Radclyffe - Oath of Honor

was happy contributing behind the scenes. The next rung in her planned

career ladder had been a professorship at the Uniformed Services

University where she was stationed. She’d joined the navy because

she’d needed the scholarship to go to medical school, and while she

liked the structure, she was an academic at heart. She wanted to teach,

take care of her patients, and let others wage war. She hadn’t been sure

she wanted a job that was going to throw her into close contact with the

most powerful people in the world on a daily basis. She’d asked for a

day to think it over—they’d given her four hours.

Heading into an unknown situation without the proper preparation

made her wary. Order, discipline, and perseverance had brought her

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from her working-class neighborhood in South Philadelphia to the

United States Naval Academy at Annapolis and finally to the National

Military Medical Center in Bethesda. Knowing what she faced—in the

ER, in the field, in life—kept her cool and in control. If she never relied

on anyone or anything to run interference for her, she had no one to

hold accountable for the outcome except herself.

She’d called her best friend Emory for advice—not just because

she’d known Emory since they’d shared a cadaver at Penn, but because

Emory knew intimately the landscape and the people Wes would be

spending every moment of her life with for the next year, or maybe the

next five.

“Are you kidding, Wes?” Emory had said when Wes reached her

en route to the island. “It’s an amazing opportunity. God, you’ll have

a front-and-center for events that might change the future of the whole

world. And you’ll be doing what you’re trained to do.”

“But I’m a teacher, not a clinician,” she’d protested.

“Uh, excuse me—don’t you teach trauma care to military medical

personnel?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t you spend ten months supervising a field hospital—”

“Yes, but—”

“And—”

“Emory,” Wes said patiently, “I suck at politics.”

“Huh.” Emory fell silent for a moment. “This is true.”

“So—”

“Should I mention honor and duty and—”

Wes sighed. “No. I already considered that.”

“And?”

And she’d said yes to this new job because to do otherwise

seemed impossible. She’d rarely been faced with impossible decisions,

and she wasn’t sure yet how she felt about a situation she didn’t

control. Nevertheless, she’d called her boss, Rear Admiral Cal Wright,

and said she was honored to accept, and he’d passed the word up the

chain of command. Her final security interview wasn’t scheduled until

tomorrow, but she’d been told to liaise with her new unit today. Several

teleconferenced interviews and a lot of rushed paperwork later, here

she was.

Short of any more surprises, she’d be moving her hastily packed

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Oath Of hOnOr

belongings to a government-provided apartment within walking

distance of the White House as soon as she could arrange movers. Until

then, she’d be in a hotel. She was used to moving at short notice, but

she usually knew what she faced.

1155. In five minutes, she’d find out.

She slowed her rental car as a red pickup truck pulling a battered

fishing boat on a rickety trailer edged onto the narrow two-lane in front

of her. She could just make out a hard-packed-dirt boat ramp half-hidden

in a narrow strip of pines separating the winding coast road from the

pristine shore on the ocean side of the island. The pickup headed in the

opposite direction, probably bound for the huge marina she’d passed

a half mile back. The marina boatslips, marine offices, and waterside

cabins that ringed a narrow-necked inlet were the only commercial

development she’d seen since leaving the mainland.

Mentally she ran down the stats she’d received by e-mail that

morning. Whitley Island was privately owned and home to one of the

largest private military contractors in the nation. Tanner Whitley had

inherited Whitley Industries on the death of her father over a decade

before, and she’d expanded into government security as American

geopolitics exploded globally. Personal info on Whitley was scant.

She lived with a female naval officer, and from what Wes had seen

of the island, industrialization had not followed Tanner Whitley home.

The few visible private residences were separated by large tracts of

untouched evergreen forests and set well back from the undulating

shoreline along the Atlantic. The place was wild and beautiful, even

snow-covered and frozen under the December winter.

As she’d been driving, the already scant signs of habitation

gradually disappeared. When she reached the northern end of the island,

the narrow road ended in a cul-de-sac bordering a wooded property.

The drive leading up to a pair of closed ten-foot-high wrought-iron

gates set into a natural stone wall was congested with signs of high-

level security. Unmarked black SUVs with smoked windows lined the

turnaround. A man and a woman, both in dark suits, monochromatic

shirts, and dark glasses, stood side by side in front of the gates.

Squiggly radio feeds running from behind their left ears and

steely expressions pegged them as security. The discreet lapel pins,

conservative suits, and all-American good looks said federal agents.

These weren’t rent-a-cops or gun-for-hire mercenaries. The man was

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RADCLY f FE

six foot four and on the lean side. Wes would have pegged him for

a runner, except the broad shoulders and solid thighs that stretched

his not-off-the-rack suit said serious weight training. The woman was

maybe five-six or seven and looked toned and fit, but next to him, she

looked downright delicate. Wes doubted she was. Her tailored jacket

and pants, crisp white opened-collared shirt, and low-heeled black

boots screamed style while being completely functional. Definitely

professionals. Considering the event—Secret Service.

Neither of them moved as Wes parked behind a long line of

empty vehicles, exited, and walked toward them, but she knew they

were following her every step. She couldn’t see their eyes behind the

unnecessary shades. The sky was blanketed in a thick cover of gray

clouds, and she doubted either of them had any trouble seeing in the

flat midday light. Being able to observe without being observed was a

power play. It probably worked on civilians.

“I’m Captain Wesley Masters,” she said when she stopped a few

feet away from them, stating the obvious, as the insignia on her dress

blues, visible under her open topcoat, clearly indicated her rank. “I’m

here to liaise with the Medical Unit.”

“We know all the members of the WHMU,” the woman said in

a surprisingly full, smooth alto. No intonation. Not aggressive, not

challenging, not interested. Just the facts, thank you, ma’am. “You’re

not on it.”

Up close, Wes could see that what she had taken for glossy dark

hair was actually a deep burgundy—as if the midnight sky was flaming.

Barely tamed curls fell to below the crisp white collar and fanned

artfully around what appeared to be a sharply drawn but distinctive

face. She’d put the eyes at blue on a guess, but the opaque shades made

it impossible to tell. The agent had a body under those clothes, despite

the suit being cut, intentionally Wes would bet, to blunt her figure. The

tailored lines couldn’t hide the curves of her breasts and thighs—she

was fit and flinty and quite attractively female. The guy with her still

hadn’t said anything. The redhead was in charge.

“Your intel is out-of-date, then,” Wes said, and the agent stiffened

perceptibly. “You might want to check with your boss.” She turned her

wrist slightly. 1159. One minute. “If you could do that promptly, I’d

appreciate it.”

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Oath Of hOnOr

One perfectly sculpted brow arched above the flat rim of the dark

shades. “ID, please.”

Wes slid her hand into the pocket of her topcoat and handed over

her military ID card. She smiled. “Here you are.”

The male agent’s lips lifted in a faint smile. The woman’s face

remained blank. Beautiful and remote. Wes waited while the agent

spoke softly into her wrist mic. A few seconds later, the agent held out

her ID.

“You’re cleared to enter, Captain.”

The man turned to open the gate. Wes slid her ID back into her

pocket. “Thank you, Agent…”

“Daniels, ma’am,” Agent Daniels said formally. “An agent will

meet you just inside the gate to escort you.”

“Thank you,” Wes said. “I’m sure I can find—”

“It’s protocol. Captain.”

“Understood.” Wes stepped through the gates and they swung

closed behind her. She had a lot to learn, and she was out of her element

on every level. Hopefully the WHMU personnel would be a little more

welcoming than Agent Daniels.

v

“She the one?” Gary Brown asked as the gates swung closed

behind the naval officer.

“Looks like it.” Evyn scanned the approach road and the dense

underbrush growing right up to the shoulders. The advance team had

been on-site for four days and had locked down the north half of the

island. Fire roads and beach-access lanes that might provide curious

onlookers and those with more serious agendas a way to get close

to Whitley Manor had been barricaded and were being patrolled by

agents, on foot and ATV. A two-mile no-fly zone had been established

around the island. As protective details went, this one was fairly close to

ideal. One access road, no surrounding buildings with line of sight, and

the only other approach by sea. They had the Coast Guard patrolling

that. There was even an expansive lawn big enough and clear enough

to accommodate Marine One, so no motorcade route to secure. The

nearest hospital was a short helo ride away. All in all, today looked

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routine, but that wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. Complacency bred

error. And she didn’t make mistakes.

“That was pretty fast,” Gary said. “Getting her on board.

O’Shaughnessy hasn’t even been dead two days.”

“It’s not like they could leave the spot open,” Evyn said darkly.

Except why the hell the powers that be had gone outside to bring

in a complete novice was beyond her. They already had a field-

tested, experienced battle surgeon who could have stepped into

O’Shaughnessy’s shoes without a ripple in routine. Instead, they

dropped an unknown into their lap. Hell, they hadn’t even been briefed

she was going to show up today.

“Is Pete pissed he got passed over?” Gary asked.

“You know Pete. He’s a team player. But that job should’ve been

his.” Evyn could be mad for Pete if he wasn’t going to be mad for

himself. After all, that’s what friends were for, and even though they’d