Frank's Independence Day (The Night Stalkers) (3 page)

She herself was glad of the reason to be missing the party at her parents. That was the main reason she’d been cruising up to Columbia to check on a posted summer class schedule she could have just as easily called on tomorrow.

“Hit me.”

Frank goggled at her so she repeated herself.

“Ladies first,” he replied.

She shot a rabbit punch at his sternum without hesitating. She’d thought to drop him as a lesson, but her fist mostly bounced off a tight gut, though the breath did whoosh out of him. He’d also managed to twist enough to make it a partially glancing blow.

Beatrice went for another punch and Frank, predictably, went for the block.

But she didn’t land the punch, instead she went low and swept his leg.

On his way down, he was fast enough to snag a hand behind her leg and take her down as well. She landed on top of him and almost got the nerve pinch on his hand, but he was strong enough to wrench free, despite the pain that must have caused.

They pushed off each other and rolled to their feet.

“Damn,” Frank shifted lightly on his feet circling.

Now he was going to be predictable and gripe about surprise attacks.

“You smell wonderful.”

It flustered her enough that when he went for the takedown, she landed hard on her back before she could recover.

Frank knocked the air right out of her.

Chapter 4

Frank: Now

I can’t begin to
tell
you how good that lady was,” Frank massaged his chin where Beatrice’s elbow had surprised him twenty-five years before, after he’d slammed her to the mat. Even now, he could remember the scent of her as clearly today as if no time had passed at all. Like midnight and roses. Dark, mysterious, and lush.

And then she’d clipped his chin with her elbow and planted his face in that stone-hard mat of the Secret Service gym.

The White Hawk was circling down to the Manhattan Downtown Heliport. Nine a.m., exactly on schedule. Frank looked down to check the dock.

They’d cleared the pier of other flights. A quick scan below showed that the police boats had cordoned off the part of the East River that flowed by the heliport.

The heliport itself was a pier and a barge near the south tip of Manhattan. The tiny parking lot off South Street that could hold about a dozen cars was presently blocked by half-a-dozen black Secret Service SUVs. They’d closed a short section of the street, and the rest of the Presidential motorcade waited for them including a pair of Humvees with turret guns and an ambulance, surrounded by a phalanx of New York’s finest mostly on motorcycles.

A long pier stuck out from the shore separated from the land by the terminal building. His earpiece confirmed what his eyes could see. The “all secure” mirrored by the agents in dark gray suits standing watch outside the terminal’s doors. The long pier stretched out into the East River. Brooklyn rose on the far shore, bridges soaring above the boat traffic on the bright water. The four helipads were empty, and a pair of Beasts, the Presidential limousines, were parked there. Then the big barge, that looked little different from the pier, floated to the north. About a third of the ten helicopter parking spots on the barge were taken, but the only guys near them were agents.

“Merlin inbound,” Frank announced over the radio.

President Matthews grinned at him as he did every time he heard his Secret Service codename. If the main man got a kick out of being dubbed a wizard, that was fine with Frank. And it fit. Youngest President in history, he’d fostered more peace accords than anyone had pulled off in a whole lot of terms. Halfway through his first term and he’d already visited the United Nations more times than any other prior President in their entire incumbency.

And being there on July second, right before the July Fourth holiday would look good in the press. He knew that wasn’t what motivated the Man, but neither was he going to be stupid and miss the chance to leverage the opportunity a bit.

They circled as they descended toward the pier, providing Frank one last look in all directions. Nothing caught his eye, nothing pulled his attention. The only thing he noticed was that the ambulance was behind the rearmost Humvee. It was supposed to be in front so that the Humvee’s gunner would have a clear field of fire and the ambulance would be inside the bubble with the President if they had to crash down a defensive perimeter. He called down and they started shuffling it as the Marine One chopper settled at the outmost spot on the main pier, the most defensible spot.

“Check the drivers, ambulance and Humvee. They should both know better.”

As the wheels kissed the pier, the answer came back into his earpiece. “Ambulance broke down, they had to send their second team. Rolled in late, but they’re on my cleared list.” Then after a brief pause. “He won’t forget next time.” He could hear the laugh in Hank Henson’s voice. Hank took deep pleasure in making rookies suffer. Probably been hell on new pledges at whatever Ivy League fraternity he’d belonged to. Frank had done night school at NYU.

Even before the chopper’s rotors stopped, Beast Two was backing up close to the door. They alternated which was the decoy car. Once the rotors halted, a Marine opened the side door which rolled toward the back. Frank stepped out first, scanned once more, receiving nods from the key agents.

Second day of July in New York City. The heat rolled across him like an old friend, hot, thick with flavor, the smell of home. No other city smelled like it. He tugged at the jacket of his custom-tailored suit to make sure it both hid his weapon and offered easy access. Damn suits cost a fortune, but he didn’t look armed in them, so it was worth it. No need to remind the President more than necessary that he was surrounded by armed men every minute of the day.

He let Merlin down, making sure he was between the President and the bulk of the Manhattan buildings. Two more agents to either side flanked him for the thirty-foot walk to the car. Human shield in place.

In moments, he and Merlin were locked in and the motorcade was moving. That was one of the secrets of Presidential security, never stay still, a moving target was much harder to hit.

Frank hated this next stretch. For the next four-point-one miles there was no question about where the Presidential motorcade would be. There were alternate routes through the city. However, up the FDR was the safest and fastest, but it meant being predictable.

“You said meeting Beatrice Belfour was like
Men in Black?”
President Peter Matthews was ignoring whatever crises he carried in his briefcase. He’d snapped it shut halfway through the flight and asked Frank about how he’d ended up head of the PPD. Boss’ prerogative.

Main Man wanted to talk? Then Frank would. Wanted to play Scrabble? He’d play Scrabble, and lose horribly no matter how hard he tried. It was the President’s secret vice, he loved strategy, he played online in competitions and often finished in the money at tournaments. He was always harassing Frank about finding some way for him to compete in the National Scrabble Championship, but you had to show up in person for that.

Frank had almost crapped his pants laughing when Beale had told him the origin of his preferred anonymous player identity, Sneaker Boy. Had to do with Beale chucking the President, back when he was much younger, into the Reflecting Pool in D.C. while wearing brand new sneakers. He’d have paid good money to see that.

And now the President wanted to talk.

Frank let his guard down, as much as he ever did when riding with the Man. Locked inside the Beast with the President, security was someone else’s issue. Mostly. There was only so long that you could stay on alert, so he relaxed as much as he could when he wasn’t front and center.

“Well, yeah. She showed me this whole weird world behind the magic curtain, training gym, high-rise offices, high-tech communication war rooms that could span the globe. Then we sat right over there.” He pointed out the right-hand window across to where a small park wrapped around the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He took a cold bottle of water from the small cooler and knocked it back. July first and it was high-nineties in the city. What was August going to be like? At least it hadn’t stunk of garbage. When he’d met Beat it had been so damn hot that the city didn’t need a garbage strike in order to reek of it.

Chapter 5

Frank: 1988

They filmed
Moonstruck
here
last year.” Beatrice told him as they sat side by side on the park bench and looked out at the East River and Manhattan shimmering in the nighttime heat steaming off the water’s surface. Once again in their street clothes, he couldn’t help remembering her in her workout gear. Her chest gave the big, white U.S.S.S. logo a whole new meaning. No vest hiding curves that really needed to be seen and appreciated. And legs, damn but the woman had amazingly serious legs.

“Moonstruck.”
Frank had no idea what she was talking about. He just knew his chin still hurt like hell, it was two a.m., and he was sweating like a pig because the temperature hadn’t broken in almost two weeks. And he knew that Beatrice was limping bad on the right and trying not to show it. Damn but she was tough. No whining at all though they were both sore. “What’s that?”

“Boy, we’ve got to do something about your movie education. It is seriously lacking.”

Movie? He looked around the dock. It didn’t look like much. It stuck out a little ways into the East River, Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge made for an amazing skyline, from the Twin Towers right up to Roosevelt Island. Here there was just water, warped old wood on the dock, and a couple of steel benches so clean that tourists must come here. Sure weren’t no benches this clean in his neighborhood. To the south was a small park. To the north, a fancy restaurant all closed and dark inside, though the perimeter lights were on so it would be hard to sneak around. He spotted a couple of security cameras up high, but they didn’t have cables to them. Fakes. Dumb fakes. He knew some boys into smash-and-grab, maybe he should tip them off.

“So what movies did you see?”

What was it with this woman and movies?
“Platoon
kicked ass.”

“Okay, it did. I’ll give you that one.”

“Uh, Stallone was good.”

“Rambo III.
Like two weren’t enough. Sequels are a waste of celluloid. We really gotta do something about this. You’re a walking disaster.”

“What? First, you’re dissing my man Sly. And now you’re gonna make another weak-ass attempt to kick my ass or something?”

That got a smile out of her. He seriously liked that smile. And he’d bet if he tried to do anything about trying to kiss it, he’d end up with a faceful of dock splinters.

“That will be up to you.”

Whether or not he got to kiss her? No. He shook his head. Whether or not she tried to kick his ass.

Beatrice looked out over the water. Tide was coming in so it smelled of salt and the Atlantic rather than old diesel fuel and other crap that floated down the river when the tide was running.

“I think you’ve got what it takes. The United States Secret Service is not for the weak of heart. We’ve got two mandates. Money laundering,
counterfeiting, and fraud is the first. Then there’s head-of-state protec
tion. All dangerous as can be. That’s if they let you in. First they’ll do so much
investigating on you that an alien crawling out of your chest would be a relief. They’ll know so much about you that you won’t know what hit you.”

While he had a weak spot for Sigourney in too little clothes packing a serious damn gun, the thought of what an investigation would dig up about him sent a chill up his back. He’d just twice committed grand theft auto by carjacking. That wouldn’t go down good at all if they found out.

“I, uh, don’t think that’s gonna be happening.”

“I know I wasn’t your first carjack. You were too sure of yourself.”

“Until you stuck that damn gun in my face.”

“Until I stuck my gun in your face. But what you’ve got going for you is rarer than you think. It’s also a way out of your present mess. I’ve been an agent for a year and it’s awesome. I learned enough to stop you.”

Frank considered that while a tugboat worked its way against the tide, a long barge of gravel piled in tall mounds trailing far behind. She had stopped him, stopped him cold. If there was ever a good advertisement for what she was sellin’, she was it. The woman looked and smelled amazing, and had almost beat his ass on the wrestling mat. He sure wasn’t going to think about how good she’d felt in his arms even as she’d planted a knee in his gut and he’d had to partly sprain her ankle to get her off him.

“So why did you join?”

“I’m going to be on the Presidential Protection Detail some day.”

“Why there?” He tried to picture that. Riding with the Main Man. Sure, and catching a bullet so that he didn’t. Frank had seen enough gunshot wounds and deaths to last him a hundred times his twenty years. Wouldn’t find him steppin’ in front of no bullets on purpose.

“Because the PPD are the very best on the planet.”

“And you’re just that damn good.”

“Damn straight.”

He gave her a knowing smirk. But the thing was, he believed her.

Chapter 6

Frank: Now

Then she left it
up to me whether or not I showed up the next day to start filling out the paperwork.”

The President smiled. “But you’re the one heading up my Protection Detail.”

“Yeah,” Frank returned the smile. He’d gotten the assignment when Peter Matthews announced he was running. They didn’t start guarding the candidates that soon, but they started studying and planning and he’d pulled the duty detail on that. By the time the D.C. native became a Presidential contender, Frank was on him. When he was elected, President-elect Matthews had asked to have him stay on.

“Yeah, heading your detail... Kinda pisses her off.” He grinned. When they were alone, he knew the casual helped the President relax, as if he were with a friend rather than his bodyguard. But now they were rolling up the semi-circular drive in front of the main building of the U.N. He threw the mental switch… back into agent mode.

A voice in his ear reminded him, “Entering Turtle Bay.” Turtle Bay, which probably hadn’t seen a turtle since it was named back in the 17th century, was the Manhattan neighborhood that included the United Nations Headquarters and often referred to just the U.N. section of it.

“You’re a brave man, Frank Adams.” The President didn’t even glance out at the phalanx of agents ensuring the front entrance was secure for their arrival. “I don’t think that Agent Beatrice Ann Belfour is someone I’d want to ‘piss off’ even a little bit.”

“Well, I’ll admit, she has her more dangerous moments. The woman knows no fear.”

“Nor do you,” the President checked his tie and jacket. Today it was a sharp gray with a garish red-and-white Washington Nationals tie. He was known for his ties and his love of the D.C. baseball team. Frank had accompanied him to more than one game and watched him eat ballpark hotdogs until any normal man would be sick. It always struck him as funny that the Harvard and Oxford graduate, leader of the country, always so calm and collected, could scream and rant about bad calls against his home team.

“You wear that tie around New York, Mr. President, there’s nothing I can do to protect you from a Yankees fan. Just so you know.”

“Good thing we aren’t technically in New York then.”

The U.N. grounds were extraterritorial, subject only to the laws of the U.N., rather than the U.S. and the city of New York. They’d just left the country right, in the middle of Manhattan, which had always cracked him up.

Frank nodded for him when the President had the gray suit straightened-around just right, like a human mirror.

“I’ve never seen you show a moment of fear,” the President grabbed his briefcase and glanced around to make sure he’d left no papers behind
.

“Well, sir, you didn’t see the color of my pants after we climbed off Major Emily Beale’s Black Hawk helicopter on that flight. Fear may only be a seven-point word, but I sure felt it that day.”

A last laugh for the President before he entered the fray of international politics.

A voice in his ear called the, “All clear.” Frank could see the agent outside ready to open the Beast’s door, over a hundred pounds of armor and bullet-proof glass.

“You ready, sir?”

“Ready for an entire day and evening of arguing with China and Russia over the latest North Korean fiasco, and trying to calm down Myanmar about the Thai raids into their poppy fields, and… Sure. Can’t wait.”

“Do it.” Frank announced into the wrist microphone of his radio.

The agent standing beside the car swung open the door.