancing at his watch. “We still have another half hour left on shift.”
“Yes, sir. I figured you and Agent Drake would want to head out early given you’ve been on all weekend.”
“Nice,” Beck muses.
“Calculated,” I add. Granger’s gaze snaps to my face. Blonde brows folded in confusion.
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve made this offer, so tell me, what’s your angle, Sam? Hoping to parlay your acting lead title into the real deal by proving persistent negligence on our parts?”
A red tint creeps up into his cheeks as he looks to Beck for help. I suppress the urge to laugh, remembering the days when people used to look to me for assistance with calming Beck down. To no one’s surprise but Sam’s, Beck doesn’t come to his defense. Instead, he leans back in his chair and waits for an answer.
“I was just trying to be nice,” Sam insists. “You’ve given me the opportunity to gain supervisory agent experience without actually having to lead a detail, and I thought I’d find a way to show my appreciation.”
His expression is earnest, but I’m still wary. Maybe because I know our reasons for placing him in charge when we’re off duty weren’t exactly above board. Out of everyone on our team, Sam has the least experience. He’s got no situational awareness and slow reflexes, so he’s less likely to spot and neutralize a threat. None of these are traits you want in a Secret Service agent if you want the person you’re protecting to live, but they’re perfect qualities if you spend every day hoping their charge will die.
Beck lets out an amused huff, rising to his feet and clapping me on the shoulder. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Granger. Agent Drake and I will happily take you up on that offer.”
Left with no choice but to vacate the office, I stand as well. Granger moves to the side as we head for the door, genuine pride in his eyes as he watches us go.
“The brief is on the desk,” I tell him, nodding toward the folder that contains our report on the shift we’re closing out and lists important information for the one he’s about to begin. “Call if you need anything.”
“Don’tneed anything,” Beck calls over his shoulder, urging me down the hallway. Within minutes, we’re in the car, the White House in our rear view, and some much-needed sleep ahead of us. Beck is already getting a jump start on that. His head leaning against the headrest and his eyes closed.
“You could at least wait until we get home to fall asleep,” I tell him, easing to a stop at a busy intersection.
“I’m not asleep. I’m just picturing it happening.”
