Serve ‘N’ Protect by Tee O’Fallon
Chapter Twelve
Markus wasn’t the only one affected by all the inactivity. For the second time in the last five minutes, Ghost nudged Markus’s elbow with his snout. By this time of day, they’d normally be well into their shift on the north grounds of the White House, with Ghost giving the evil eye to a few sightseers who inevitably pushed their cameras too far through the perimeter fencing’s bars. Like him, Ghost was itching to get back out there and do his job.
“Sorry, buddy.” With his free hand, he urged Ghost to roll onto his side so he could give him a belly rub while he worked. Ghost uttered a discontented, high-pitched whine, then decided he might as well take Markus up on his offer and rolled over next to him. With his other hand, Markus clicked the restart arrow to continue viewing footage from the party.
This particular feed was from the front door cam. Delivery trucks finished unloading then either headed out to Dupont Circle or parked in the small lot behind the mansion. Capitol Florist. Dupont Rentals. Benny’s Beverage Barn. A large black passenger van with tinted windows pulled up then discharged at least a dozen people carrying instrument cases. Doesn’t everyone have an orchestra at their beck and call? When the crown prince of Saudi Arabia threw a party, he went all out.
From everything Markus had seen on the news, the crown prince was doing his best to restore relations between the U.S. and his country after a slew of questionable actions his father had undertaken that had led to worldwide criticism. Some outlets were suggesting it was time for a more progressive regime, one more tolerant of today’s ever-changing socioeconomics.
He yawned, reminding him of the whine Ghost had made minutes earlier. This had been a giant waste of time so far, but as Cassidy had said, what else did he have to do?
She was probably hard at work on that audit. He could imagine her sitting at the kitchen counter or on the living room sofa, surrounded by all that Christmas cheer as she pored over documents or entered numbers into a spreadsheet. He’d never understood how anyone could work at a desk all day like accountants did. Like she did.
When Markus hit that special spot on his dog’s chest that he loved, Ghost’s hind legs started kicking as if he were running a marathon.
There was a lot he didn’t know about Cassidy Morgan but after yesterday, he had better insight. The last year had been rough on her, to say the least. That dipshit trying to horn back into her life under false pretenses hadn’t helped any, yet she’d handled the situation graciously and peacefully, like a seasoned politician. Markus would have been satisfied smashing his fist through Hugh’s head and calling it a day. But it hadn’t been his place to intervene. He’d done that enough just by virtue of eavesdropping.
It amazed him how much she’d been put through the ringer by this guy, but she was compassionate enough to forgive him. After Hugh had left and she’d finally broken down, Markus hadn’t known what to do, hadn’t known what she’d needed. Then the answer came to him as clearly as if it was printed on his forehead. He held her while she cried.
What she’d really needed at that moment was her family. He was merely a stand-in. Selfishly, it had made him feel good to be there for her.
The hand he’d been working the laptop controls with fisted on the keyboard. That dickwad didn’t know what he’d had. A woman like Cassidy would make a great wife one day—not that he knew shit about marriage. But she had to open herself up to it again. If only she could see what he saw. A warm, beautiful person with more guts and courage than most people he knew. Any kids she wound up having would be as cute as a doll.
Movement on the screen drew his attention back to the video. More cars pulled up to the front of the mansion, discharging men in tuxedos and women wearing sparkling evening gowns. Many of the guests wore keffiyehs and robes. All were greeted at the front door by a Saudi embassy employee, the crown prince’s U.S.-based secretary. The guy began wringing his hands just before the next vehicle, a silver stretch limo, pulled up. Markus already knew this was the prince’s limo. He and Ghost had been patrolling the cars parked at the curb on the public road when the limo had passed through the front gate. Diplomatic tags and Saudi flags waving on the hood identified the occupant. Fashionably late for his own party.
He and Ghost guarded the front gate while the limo discharged its passengers. Several men wearing dark suits and black-and-white keffiyehs came out first. Eventually, the crown prince himself stepped from the limo, giving a warm handshake to the embassy guy before the entire entourage disappeared inside.
In the upper right hand of the screen, he could just make out Jack Barnes rounding the far corner of the mansion. Markus felt a thickness in his throat. It was disconcerting to watch his colleague—a dead man—on video. When they’d taken that overtime shift, neither of them could have imagined that three days later Jack would be gone.
“Dammit. Dammit all to hell.” Markus leaned back against the cushions. Ghost lifted his head, gazing at him with questioning brown eyes. Ghost was so attuned to him he might as well be human.
Powerless didn’t begin to describe how he felt. The idea that Jack’s killer and the guy who’d knifed him was out there somewhere, walking around free and doing whatever homicidal assholes did on their non-homicidal downtime, was driving him batshit crazy.
For the next three hours, he rolled through more video. He watched himself click the mic clipped to his shoulder. Jack had just called in suspicious movement at one of the cars behind the house and was about to investigate. Markus and Ghost responded to back him up.
The front door cam recorded them rounding the corner toward the back of the mansion. He’d have to roll the footage from the rear camera to pick them up again in the backyard, but he already knew what was on it. Just a couple making out in the back seat of a car. The local PD had already done their due diligence, following up on that lead and ruling it out as having no relevance.
Markus hit the stop button then rolled his shoulders, trying to stretch the kinks from his body without tearing open his gut again. That segment would be another eight hours of sheer torture, viewing exactly nothing of any consequence.
“Let’s take a break.” He patted Ghost’s head then stood, feeling not quite as much pain as he had yesterday.
Ghost scrambled from the sofa, bumping into the coffee table and nearly toppling the stack of books he’d brought from home. They were some of his favorites that he’d reread multiple times over the years.
He grabbed his jacket from the hall closet, then took Ghost out the kitchen door into the backyard to take care of his business. With the cool, fresh air and late afternoon sun on his face, walking felt good. Anything was better than sitting on a sofa eight hours a day.
John had over thirty acres, with a wooded area behind the manicured lawn. A clear path through the adjacent trees led to a shooting target tacked onto a dead tree. Beyond the trees, there was nothing but, well, more trees.
Between the house and the garage, the rest of the yard was all but completely concealed from prying eyes on the street. Only a narrow wedge of space between the two structures allowed him to see straight through to Chesapeake Bay Retriever Lane.
Convincing Cassidy to let him show her how to shoot a gun might take a bit of persuading. She hadn’t seemed all that eager when Captain McMurray had ordered him to teach her.
Slowly, he crouched to grab a stick then threw it for Ghost to chase after. The second the stick left his hand, tiny red-hot pricks of pain pierced his abdomen, and he winced. Okay, bad idea. Ripping open his guts again would only lead to more painkillers and after tumbling off a ladder like a drugged-out klutz, opioids were no longer on the menu. Thankfully, today the pain only felt like toothpicks jabbing into him. Yesterday, those toothpicks had been the size of javelins.
Ghost loped back with the stick in his mouth, prancing around Markus and trying to shove the stick into his hand.
“Sorry, pal.” Seemed like he was apologizing to his partner a lot lately. Somehow, he’d have to figure out a way to keep his dog’s natural appetite for action satisfied. He patted his chest and Ghost dropped the stick, rising on his hind legs to rest his front paws just below Markus’s shoulders. They remained that way for a long moment, as if having a silent conversation. Staring into his dog’s eyes always gave him a sense of peace. Ghost was the only living creature on the planet who understood him, and he didn’t even have to say a word.
Rumbling from a passing vehicle changed pitch, slowing and becoming louder as it came to a stop. Markus froze. “Ghost,” he whispered, and his dog lowered to the ground and sat. Markus twisted his neck, barely enough to look behind him. Through the wedge of space between the house and the garage, he had a clear view to the road. About twenty feet past the house, a black van had stopped, the engine idling.
From his position in the yard, he couldn’t see the driver. But the driver could see him.
“Down,” he said to Ghost, without even looking at his dog and knowing he’d obey as he was trained to do.
After the attack, photos of him and Ghost had been all over the news. A ninety-pound white German shepherd kinda had a way of standing out in a crowd and would be a dead giveaway, pardon the pun, that Markus was there. If Ghost remained exactly where he was, the driver wouldn’t have a clear line of sight. Unless he’d already seen him.
Drivers occasionally stopped on the side of the road for all kinds of legitimate reasons. But with so much at stake, that could be a deadly assumption he wouldn’t live to regret.
Just short of running, he hustled to the corner of the house, the gun strapped to his ankle thumping with every step. He plastered his back against the siding of the house. Leaning out a fraction of an inch, he did a quick sneak ’n’ peek.
The van had no windows and no insignia. He’d only seen the driver, but without windows, there could be a small army hiding inside the van.
Markus’s heart thumped a little faster but not much. He’d been in worse situations and with worse odds. Normally, he and Ghost would confront the driver, find out what he was doing stopped in front of the White House gates, and if he had no business being there, send him packing. This was anything but normal, and Sun Tzu’s words of wisdom lit up in his brain brighter than the JumboTron at Camden Yards.
He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious.
Frustration stung like a swarm of bees. Even with the gun strapped to his ankle, he was in piss-poor shape.
Markus took one more sneak ’n’ peek, cataloging a boatload of intel.
The way the van was parked, he could just make out the driver’s green ball cap and the cell phone held to his ear. Maybe he’d only stopped to take a call. He wore a matching green shirt, possibly a uniform of some kind. Unfortunately, the angle didn’t allow for Markus to read the license plate. Movement through the window drew his attention back to the driver. He was no longer talking on the phone, and a few strands of blond hair beneath the cap were visible.
Markus tucked himself back behind the house. Seconds later, the sound of the engine cranking back into drive came to his ears. He leaned out again but not in time to get a look at the tag before the van picked up speed and disappeared around the bend.
In the unlikely event the driver did a one-eighty then sped back around, aiming a submachine gun at the house and peppering it full of holes, Markus maintained his position for a solid two minutes before turning to see Ghost’s body quivering with pent-up energy.
“Come,” he called out, and Ghost bolted to his side so fast he could have given a gazelle a run for its money. His dog’s head twisted in every direction as he searched for whatever threat had driven Markus to take cover. Like some people, Ghost didn’t have an off switch. “Easy, there.” He leaned over and pet Ghost’s side, feeling the dog’s muscles bunching beneath his fingertips.
He opened the back door, letting Ghost bound into the kitchen first. He’d been about to take off his jacket when he heard a soft thump coming from the living room. Knowing Ghost was about to take off to investigate, he corrected the thought by putting a settling hand on his dog’s head.
“Stay,” he whispered, grinding his teeth. Whoever was in the house would have heard him and Ghost coming in, but he didn’t want Ghost’s nails on the tile or hardwood floors to alert the intruder as to their exact position. He needed to get in the habit of setting the alarm every time he went out.
Biting back a groan as he lifted his leg to a chair, he tugged up his jeans and yanked the Glock from its holster.
In his eagerness to escape from boring himself to tears with another minute of that video, he’d forgotten to verify the front door was locked. It probably was. Then again, in the week since he’d been off active duty, he’d taken the word sloppy to entirely new and lofty levels. For all he knew, the driver of the van had discharged someone who was, right at this very moment, setting up a guillotine in the living room to cut his head off.
His heart thumped faster as he moved silently into the hallway, gripping his gun in the indoor-ready position, finger off the trigger, muzzle aimed at the floor. As he edged closer to the living room, where he was reasonably certain the sound had come from, he raised the gun, sliding his finger to the trigger. He rounded the doorjamb. And aimed in.
Cassidy looked up from where she stood holding a book. The book slipped from her hand, her blue eyes widening to the size of small plums, and he quickly lowered the weapon.
“Oh crap.” Her shoulders sagged with obvious relief. “You scared me to death. Again. I should hang a cowbell around your neck.”
“Sorry.” Old habits died hard, and the marines had taught him everything there was to know about warfare, including sneaking up on the enemy. “I wouldn’t need the cowbell if you’d quit sneaking into my house uninvited and without calling first.” Tactically, he really needed to set that ground rule and set it fast, but in truth he didn’t mind her intrusions at all.
“I didn’t sneak, and I did try calling.” She pointed to his cell phone on the table.
Markus sat heavily in a chair opposite the sofa, putting his foot on the table and holstering the Glock. In addition to his new level of sloppiness, apparently he’d lost a few brain cells during his five-foot fall from the ladder to the floor. Given his current situation, going outside without a phone was like heading into combat without a radio. A mistake like that could get him killed.
“I thought something had happened to you again.” This time, she pointed to the ladder in the adjacent dining room. “Like maybe you tried changing another lightbulb.”
“Funny.” Although after Hugh’s visit yesterday, he was glad her sense of humor had returned.
Leaning on her cane with both hands, she grimaced before settling on the sofa and looking around. “Where’s Ghost?”
Mentally, he smacked himself upside the head. Ghost was still in the kitchen on a stay command. “Ghost, come,” he called out.
Ghost’s nails clicked as he ran into the hallway then the living room. Instead of going to Markus’s side, he ran directly to Cassidy, his tail whipping back and forth, banging into the table and dislodging Markus’s stack of books as he rested his head in her lap.
“There you are.” She took Ghost’s head in her hands, leaning in and crooning, “You’re such a handsome boy.” Ghost licked her chin. “Yes, you are.” He licked her again. “And you love it when I scratch you under your chinny-chin-chin, don’t you?” More licks.
Markus rolled his eyes. His dog—one of the biggest and fiercest to ever patrol the White House and protect the First Family—was behaving like a toy poodle. “Was there a reason you broke in again?”
“Again, I didn’t break in.” Without looking up, she continued pampering Ghost with scratches behind his ears and under his chin. “You forget I have a key.” This time, she did look at him. Genuine concern radiated from her pretty face. “Besides, I’m supposed to be watching over you. I want that check Captain McMurray promised me, and I won’t get it if you get hurt on my watch.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawned, and he settled back in the chair. “So it’s about the money.”
“I’m an accountant. It’s always about the money, and I’m good with numbers.”
We’ll see about that. He reached for his cell phone and cued up the calculator. “What’s 452 times 213?” he asked, punching in the numbers he’d just pulled out of his ass.
She looked up at the ceiling, looking cute as hell as she twisted her lips then squinted first one eye and then the other. “96,276.”
He looked at his phone. “Say that again.”
“96,276.”
He stared in disbelief.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.
“What am I thinking?” What he’d been thinking was holy shit.
“Holy shit,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Okay, you do know what I’m thinking.” He barely knew his times tables up to fifteen. The woman was a numbers savant.
“I was head of the math club in high school. At first, I only took up sports so people wouldn’t think I was a total geek. Then I found I loved sports, too, so I stuck with both.”
“You’d get along great with Matt’s wife, Trista. She’s a whiz with numbers, too.” He’d learned the hard way never to play poker with Trista. He’d lost his shirt that night. They all had. “I have no idea how you did that.”
She shrugged. “Everyone has their specialty. Yours is running down bad guys and other manly, take-no-prisoners stuff. Mine is numbers.” As if someone had flipped a switch, her face lit up, every nuance becoming animated. “When I’m doing an audit, I see the numbers on paper, but I also see other numbers in my head. Profit and loss. Income streams. Balancing numbers and finding things other people miss gets me stoked, and numbers never do one thing that most people always do.”
“What’s that?”
“Numbers never lie. They either add up or they don’t. If they don’t, then there’s a problem.”
“You’d make a killer IRS agent.” Although, he’d hate for her to be the one auditing his taxes.
“Nah.” Cassidy retrieved the book she’d dropped on the floor. “Working for the government isn’t for me. I like being my own boss for once. Are these your books or John’s?” She indicated the other six books on the table.
“Mine,” he answered and her brows rose. “I do read.”
“I can see that.” She held up his very worn version of To Kill a Mockingbird then pointed to the other books. “I’m just surprised you enjoy the classics.”
“Why? Because I’m a cop? That’s stereotyping.” Markus recalled how many times Nick Houston, another of his closest K-9 friends, liked retelling the story about how Andi, his now wife, was equally shocked to discover Nick enjoyed the classics, like The Count of Monte Cristo.
“You’re right. It is. I’m sorry.” She looked genuinely contrite as she set the book on the table and picked up his even more worn copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. “Is there something I should know? Are we going to war?”
From the way her lips pursed it was obvious she was mocking him. “That book is more than just about fighting wars. It’s about conflict resolution for a war on the battlefield or a war of words, and it isn’t just about brute strength or who’s got the biggest weapons.”
He paused when she turned the book over to read the back copy. “Sun Tzu was a Chinese general, but he was also a brilliant strategist and philosopher,” he continued. “His teachings provide the essential elements for any conflict resolution strategy. Rushing into combat isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, intelligence can dissolve conflict, thereby avoiding a deadly confrontation.”
“Wow. You sound like quite the philosopher yourself.”
“I am.” To survive his crappy childhood, he’d had to be.
“Seriously?” Again with the raised brows. “Did you go to school for that?”
He nodded. “I have degrees in philosophy and psychology.” The philosophy had come first. Then he’d wanted to learn why his father had fucked up his and Kelly’s lives so radically, so he’d taken up psychology as well.
She leaned forward. “When did you have time to get all these degrees?”
“I went into the marines at twenty.” The second his sister had left for college he’d been out the door. He would have bolted sooner but he’d refused to leave Kelly alone in the same house with Steven. She wouldn’t have survived. “The military paid for my online tuition. Since then, anytime I get the urge to blow something up with a surface-to-air missile, I try to find a more peaceful solution.”
“That is philosophic.” She began tapping a finger on her chin. “I wish I could apply those principles to my clients.”
“Is that client still holding back with those receipts you need?”
“Yeah.” She made a dismissive gesture. “But it’s not worth getting into.”
“It’s after four,” he said, glancing at his phone. “Let’s hit the gym. Wear shorts, and bring your medical file.”
Cassidy swallowed audibly then licked her lips. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he wasn’t, the emotion emanating from her eyes could be only one thing. In the marines, he’d seen it in the eyes of his enemy.
Cold, stark fear.