PROTECTING THE PRESIDENT

Amid the idyllic scenery of Hawaii, rookie Secret Service agent Alana Preston is attacked, and a sinister plot to assassinate the president begins taking shape. But nobody seems to believe Alana, and she doesn’t know who she can trust—except Secret Service director James Locke. Now, with an assassin hiding in plain sight on the island, she and James may be the president’s last line of defense. The closer they get to cracking the case, however, the more intertwined their lives become. And they must fight to keep their hearts out of it. With the life of the commander-in-chief in their hands, falling in love could be a deadly distraction...

“Alana, can you hear me?”

Locke wanted to make her wake up, but it was probably a good thing she wasn’t conscious to feel her injuries.

She moaned. Locke gathered her closer to him and put his chin on her head. If someone had wanted to distract them, they’d succeeded. They had hit Locke in the place where it hurt the most and forced him to turn his mission from the president’s safety to taking care of his partner. Because he was going to make sure Alana was safe.

Somewhere along the way she had become more important to him than his job, and Locke was never going to apologize for that.

As he looked down at his unconscious partner, Locke realized that if he was going to save the president, he had to set aside his feelings for Alana. If it could be used against him, then it was a liability. And liabilities cost him his job. If the president was killed because Locke was distracted by Alana, all of them would lose.

He had to let her go.

Dear Reader,

So often our past defines us. And so often we allow other people’s expectations to change the course of our lives. But God’s way is freedom. It’s life.

In Him we find the fulfillment of all the promise we’re unable to drum up in our own lives. His path is so much better, richer, fuller. And it’s this grace, this goodness poured out in us that gives us strength to fight against those things that weigh us down.

My prayer for you in reading this book is that God continues to work in you that message of Himself and that you will go forward one more step in the journey.

If you have any comments or questions, feel free to email me at lisaphillipsbks@gmail.com, as I would love to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Lisa Phillips

LISA PHILLIPS is a British-born tea-drinking, guitar-playing wife and mom of two. She and her husband lead worship together at their local church. Lisa pens high-stakes stories of mayhem and disaster where you can find made-for-each-other love that always ends in a happily-ever-after. She understands that faith is a work in progress more exciting than any story she can dream up. You can find out more about her books at authorlisaphillips.com.

Homefront Defenders

Lisa Phillips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation.

—Psalms 68:5

Thank you to all my Hawaii friends for all your information, and my hubs, who suffered through a research trip over our anniversary!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

ONE

It was hard not to think about sharks, sitting on a surfboard off the coast of Hawaii. Secret Service agent Alana Preston could see the hotel, and the faintest hint of dawn reflected in the wall of windows as she bobbed up and down on the ocean. Soon enough she’d have to get back to her duties, but for now Alana intended to enjoy this moment and not think of sharks—or how so many of the humans she’d met had a bite far worse than the predators.

At least for an hour out on the water she could forget that she’d torn up her knee all those years ago and destroyed her chance to surf competitively. She could forget that she’d moved to the mainland to be a Secret Service agent. She could forget the fact that she hadn’t called home since she left.

Working at the White House was everything she’d imagined and nothing like she’d thought it would be at the same time. She was exactly where she wanted to be: on the front lines of the Secret Service.

But Hawaii would always be home.

Alana was part of the advance team setting up for the president’s impending visit, and though there was almost no time for anything but work, if her boss, James Locke, could make time for a morning run, she could surf. She’d seen the director leave the hotel in his running clothes and set out along the beach maybe forty-five minutes ago. Alana was the rookie on the team, which meant Locke would have his stern, chocolate-colored eyes on her until she could prove herself. Too bad every time he looked at her she wanted to squirm under his attention. Why did he have to be so handsome?

Not that anything was going to happen. She was way too busy proving herself, making it so that she was the kind of person her father would’ve been proud of. Alana looked over at the mountains, then to the shadow of the rest of Hawaii’s islands on the horizon. I’m almost there, Dad. She was so close to losing the rookie title she could feel it. I’ve nearly done it. Just like I said I would.

She began to paddle even before her mind recognized the swell of the water. The minute she’d heard the surf report, Alana had brushed her teeth and dug out of her suitcase the board shorts and rash-guard shirt she’d always worn for surfing. No way would she waste waves like these.

Alana plowed through the water using her arms to propel her. When the moment came, she grasped the sides and hopped to stand as the surfboard cut through the water. The tunnel was beginning to form in front of her. If nature cooperated she might get in there for the ride surfers waited hours to find. There was nothing like the isolation of riding the tunnel of a wave. Cut off from the world. Invincible. Cocooned from everything. Free.

The board jerked. Alana’s legs tightened on a reflex as something bumped into her from beneath the water. Shark. It hit her again, jostling the board. She started to fall, a black-gloved hand grabbed her ankle and she hit the water.

The wave pushed her down. It happened sometimes, and even as it happened now, she already knew the momentum of the wave had forced her down. In a second it would pass and she would be free to swim up, but she still fought that encroaching panic. It’d been a while, but instinct kicked in. Stay calm. Don’t freak out.

Where was the person she’d seen? Under the water it was almost completely black, and with the rush of the waves it was hard to even open her eyes, let alone find visibility for more than a split second.

Wait for the wave.

It would pass. Then she’d be able to swim to the surface and reach her next breath. She wasn’t going to die down here in the cold black ocean.

Seconds that felt like hours passed as the wave made its journey to shore. A hand slammed into her and knocked her head forward. Alana choked on water and tried to swim against the current. Then she felt the hot sting of a knife glance across her middle.

Unable to wait any longer, she kicked out. Her foot hit something solid. Not the sandy bottom of the ocean. No, she’d hit a person. He’s still here. She fought for the surface as two arms banded around her. She grasped at his arms, his wet suit, and then felt for his face. He wasn’t using scuba gear. That meant he was holding his breath.

Which meant he would drown as well if he stayed down here long enough.

Alana renewed her fight. She wasn’t going out like this.

* * *

Secret Service director James Locke ran for these moments, early in the morning when he could clear his head. Locke pushed out a breath and forced himself to run harder. He had a six-person team on this trip, but it was the lone woman who had all his attention.

He’d seen her on her board in the water. Then pretended he hadn’t. Then felt like a moron for it. He would spot Alana Preston in a crowd, no matter what. She drew him, and Locke had been fighting the pull of his feelings for her since the first day. Still, he wasn’t going to let the rookie distract him from leading his team and keeping the president safe. He had no time for a relationship.

With the hotel in sight, Locke’s legs protested. He slowed to a stop, and a splash in the waves drew his attention.

A surfboard bobbed out of the water, but no rider followed. Then he saw a woman’s arm. Alana’s head broke through the surface. Another person emerged from the water, hair as dark as hers. A man. He grabbed Alana. She sputtered and screamed, then went back down.

Locke sprinted toward her. Alana. She was in the water, and she was in trouble.

He ran into the waves. Someone on the beach yelled. Locke replied, “Call 9-1-1!” Who knew what condition she would be in when he got her out? She might need a trip to the hospital.

He didn’t want to think the worst. God wouldn’t do that to him. Locke was going to pull her out, and Alana would be okay.

Water soaked his sneakers and his clothes up to his waist. Waves buffeted his torso and face, but he reached the spot where he’d seen Alana and dived under to try to find her. Locke moved through the dark wet, the cold. He’d never liked the ocean overly much. The water had too much power. It could dictate whether a person lived or died, and nothing could stop it when the waves were high and ready to swallow a person whole.

He found her. Where was the man, her attacker?

Locke lifted Alana out of the water and pulled her up so he could see her face, close to his. “Alana?” Her eyes were shut. She could almost be sleeping, but she wasn’t. A wave crashed against them.

Locke raced back out of the water with her in his arms. A crowd had gathered. Someone said, “Cops are coming, and an ambulance.”

Locke nodded but didn’t take his gaze from Alana. He lowered her to the sand. She wore one of those shirts that surfers wore to protect their skin from being abraded by their surfboards. Across her left side, toward her ribs, was a wound. She’d been cut, but a reef wouldn’t make such a clean line. It looked more like the work of a knife.

Her usually vibrant, tanned skin was pale. “Alana?” He checked for a pulse and then brushed dark brown hair, softer than anything he’d ever felt, away from her face. Her heartbeat was slow and faint. Was she breathing? He’d read her file. She’d been a champion surfer back in the day. He could see the scar on her knee where she’d had the surgery that had ended her career. But that was years ago. Why had she been the target of an attack now?

His breath came fast, even as his thoughts raced. He couldn’t think what to do. She had a pulse. Was she breathing?

A lifeguard ran over. “Everyone back up.” He wasted no time performing mouth-to-mouth.

She isn’t breathing. Locke held his breath until he saw her jerk. The lifeguard turned her to her side, and she coughed seawater onto the sand. His eyes filled with hot tears, enough that Locke had to walk away or she’d see. She could be dead, and it would be his fault.

He couldn’t go through that again.

He studied the crowd. These people were early-morning surfers, beachcombers and dog walkers. Not the kind of person who would have tried to hurt his colleague. None of them were even wet. Beyond the crowd a man in a black wet suit ran across the beach from the shore toward the hotel. No scuba gear. Had he dumped it in the water?

Locke jumped up, pushed through people with a brief “Excuse me” and kicked up sand as he tore across the beach as fast as he was able.

The man ran with a knife in his hand, taking the tool of his trade with him. Straight but uncombed black hair, short on the sides and shaggy on top. Asian.

Locke didn’t even have a gun, which made it tricky if he was going to confront the attacker. He never carried his phone when he ran, or his keys or wallet.

The sand switched to concrete as he hit the walkway at the edge of the beach. He skirted around an elderly couple on an early-morning stroll hand in hand, then pushed his pace harder as the man raced to a parked Toyota. A rusted-out wreck with open windows and nearly bald tires. What kind of getaway vehicle was that?

“Stop!”

The man was almost at the car, so Locke yelled again, “Secret Service. I said stop!”

Wet suit guy dived across the hood. A head popped into view as the driver sat up in the front seat, which had been tipped all the way back. This second man wasn’t in a wet suit. Not even a shirt, but he wore a white shell necklace. Surfer dude. Older, though, in his sixties, as far as Locke could tell. Caucasian.

And he almost looked familiar.

The man scrubbed his face with his hands and brushed long graying hair from his eyes. Combined with the dark shadow of stubble on his chin, Locke couldn’t get a good look at his facial features. His friend yelled, “Drive!”

The car engine sputtered to life as the knife-wielding man got in the passenger seat. Locke memorized his wide-set eyes and flat nose.

The car sped away. No license plate, but he wasn’t going to forget either of the men.

* * *

Alana sucked in a full breath of salty sea air and moved to sit up. Someone put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy.”

She blinked, and the man came into focus. An EMT. “What...?” She didn’t have the energy to get more words out than that. And why did she think Locke should be here, standing among the crowd of people and a grim-looking lifeguard?

Alana waved off the pressure cuff and sat up. A sharp stab in her side hitched through her like she’d been nicked at exactly that second. “Ouch.” She touched her waist and felt the slit in her rash guard. When she brought her hand away, her fingers had blood mixed with sand on them. She’d been injured surfing before, but never like this.

A black-gloved hand.

“He grabbed my leg.”

Locke pushed through the crowd. “The perp drove away with a friend. Old car, no plates.” He stood over her in his running clothes, his wet shirt clinging to his dark skin. His eyes were filled with concern.

“You went in the water?”

He shrugged, not happy. “I had to get you out.”

Like that was supposed to be obvious to her? She was in trouble, so he’d retrieved her. No big deal. Alana sighed and let the EMT help her to her feet. She swayed a little, and the EMT held her steady. Not the man she wanted, not the one who would never give her even one indication he might feel the same way she did. Locke kept things completely neutral between them.

And then he jumped in the ocean to save her.

But that wasn’t what she wanted to occupy her thoughts with right now. As they walked she glanced over her shoulder at Locke. Her colleague shook the lifeguard’s hand and then brought up the rear with the second EMT, who carried a bulky bag.

The EMT beside her said, “We’ll get you to the bus and patch up that cut. See if you need stitches.”

Alana shook her head. “I won’t.” Not to mention she didn’t want them to call in the local cops. No way. She’d been avoiding that since she got here, and intended to escape the island unscathed by the wrath of her brother. Seeing Sergeant Ray Preston wasn’t on her to-do list.

The EMT didn’t seem to believe her, so Alana said, “I’m serious. I’ve had a lot of surfing injuries—reef rash, jellyfish. I know cuts, and I know this one isn’t deep enough to need stitches.”

Locke’s voice cut over whatever the EMT had been about to say. “He’s still going to check it out, Preston.”

Great. Now they were back to last names—hers at least. Everyone called him Locke.

Alana wanted to roll her eyes. She hated when he called her Preston, like she was just another one of the guys. A growl emerged from her throat, but she tamped it down. The EMTs didn’t need to know she was mad.

“Wait.” The EMT slowed for a step. “Preston? Alana Preston?”

“Yeah.” Alana said it on a sigh. He probably knew her brother.

“No way! My sister thought you were aces. Still does. Kept all her old surfing posters of you. She has the board my dad got her one Christmas that matched yours. She never went surfing, though, just kept it in her room. She’s graduating from U of H this summer. She’s gonna be a vet.”

“Awesome.” She shared a smile with the EMT, though the thought of a younger sibling hitting a milestone was bittersweet. She hadn’t seen her sister, Kaylee, either. Not because she didn’t want to. It was Kaylee who’d told her she never wanted to see her again.

And the last time Alana had seen her brother, Ray hadn’t been much nicer than that.

Alana climbed in the ambulance and lay down on the stretcher. Her fingers wouldn’t stay still, no matter how much she squeezed them together. Hopefully Locke wouldn’t notice. Was he going to file a report? Dumb question. Of course he was—with the police and the Secret Service. Her reaction would be noted, and that note would go in her file. She had to act calm. Cool. She needed something to think about other than the black glove as it gripped her ankle and pulled her into the water.

Locke stood just beyond the step, arms folded across his lean chest. What was he mad about? Was it the attack—like that was her fault—or the EMT knowing who she was?

Maybe he didn’t like the fact the other man knew she’d been a competitive surfer. It wasn’t like she hid it, though she didn’t talk about it too much. It was in her file, but it was unique to her and people often asked her about it. Occasionally she’d meet a fan of hers from way back, like this EMT and his sister. And why not? She’d done something not many people had. Why did Locke have to be such a downer about it?

Alana wasn’t going to back down. “What’s up with—” The EMT wiped her injury, and she gasped. “Ow. That hurt.”

Locke’s frown shifted into an almost smile. It was about as much of a smile as he ever gave anyone, so she counted it as one. Because she was acting like a baby instead of sucking it up like a real Secret Service agent? She didn’t know why that would be funny.

“I’m not saying sorry.” The EMT kept his gaze on her cut. “But you’re right, it isn’t bad.” He slapped cream and some gauze over it that he taped down. “All done.”

“Great.” She shifted to the edge of the bed. The quicker this was over, the quicker they could get to their morning meeting. They’d be late if the police took too long taking her and Locke’s statements.

Locke held up one hand. “Not so fast.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” the EMT said. “You’ve gotta keep that dry. Take care of it, or you’ll have to see a doctor.”

Locke shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant.” His gaze zeroed in on her, and she didn’t like it one bit. “Someone just tried to kill you.”

TWO

Locke ignored the bright Hawaiian sun and threw the car in Park outside the residence they were due at in ten minutes. He couldn’t believe Alana was brushing off what had happened to her. It was like she didn’t even care, or was trying to prove to herself she didn’t care.

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 like fireworks in his head.

Locke landed on one knee on the concrete. The perp shoved him down so that he fell prone and ran past. Locke reached out for the man but grasped nothing. He aimed his gun from his position, then blinked as his vision split the man into three and back to one. Locke got up and ran after the guy. A sidewalk rimmed the house, and his shoes clipped the concrete with every step. Locke held his weapon up and traced the wall of the house with the other hand.

The man raced to a mustard-colored Cadillac parked two doors down and jumped in, still holding the rolled-up yellowed paper. No license plate on the back of this vehicle, either. The engine turned over, and the guy peeled out. Locke pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the car before it turned the corner.

Hearing sirens in the distance, he went back inside. The dogs weren’t any calmer, so he herded them into the kitchen and shut the door before he strode to the bedroom. “Is she...”

Beatrice Colburn lay on the floor, two bloody fingerprints where someone had touched her neck to check for a pulse.

“Alana?”

She emerged from the bathroom, a tissue balled up and pressed against her mouth. She lifted it away, her face pale and clammy. “Beatrice is dead.”

“And you’ve never seen a dead body before.”

It was a guess more than a question, but she didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m okay.”

She didn’t look it. Locke put his hand on her back and led her to the living room. “Sit for a minute. If you can handle the dogs, get yourself some water. I’ll show the cops in.”

She’d gone through selection and training, and now the sheen was wearing off. Long days, round-the-clock protection, stress and physical strain. Sure, they were in most people’s ideal vacation spot, but this was so far from a fun trip it was almost sad. After two years working together Locke was still wondering if she was going to last as an agent.

She lifted her chin, but her lip trembled. “I’m fine, Locke. I just needed a minute.”

No one called him James. His mom and his friends from back home called him Jay. He wondered what it would sound like coming from her lips. He knew she didn’t like the rookie moniker, but everyone had been a beginner at one point, even him.

What he said next would be a big test. “That was the same man who tried to kill you this morning.”

Police sirens sounded right before two black-and-whites pulled up. She didn’t answer him; instead Alana rushed to the window. “Oh, no.”

* * *

Alana sucked in a breath to get that smell out of her nose and shook out her head, her shoulders, her arms...all the way down to her hands. It was a technique she’d learned to combat the fear that surfing—especially competitively—brought. Shake the feeling off and then get on with it anyway. But a dead body? Not something she wanted to see again any time soon.

A black glove. He grabbed her foot.

And now her brother was here. There wasn’t even time to catch her breath. Locke had already gone outside to greet the officers, one of whom was Ray, but she needed a second before she faced him. Alana unclipped her phone from her belt. That attack was not going to slow her down. She’d seen the tattoo. Beatrice’s killer, the man who had tried to kill Alana, too, was Japanese mafia. Pulling up old numbers, decades old in some cases, she sent a text to a guy she’d gone to high school with. Everyone knew Mikio Adachi’s father was the yakuza boss on the Big Island, the head of the Japanese mafia. And even if things had changed since she left, Mikio would likely still know something about a yakuza soldier and why he might’ve tried to kill her.

The text sent, so she stowed her phone away. A long shot, but if it paid off she’d tell Locke about it. She knew this island, these people, but that didn’t mean she needed to rub it in everyone’s faces. Coming home wasn’t exactly turning into a pleasant experience.

Alana looked around, then realized she was standing alone in a dead woman’s living room. She circled the beat-up coffee table, brushed the dog hair off her back that she’d picked up from sitting on the couch and walked past the tasseled lamp to reach the door. Locke had the front door open, so she went out.

Two cop cars, three officers. One was the sergeant she’d been avoiding all day. They were huddled around Locke—the Secret Service director, the team leader. Mr. Never Wrong. Suit and tie.

She knew it wasn’t all that easy being the boss in a job like theirs, but the man seriously needed to lighten up. She wanted to know what he looked like in board shorts. Alana would have a lot of fun teaching him to surf—as if that would ever happen in a million years. She caught the snort before it came out and cleared her throat. Much better than thinking about this morning, or what Beatrice looked like lying on her bedroom floor.

Locke turned. “This is my partner, Agent—”

“I guess you couldn’t avoid me all day.”

Alana stared down her brother, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Thankfully he hadn’t been at the police station that morning when she’d gone there with Locke to give their statements about the attack on her.

“Can we not do this, Ray?”

She couldn’t look at Locke. Alana was supposed to be a professional, a success. He couldn’t know she was such a disappointment to her family. Her brother had been her biggest supporter, at every one of her surf competitions. He’d been crushed when she was injured so badly she had to quit. She’d kind of thought that becoming a Secret Service agent would prove to him she could still do something good, but evidently not.

Her brother didn’t back down, his dark eyes disapproving over that flat, wide nose she shared with him and their sister. “Went surfing this morning, got yourself hurt.”

Deep down, below where he could show it, her brother cared. Alana had figured that out, despite his lousy way of exhibiting any feelings whatsoever. She could have brushed off his comment, but instead she said, “I’m okay.” Alana didn’t know how to bridge a gap that spanned years. “Ray—”

Locke broke into the conversation. “The same man was here. Same knife, probably. He killed Beatrice Colburn and stole something.”

No one said anything. The tension was so thick she could have cut it with the shark tooth her father had given her. Locke probably had no idea what was going on, and she wasn’t about to explain it to him.

Ray’s jaw twitched. She could tell he didn’t like the fact she’d been close to a killer, one who’d hurt her already. “He saw you?”

Alana couldn’t answer that in a way her brother would like.

Locke said, “I caught up with him. He hit me and got away.” He touched the back of his head, and his fingers came away with a spot of blood.

“He hit you?” He hadn’t told her that. She’d probably already given herself away, with that reaction, but she couldn’t go to him. Ray would see right through it.

Locke pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against the back of his head. “It didn’t hurt until I touched it.” He gifted her a tiny smile.

Alana stared at the curve of his lips. Ray cleared his throat, and she spun around.

One of the officers, an older man, came over. “Joe Morton. I worked the job with your father.”

Alana nodded, shook his hand. Her father had been shot one night during a drug deal gone bad. Cops had been called in, and some guy hadn’t wanted to come quietly so he’d shot her father only a few years before he was supposed to have retired.

Dad had been dead before she and her sister could meet their twenty-two-year-old rookie-cop brother at the hospital. Two weeks before her eighteenth birthday. Six months after her dream of being a champion surfer died when the doctor told her that even after her knee healed, she’d never get her edge back. Worst year of her life, and the catalyst for her seventeen-year-old sister screaming at her to get out and never come back. The upside of that being she hadn’t had to see the disappointment on her brother’s face every single time he looked at her.

Locke cut through her spiraling thoughts. “Let’s get inside and get to work. Sound good to you guys?”

The cops moved toward the house, but Locke intercepted her. “We’ll be there in a sec. Let you secure the scene first.” When the two officers and her brother had stepped in the house, he turned to her. “You okay?”

“Sure, why not?”

His black eyebrows lifted. “Because that was your first dead body. And because you were attacked this morning. And apparently that police sergeant is your brother.”

“I don’t want to talk about Ray.” She wasn’t going to explain that it wasn’t her first body, though maybe seeing her father in the morgue didn’t count. “I can help, you know.” She folded her arms, careful not to stretch the cut on her abdomen. She just didn’t want to be in her brother’s space. “I’ll search the basement.”

“Very well.”

She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t see because he’d unlocked his phone and was making swirly patterns on the screen. They walked inside and he showed the drawing on his phone to the first cop, Joe Morton, who’d worked with her father. “Any idea what this means?”

“Huh.” He scratched his chin, and his gaze drifted to her. “Looks to me like it might be yakuza.”

“Japanese mafia?”

Ray strode in. “Show me that.” He took Locke’s phone before Locke could hand it over. “It’s yakuza. But then, Alana would know that.”

She didn’t rise to it, even though he was intent on baiting her. “We went to school with a few of them.” She turned to Locke. “It is yakuza.”

“Were you planning on telling me this?” Great, now Locke disapproved.

“If it turned out to be significant, yes.”

“If...” Locke actually sputtered. It was kind of amazing to hear him at a loss for words. And why did it please her so much? Being in the same room as Ray and Locke was messing with her head.

“I’m gonna go check the basement.”

“I’ll go with you,” Joe Morton offered.

“No, I will.” Locke’s voice stalled both of them. Alana mushed her lips together to keep from objecting.

She turned to the cop. “Maybe next time, Joe.”

The basement wasn’t a big room. Workbench. File cabinet. Not a man cave or some kind of old lady knitting or crafting space or anything like that. There were schematics printed on huge sheets of white paper and framed on the wall. A lamp had been shoved over, and the shade was crumpled. The outline on one wall where a painting had hung was now just a void. The frame lay bent on the floor with broken glass.

Much better than thinking—or talking—about a dead woman. Or her brother. Or the glove, and the sting of that knife. Alana was sad for the loss of life, but she could hardly process what she’d seen in the rush of everything. Was it going to hit her later? She hoped not. She didn’t want to know what that would feel like.

However, and whenever, it happened, Locke would not be there.

Behind her, he said, “Oh, no.”

She spun to Locke, who said, “That frame, the roll of paper he was holding. It must have been this.”

“What?”

He looked up. “Schematics for a bomb.”

THREE

Alana stepped back from him. “That was on her wall?”

Locke nodded, fully aware that things had now escalated. “She kept it as a memento. I didn’t really understand it, but she showed it to me every time I came. Wanted to talk about the old days when she could say what she really felt. But it was pretty harmless.” He sighed. “The yakuza soldier who tried to kill you came here to kill Beatrice and steal this.”

Alana looked at her phone. “No reply, not yet.” She told him about the text she’d sent—to the yakuza boss’s son, of all people.

Locke looked around one more time. “Okay, let’s head back upstairs and tell your brother what we suspect the man took. We need to wrap this up and make our last visit.”

“There’s one more?” She climbed the stairs behind him.

Locke didn’t turn around. “The marine, former sniper—” Something clicked in Locke’s brain as two thoughts coalesced. Was the Caucasian man he’d seen in the beat-up car their next visit? Could their day be that connected? If it was him, the man’s appearance had changed a bit since Locke had last seen him, so Locke couldn’t be sure until he saw the file.

He said, “After that we’re done for the day. Just in time for lunch.”

“I don’t think I’m going to eat for a week.” She paused. “But what was that about the former sniper?”

“I just need to look at his file when we get back in the car. That’s all.” Then he would know for sure whether it was the sixty-something guy he’d seen that morning.

She nodded, and it didn’t seem fake. She was actually holding up pretty well, and he was proud of her. He’d figured they would run across her brother at some point, but hadn’t known the sergeant was Ray until she’d confirmed it. Alana had been through a lot in her life, and now this on top of it. Did she have faith to fall back on? There was something in Alana that helped her hold it together, even now. He thought it might be pure strength of will. Unless all that bravado was just for show. Locke couldn’t tell yet which it was.

He, on the other hand, had been born and raised in Chicago, and his family had gone to the same church his whole life. Christmas wasn’t Christmas if he didn’t make the trip home to attend the carol service. Locke’s father was still the CEO of the same company he’d started forty years before. Two older sisters, the youngest of whom was six years older than him. Private school. College paid for by his dad. He’d seen a presidential detail at the age of eight and decided then that protecting the president was exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

This was the path God had put in front of him, and until Alana showed up, he’d been completely satisfied. Being a Secret Service agent took one hundred percent of his focus and attention. It was everything he’d always wanted. He’d been convinced this was the best, the only way to be a good agent. Had relied on it, in fact. Now when he saw how Alana tackled everything, it made him wonder if she was destined to fail trying to cope without relying on God for strength.

Or if he was the one who was wrong about everything.

Ray was crouched over the body of Beatrice Colburn. From the doorway Locke explained what they’d found in the basement.

The sergeant nodded but didn’t look at Alana. “You were right. It was a stab wound to the inside of her arm. The medical examiner will have to confirm, but if the cut severed her brachial artery she could have bled out in thirty seconds.” He looked at his sister. “It was precise. And intentional. If I’m right, then he knew what he was doing. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

Her brother cared, though Locke had never seen a sibling act like that with another sibling. It was like they didn’t even know how to communicate with words—just the sentiments that went unspoken between them. He shuddered to think what it would be like if they were forced to talk about their feelings with one another.

Alana wandered over to the cop who knew her father, Joe Morton. The man was scrolling through the victim’s cell phone. Probably looking at Beatrice’s call and browser history. What apps she had that might give them a clue why the yakuza killed her.

Locke needed to call the other director, William Matthews. His colleague was lead on the team traveling in with the president, while Locke was lead on the advance team. Coordinating made both of their lives easier, as would their being friends. Had they actually been friends. Locke respected him fine and they’d worked together a long time, but he didn’t particularly like the man.

Alana had requested to be on William’s team for this trip, but Locke had made sure she was on his. As much as she would rather downplay her background he needed her expertise and her knowledge of local people to aid their team on this trip.

As she wrote down the numbers Morton was also noting, Locke dialed William. He was glad Alana had turned her attention to something practical, even though they weren’t part of the murder investigation. It would keep her mind off seeing her first dead body.

“Matthews.”

Like he didn’t know it was Locke calling. “William, it’s Locke.” He bypassed the pleasantries neither of them had any interest in exchanging and told William about the dead woman, the yakuza guy who’d tried to kill Alana and the missing bomb schematics.

There was quiet on the line, and then William spoke in a low voice to someone he was with.

“Can you hear me?”

“Sure,” William said. “Seems like a crazy coincidence, the two of you stumbling on a breaking and entering gone bad. Is Agent Preston okay?”

“Alana is fine.” He saw her turn and smile at him, but he didn’t believe it. Nor did he believe William’s concern was simply that. More likely the man was playing defense—determined nothing would interfere with the President’s trip, least of all a break-in. “I’m a little more worried right now about the fact this guy stole bomb schematics.”

Alana’s brow crinkled, and the smile evaporated off her face. She turned away. It wasn’t his job to make her happy. She was going to have to work that out all by herself.

“Yeah, crazy. Bomb plans are probably worth something on the black market. People will buy anything off the internet.” William’s voice quieted, and he spoke again to someone he was with. “I’m interested to know this guy’s angle. Think the local police will find him?”

Locke said, “I’ll be going over there again with Alana to look at mug shots of yakuza soldiers. We’ll figure out who he is, then the cops can pick him up. Guess we’ll unravel this, and this morning’s attack on Alana, somehow.”

Would her brother help? The man could be a valuable ally if he wanted to be.

William said, “That’s the police’s job, Locke. You’re not their director, so make sure you go see their captain and get approval for anything you do in their jurisdiction.”

Locke wanted to roll his eyes but had practiced the art of resisting that urge from the age of four. William spoke like he was Locke’s director, or at least someone he reported to, instead of his colleague. “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll file the report.”

“Report?”

Locke said, “This needs to be passed on. A woman on our intelligence list is dead, and the man who killed her stole schematics to a bomb designed with the purpose of killing the president.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing but a coincidence. Even if your killer was going to construct the bomb from archaic plans he stole, he could be planning to...kill a wild pig with it. The president? That’s a stretch.”

Locke ignored the man’s sarcasm and said, “It’s a stretch I’m supposed to make.” That was their job—to see the threat no one else saw and take appropriate steps to neutralize it. Or if there was no other choice, to give their lives to protect the president. Locke stepped outside. “I cannot in good conscience ignore a possible threat. You know that, William.”

The other director laughed. “Alana was right. You are too serious. It was a break-in, some small-time theft gone wrong. Unless there was something left out of your explanation that proves this to be a legitimate threat to the president’s life?”

As if things were ever that cut-and-dried. “It was the same man. I’ve explained that.”

But that wasn’t the part of William’s speech that had caught his attention. Locke was still stuck on what Alana had said about him to William. He turned back to the house and glared but couldn’t see her. Maybe that was why she had wanted to be on William’s detail.

“If it escalates, we’ll take care of it.” William sighed. “For now, do what you will, Locke. I’ll be there on Air Force One tonight.”

William had already hung up, so Locke tucked his phone back in his pocket. At least he thought this could be a real threat, regardless of what other people’s opinions of him were. How the attack on Alana was connected remained to be seen, but his phone call with William had only cemented the fact he was alone, just like always. He would work to keep her safe, but Alana was his subordinate—and nothing more.

* * *

“Thanks for distracting me with this, Joe.” Alana motioned to her phone and the list of numbers she’d typed into her notes app. Incoming and outgoing calls Beatrice had received on her cell phone. Nothing jumped out at her, probably just cold callers and friends Beatrice wanted to talk to. Likely the information wouldn’t yield a reason why the yakuza had killed her.

“Tell you a secret?” He leaned closer. Alana shrugged. He said, “I don’t like dead people.”

“Neither do I.” She set her hand on his arm. “I’d much rather be surfing.”

“You got that right, sista.” His expression changed, and she caught what it was about when he said, “Seen Kaylee since you been here?” Totally innocent, like he wasn’t trying to father-figure her while Ray was in the room. Her dad had left a hole in her life she hadn’t even begun to figure out how to fill in the years since.

Alana made a face. “My sister wouldn’t answer the door even if I did go over there. Kaylee made it clear she didn’t want to see me again. Ever.”

Joe made a tut sound with his mouth and shook his head. “Shame. I heard—”

“Agent Preston.” Locke’s voice was a bark.

Alana turned to her colleague. Boss. Whatever. She pasted a smile on her face. “Yes, Agent Locke?” It just sounded weird to call him that. The whole team called him Locke, and she didn’t know what his first name was. Surely it had been mentioned when she first met him, but she couldn’t remember. It was bizarre to think of calling him something else, anyway. Like he had a personality instead of just a buttoned collar and tie, shiny shoes and a gun.

“We should make our last visit for the day.”

Right. The marine sniper, the one Locke had wanted to check the file for.

“And that’s my cue to leave.” She looked at her brother. When he didn’t say anything, she decided to go for it. “’Bye, Ray.”

He muttered, “Sounds familiar.”

Locke touched her arm, and she went with him. They were so different, and yet she felt more at home with him than with her family.

Alana wasn’t going to apologize for her brother, no matter how much dichotomy there was in her life. Things were what they were. Alana didn’t regret leaving, but she did regret what things had become. If she could prove to Ray what a good Secret Service agent she was, then he’d see that it had been the right decision for her to leave for the mainland.

Locke turned the vehicle on and got the air-conditioning running, but didn’t pull away from Beatrice’s house. Instead, he grabbed his iPad from the back seat. “It’s him. I knew he looked familiar. I just couldn’t place him.”

“Huh?”

He looked over from the screen, and tilted it in her direction so she could see the photo. Clean-cut, green fatigues. “The sniper. It’s the man I saw in the vehicle this morning. Our yakuza suspect’s getaway driver. Though he looked a lot more like a beach bum, with long hair and a beard.”

Locke drove them to the last house, through the forest reserve to a deserted stretch of mountain. Dirt trail, so much foliage they could barely get through. The SUV would probably get scratched up on both sides.

“Are you sure this is the right direction?” Alana swiped through to a map on the iPad but couldn’t get a strong enough signal for it to tell her where she was.

“I’ve been here before, remember? It was years ago, but this isn’t an address you forget.” Unlike the man’s face. Though years ago Brian hadn’t had facial hair—or looked like a beach bum.

“And this guy—” she found the man’s personal information “—Brian Wells? He lives here?”

“Yes. And if I take a wrong turn, I’ll tell you. I’m not one of those guys you women complain about who can’t ask for directions. There’s no point driving around in the middle of nowhere and getting lost.”

Alana shifted in the seat. What had that been about? It was bad enough being alone in the car with him for hours. Especially now that she knew he only cared about work. Okay, so she’d kind of known that already, but sometimes when he looked at her there was this...flash. That was all, just this spark on his face, or in his eyes, that said there was more than just work under that staid business demeanor.

She really hoped there was something else. Otherwise the man had a very boring existence. Not that Alana’s life was better, but it was a whole lot more interesting. And when she proved to everyone that becoming a Secret Service agent was what she was born to do, they would know it had been the right choice.

The foliage on both sides crept back, away from the car, over the next few feet as the road widened. Heavy leaves stretched toward them, great palms that bowed low when the rain she’d been caught in so many times hiking poured from the sky. Those camping trips years ago that had been rained out were some of her best childhood memories. Alana had gone all over the world in the last year on protection detail as a Secret Service agent, and before that she’d been assigned to several different US cities. But she’d missed her home state.

They emerged into a clearing, someone’s front yard. The house was an old Airstream with bricks instead of tires that had probably been there for fifty years and weathered every storm Alana had ever been caught in. And then some. The US Marines’ flag flew high with an American flag beside a satellite dish.

“This is it?” She glanced around. “Is he allowed to live here?”

Locke actually smiled. “Technically, no. But what do you think will happen if Uncle Sam shows up with a police badge to throw a veteran out on his ear and the press gets wind of it?”

“So live and let live, is that it?”

“It’s a theory. Brian keeps to himself. He doesn’t disturb anyone and asks for the same in return.” Locke motioned to a ramshackle shed to the right of the trailer. “He carves animals out of wood and then sells them at a souvenir store at the base of the mountain. And then—” He paused. “What? Wakes up this morning and drives a yakuza soldier to the beach so he can try to kill you?”

He opened his door, but Alana didn’t move. “This makes no sense,” he said.

She could barely muster up the will to lift her hand. But she couldn’t let him know that. “So...why are we interested in this guy, other than that he was the getaway driver from this morning?”

“Maybe he and our knife-man are friends now?” Locke motioned to the file, one leg out of the vehicle. “Brian Wells got out of prison five years ago, moved here. A ten-year stint. Good for us he only dislikes what he calls ‘political pawns.’ So long as he’s taking his medication, we’ll be fine.”

She grimaced. “Is it bad that I don’t want to go in there?”

What if they found another body? She didn’t want Locke to see her lose it all over again. It was bad enough he’d seen the aftermath the last time. And why had Brian shown up in her life that morning, if not for a reason that had everything to do with the fact she was a Secret Service agent and he was on their watch list?

His smile softened. “Want to stay here?”

Was he serious? If there was a plot in place, she was going to figure out what it was. Alana stiffened. “No.” She shoved the car door open and strode over the soft mossy earth to the front door.

Locke caught up and stretched his arm out in front of her. “Let me.”

Who was she to argue? If he wanted to catch the bullet first, that was fine with her. “Be my guest.”

He knocked, but no one answered. Locke twisted the door handle and called out as he opened it slowly. This time there was no one inside.

The TV was still on, and a meal in front of the recliner was half-eaten. She’d read in Wells’s file he had a blue Chevy truck circa Bill Clinton registered to him. Alana looked around. “This doesn’t make sense. Did he just leave in the middle of eating and drive off in his truck?”

Locke wandered to the rear and a sliding door. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

When Locke ducked into the bedroom—not going in there, thank you—she decided to look at the kitchen instead. The sink was full of dishes, and the range top was crusted with charred food. The man needed to crack a window and let in some of that humid hibiscus breeze.

Piled up on the end of the counter was a stack of mail. Magazines. Junk inserts advertising local sales.

A business card.

“Oh, no.”

“What is it?” Locke came close enough to look over her shoulder. Didn’t he trust her? It was only one text to someone she’d gone to high school with. “Kaylee Preston, Hilo Explorer online. Is that—”

“My sister.”

“Why does a missing sniper involved in an attempt on your life have your sister’s business card?”

FOUR

He watched her blow out a breath. “That is a very good question.” Alana unclipped her phone and made a call. After listening for a while, she glanced at the floor. “It’s me. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Can you call me back...please?”

It almost hurt hearing so much longing in the soft alto of her voice. Did he even know what that felt like? Sure, he called his mom on Sundays, but he didn’t think he’d ever had that much feeling about someone. Even those closest to him. His sisters were so much older, it wasn’t like they’d played together.

Locke walked through the trailer again to give her a minute to gather herself. He stared at the half-eaten meal. Turned off the TV.

No pets. He trailed back to the bedroom. The gun safe in the closet was open, half the racks missing items. Brian had taken at least six weapons—handguns, rifles and a shotgun—assuming no one had looted it since he’d left. Plenty of boxes of shells remained. Clothes spilled out of the drawers, and a green duffel lay crumpled in the corner. With some people, it was hard to tell if they’d been burglarized or if that was just how messy they lived.

Alana said, “Anything?”

Locke glanced around. “He’s armed, but he didn’t use any of the weapons this morning when I saw him. He just drove.”

A loner ex-sniper takes his guns to act as the getaway driver for a yakuza killer? It hardly made sense.

“I called Joe Morton,” Alana said. “Get this. He knows this guy, said all the cops do. Apparently he disappears all the time, shows up all over the island drunk and usually raving about political pawns and corruption. All that antigovernment, ‘we should live free and not under their thumb’ stuff. Joe said they usually take him in for the night and then drive him home the next day.” She paused. “I told him you’re sure that he’s the getaway driver. He’s going to update the BOLO to include that information. He said not to worry, they’ll find Brian Wells.”

Locke motioned to the room around them. “Brian is a drunk, but he’s never broken protocol before. Not when he knows the president is coming. He’s supposed to be here for this visit, and he’s supposed to stay home while the president is in town. That’s the arrangement.” He shook his head. “Can’t put a detail on a man we can’t find.”

“I know.” Alana’s look turned dark. “And what’s with that half-eaten meal and the TV being on? Did he come back after this morning? The truck is gone, but why walk out in the middle of dinner?”

“We don’t have time to look for Brian before the president gets here.” Locke motioned to the food, his agent brain spinning with possibilities. “All this could be misdirection, getting us to spin our wheels trying to find him while he’s off getting up to no good. He could be plotting something for when the president shows up.”

She pressed her lips together.

Locke ran his hand over his head and then squeezed the back of his neck. “We need to reconvene with the team, see if anyone else has had any weird experiences this morning. Something fishy is going on here.”

Locke continued, “The only problem is, they don’t seem to be connected. There’s nothing here that links back to Beatrice’s death. He could simply have given the yakuza guy a ride this morning. That could be his only link to this.”

* * *

Alana turned her phone over and looked at the screen, but it hadn’t made a noise. Her sister hadn’t returned her call. She clipped her phone back on her belt and went to the couch, where a newspaper had been discarded. “This is dated four days ago. I wonder if he reads it regularly.” She glanced around. “I think it would smell more if this meal had been here that long, or there would be animals in here by now.”

She worked her mouth side to side as she thought, then flipped the newspaper over. “This has been circled.” She brought the paper to him. “It’s an ad, a flyer in his paper. There’s nothing on the back, but it must have caught his eye. I don’t think I even look at these inserts.”

“I thought all that stuff was online now,” Locke said. “But I guess he doesn’t have internet all the way out here, and there’s nothing about a cell phone in his file.” His eyes scanned the ad. “Cash for work at a gun shop.”

“Hang on.” Alana tapped the page, the phone number. “That callback number...” She swiped on her phone to a list of numbers. She’d seen that number before. Today, in fact. “Beatrice’s cell phone call logs. That number is on there. She called it, as well.”

Alana showed him the notes app on her phone, where she’d transcribed the same number on both the ad and her list. “How’s that for a connection.”

Locke nodded. “It certainly is one.”

“He circled this ad, and Beatrice called that number.” She read off the date and time. “Day before yesterday.”

Another way Beatrice, Brian Wells and the yakuza member were connected. But her sister as well? She couldn’t figure it out.

Locke said, “We don’t have time to run down this lead before the president gets here. We already need to get to the team at Hilo airport.”

“Get ready to bring the city to a standstill.” She sent him a wry smile. “I used to hate when the president came to town. All the roads closed, can’t get anywhere, late for everything. Such a pain.”

Locke smiled back at her, his look understanding more than amused. “And now we’re the ones causing the mayhem.”

“At least I’m not trying to get somewhere else, I guess.” She shrugged. “So what do we do about this?”

Locke made his way to the front door. They stepped outside, and he scanned the area while Alana shut the trailer door. “Huh.”

He turned back. “What is it?”

“This lock is broken. Maybe someone came in and abducted him. Took some guns,” she said. “It explains the food he left. And the clothes. Maybe it was after you saw him this morning. He could have returned home, and then it happened?”

Locke shrugged. “Or he had a visitor other than us.” His phone beeped. He read the message aloud. “‘Air Force One is four hours out.’ Let’s get over to Hilo.”

She nodded, and they walked to the truck. Alana’s phone started to ring, and she whipped it out. Then sighed.

“Not your sister?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “My neighbor in DC. I’ll call her back later.”

When she was quiet for a while, he apparently decided he needed to get her to talk. Locke said, “So you surfed in competitions, isn’t that right?”

She nodded.

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” She was sure he knew the story but he must have wanted to hear her tell it.

“Maybe I do mind.” In the couple of seconds he took his eyes off the road in front of him, he probably saw the flash of pain in her eyes. She wasn’t going to hide it. “What are you doing, Locke? Why the personal question all of a sudden?”

He shrugged one shoulder and flicked his wrist so his watch was straight again. “Just making conversation, getting to know someone I work with better.”

“I was so good I was getting approached by swimwear companies, board shops that franchise all the way to New Jersey. Then, bam, I get hit by a swell and my knee kisses the bottom of the ocean while my leg is twisted...” She shook her head. “There was something down there. I still don’t know if it was an old board or wreckage from something. All I know is the pain was so bad I wanted them to cut my leg off. I’m pretty sure I screamed at everyone on that beach and cried uncontrollably until they all walked away in embarrassment, even my sister. I was so out of it with pain I don’t remember.

“She made sure I knew, though. Told me all about how I screamed in her face to get away from me. I was in the hospital nearly a week, and she didn’t come to see me. Then when I got out, she was gone for days, busy studying. When I did see her, she’d barely talk to me.” Alana took a breath. “We were never the same after that.”

* * *

Locke hardly knew what to say. “She didn’t know it was the pain talking, not you?”

Alana shrugged.

“And now you’re back home?”

“Now I’m back.”

Neither of them said much on the drive to the airport, though Locke made a few calls on the car’s speakerphone. Alana made notes on her phone for him and sent emails to update their team.

In a break of quiet, her phone rang. “Your neighbor?”

“Nope.”

“Your sister?”

“Nope.” She answered it. “Mikio Adachi. How are you?” Alana sent Locke a smile as she spoke. They were a good team.

Secret Service work was a team effort, and not just those standing between the president and whatever lone gunman wanted to kill him this week. Their biggest nightmare was a threat that originated with a group. Multiple points of attack, an IED or some other split-second attack that cared nothing for collateral damage.

It was a dangerous world they lived in, and the Secret Service was in the thick of it. Not like frontline soldiers who were shot at every day, but the threat to their lives was very real. Like a police officer who left for work not knowing if today was the day he might not come home.

“Thanks, Mikio. I’ll find out what the boss wants to do and get back to you.” She hung up. “Okay, so that was interesting. Mikio Adachi was in my graduating class in high school. Everyone knew his dad and his uncle were yakuza. Guess it runs in the family. He said he’s the boss now, just volunteered it up like it’s no big deal.”

“Does he know you’re Secret Service?”

“Yes. Though I don’t know how.” She frowned. “It was like two old friends chatting. I’m not sure why he’d be like that with me. It was a little weird.”

The guy probably thought he had a shot at a relationship with her. Like that would make him more powerful, getting a Secret Service agent in his pocket—and his life. “And the yakuza guy we saw at Beatrice’s house?”

“That was where things went downhill. Mikio said he couldn’t be sure which of his men it was, even though I gave him a pretty good description.” She made a face as Locke pulled into the airport and passed through security.

The staff knew Locke’s face, so he only had to flash his badge ID and up went the gate. He drove around the building. “Once we look at mug shots and identify the guy, we’ll be able to visit this Mikio and get a lot more specific.”

“He did say he hadn’t heard of anything going on regarding the president’s visit. Though he mentioned he had enough problems with his guys. He wasn’t surprised we saw one at a murder scene, but he hasn’t been all that attentive to whispers circling outside his people.”

“So if there is a plot, this guy hasn’t heard about it.”

“I can talk to him again, find out if there’s anyone else on this island worth talking to.”

Locke parked beside their other vehicles and pulled the team in for one last briefing. Alana wasn’t the only woman on Secret Service protection detail, but he knew she didn’t know the other—much older—female agent all that well. He talked them through what had happened and got their reports on every person they had seen. Each pair had emailed him after their visits, but Locke never discounted the personal telling of an experience. He saw things in the inflections and their emotions that he never saw in the body of an email. The two could hardly be compared.

“Okay, you all know where you’re supposed to be.”

Each team member had a position for the president’s arrival. They all hooked up earpieces to their belt radios and checked that communications were working. It was a complicated setup that took all the time from when they arrived at the airport until the plane arrived, and they were each only a piece of the puzzle.

Alana walked beside him as they left the group. “Do you think it’s weird no one else on our team had problems with their visits while we found a dead woman and a missing man?”

“Sure, it’s weird, but whether it means anything is another matter. There’s nothing we can do about it this minute. We run the president’s arrival just like we do everything else. By the book. Stick to what you know. Remember your training, and if something happens, we’ll all deal with it. All of us, together.”

Alana nodded.

“When you get a minute later on, call Officer Morton. Find out if the cops discovered what that call in Beatrice’s history relates to. Maybe they’ll know whose number it is, because I certainly don’t believe she’s answering an ad for work at a gun shop like Brian Wells. It’s a solid link between them, and the police have the jurisdiction to look it up. If we prove there’s a link, then it’ll help us when they find Brian Wells.”

“Okay, I can do that.” She looked relieved, probably because he hadn’t asked her to call Ray.

“And don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

They walked toward the tarmac as the plane came into view. The sleek lines of Air Force One gleamed in the setting sun as the plane’s brakes engaged and the president’s aircraft descended to the tarmac. It was a textbook landing, the arrival of the president signaling Locke’s team’s switch from preparation to action as they aided in guarding POTUS on his vacation.

Locke prayed as the plane slowed to a stop. For the whole trip, for all the personnel, for his team. He prayed for their investigation into Beatrice’s murder, and for the missing marine—that he wasn’t hurt or planning to hurt anyone.

Locke keyed his radio. “Air Force One is on the ground.”

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