Homefront Defenders. Lisa Phillips
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They’d stopped for coffee after giving the police their statements and going to the morning briefing. At the police station, Locke had looked through mug shots trying to identify the men he’d seen. While he’d been searching fruitlessly through the police’s database, Alana had chatted with every cop in the building like they were old friends.
And yet every time the door had opened, she’d clammed up. Was she on edge because she’d been attacked, or was she not so excited at the prospect of seeing her brother? Ray Preston was a police sergeant, but he hadn’t shown up. Maybe he didn’t want to. Still, Locke figured it was just a matter of time before he did.
Maybe those cops had been old friends of hers. And maybe jealousy wasn’t ugly like he’d thought, but that was probably just Locke kidding himself. He should probably just tell her he was attracted to her so she could tell him that no way on earth would she fall for her uptight team leader, and then he could move on with his life.
That would surely be easier than wondering for a split-second what might have been, followed by convincing himself that dating in this job was the worst idea—which it was.
Locke sighed. They had a lot of work to do before Air Force One’s arrival, and she’d promised that if she needed a break she’d tell him. What else could he ask for? Still, she acted like it was no big deal that she’d nearly died, while Locke could barely breathe he was thinking about it so much.
Who was that Asian man who’d targeted her? Why try to kill her in the ocean? The police had issued a BOLO for both the car and his description of the two men. Locke wanted to be out looking for them, but they had Secret Service duties to attend to.
He glanced at her, pleased her color had come back, at least. He motioned toward the house and decided it was time to test the rookie. “Tell me about this one.”
Locke didn’t miss the face she made. Alana glanced up from the iPad in her lap and looked around at the street he’d parked on in Wainaku, just off the beach on the other side of the island from their hotel. On screen was the file she’d been reading over.
Alana frowned and then shifted in her seat to look out the back window. She wore black pants and a light blue blouse now, her hair pulled back. No earrings—they could get caught on something if a situation occurred. If he hadn’t seen it just hours ago, he wouldn’t think she had nearly died that morning. But she had, and he couldn’t forget it.
“I rode my bike this way to get to school.” Her Hawaiian heritage showed in the almond color of her hair and those peaked eyebrows. She was beautiful—not that Locke had made a point to notice. She was both his subordinate and five years younger than him. Even if he had time for a relationship women were too much work, and he had a president to protect.
Keep telling yourself that.
Alana said, “Does Beatrice Colburn live here now?”
She looked lost in childhood memories. “What does the file say?”
“House number is 456. It’s the right one.” Alana paused for a moment. Locke didn’t even try to figure out what she was thinking.
He grabbed the door handle on his side. “Let’s get on with this.”
They had visited three people since the briefing. Beatrice was the fourth, and it was still early. Before POTUS landed at Hilo airport, they had to visit anyone who’d ever been flagged by the Secret Service’s intelligence division. Anyone who’d written a threatening letter to the president was entered into a file. If they had the means or the inclination to actually carry out the threat, they were of particular interest to the Secret Service.
“Tell me what you learned from Beatrice’s file.”
“In 1977 Beatrice Colburn wrote a series of angry letters to the then president after her boyfriend was killed in Vietnam. The threats were directed at the office in general and not at President Ford specifically. As a high school chemistry teacher, Beatrice was deemed a viable threat because she had the knowledge to carry out her stated intentions, as well as access to the materials necessary. She was also fired from her job.”
“And your assessment?”
“She’s a retired supermarket manager with a deep tan who visits the library once a week and checks out six books at a time. She takes Krav Maga classes, and her four dogs are each champions in agility competitions. This is an active woman with a busy life enjoying the time she has now.” Alana pressed her lips together. “I find it highly unlikely she’s going to attempt anything against the president during this visit.”
She locked the iPad screen and got out of the car.
Alana met him on the sidewalk, and Locke went first. Not because he wasn’t a gentleman, but because he would never allow a woman, or any subordinate, to stand in front of him on the job. He was the first line of defense for any threat.
He stopped at the front door. “So why are we here?”
“Because we have to ask her what her intentions are, and she has to tell us that she plans to stay far away from the president.”
Locke nodded, once. “She’ll have cookies still warm from the oven. And lemonade she made fresh this morning.”
Alana blinked and then smiled. “Seriously?”
He knocked on the door. “We develop a rapport with these people on each presidential visit. It’s procedure, but it doesn’t have to be boring.”
Every time he knocked on a door, Locke held his breath. At this point it was habit, but after an anarchist had shot at him and his partner through the door his first year as an agent, he felt that same hitch with every visit. The echo of that shot so many years ago, a boom that had him diving to the ground. It had never left him. He still had scars on the outside of his arm to remind him that being careless never turned out well.
Barking erupted from inside the house. There was a crash, and a woman screamed.
Locke tried the door handle, and it opened. He drew his weapon and glanced back at Alana. “Right behind me.”
She had her Sig out also and gave him a short nod. The times he saw her business face instead of the easygoing, relaxed Alana who hung out with the team were few and far between. He should have been pleased to see it now, but instead he missed that spark in her eyes.
The hall was the same yellow paint and linoleum floor as it had been the last time Locke was here. The door was open, as were all the windows in the place, letting in the morning breeze. He cleared each room from front to back, where the bedroom was. Dogs raced in circles around his feet and barked. Locke nudged his way through. “Beatrice?”
He reached the bedroom doorway. Beatrice Colburn was on the floor. Her shirt matched the hall paint, which leached the color from her skin, now a gray pallor. Locke slid to a halt in something sticky that covered the floor and saw the man in the window, sitting on the frame—half in, half out. The same man Locke had chased at the beach that morning.
The assailant’s gaze hit Alana, and he started. Surprised by something.
Locke and Alana held their weapons on him. The guy had an intricate tattoo on the inside of his left forearm and a bloody knife clasped in that hand. His right hand was holding a roll of paper big enough to be a poster. Or a painting.
“Free—”
The man dived out the window.
“Stay with Beatrice,” Locke said over his shoulder. “Call for backup and an ambulance.”
Locke raced to the window and climbed out. He didn’t want Alana anywhere near the man who had tried to kill her this morning. The window frame snagged a thread on the pants of his new suit. He grimaced but cleared the window to land in a bush and then raced across the backyard through the open gate.
Thunk.
The sound reverberated in his skull. He’d been hit from behind, blinded for a second as pain set off