“You’re fine. Everything’s covered here. Just concentrate on Dylan and your family.”
“Sorry, man. This just really blindsided me. Like I got hit by a sixteen-wheeler.”
Shane could only imagine. “Nothing to apologize for. I’ll call you in the morning and check in.”
“You’re a good friend. Thanks, Kenny.”
It was hard to sit still after hearing Alan so raw with pain, and Shane paced a little circuit to the door of the Red Room and back to the rear stairs. He thought of Dylan’s gap-toothed smile. No one should have to watch their seven-year-old child die. Especially not after Alan already lost his little girl. Shane didn’t believe in God, but he grimly thought that if there was one, the bastard was a sadistic fuck.
Shit, he needed to focus on something other than dying kids. He pulled out his phone and Googled the president to catch up on the latest news. Vagabond had finished up glad-handing at the G7 and was now in Vienna, the neutral location for the Chechnyan peace talks, which weren’t going well. The Russian dictator was making things difficult, but what else was new?
Shane thumbed through some other news stories about President Castillo, then did a loop of the floor and radioed in an all-clear report to the office in the basement. He ended up in Google images, and tapped on a picture of the Castillo family from last Christmas, which led down a rabbit hole of scrolling through pages of pictures. The president was a handsome man—around six foot, with thick, dark hair accented with gray at the temples. He was a regular jogger, and according to agents on his detail he was in damn good shape for fifty-four.
His wife was a few years younger, and also in trim shape. She truly was a beautiful woman. So far he hadn’t interacted with her much at all, but the other week he’d seen her bark a command to one of her agents to be careful with a garment bag as her detail schlepped her suitcases to the car. As far as working the first family went, Shane was more than happy to stay with Valor.
The whole family was damned attractive, although Shane winced as he flipped through older pictures of Rafael. Valor had certainly had his awkward years well documented. Although even in later pictures, he always seemed to fade into the background, hunching a bit as if he was trying to make himself less visible. Shane scrolled through the shots, wondering idly what was going on in Rafael Castillo’s head.
In a picture from the White House Easter egg hunt, Rafael held hands with his girlfriend, smiling as they watched children run. She was a pretty girl—blonde and flowery. They looked like the perfect young Republican couple.
Shane closed the app and radioed in another report that all was quiet. It was going to be a long night.
It was almost two when a distant crash and shattering of glass echoed down the stairwell.
Shane was moving, taking the stairs two at a time and reaching for his gun, while the sound still rang in the air. He grabbed his walkie. “Breaking glass on third floor. Confirming Valor’s position. Hold.”
He checked his blind spots as he edged around the final flight of stairs and out onto the floor. Center hall was clear. He came around the Linen Room, listening intently. From the direction of the Diet Kitchen, he could hear angry muttering. His shoes silent on the wooden floor, he approached, his gun in his hand. He did a fast peek into the kitchen before exhaling and holstering his weapon.
Rafael leapt to his feet, the shards of a white casserole dish and shattered glass of its lid scattered around the floor, along with the contents, which appeared to be some kind of tomato concoction. “What are you doing up here? This is my place! You’re not allowed! We don’t need protection up here!”
Shane raised his hands. “I heard something smash. Just double checking.” He pulled out his radio. “Everything’s ten-four. Valor is safe and sound.”
Rafael scoffed. “Of course I am. What, you think someone dove into the skylight to kidnap me?” His cheeks were flushed, and he was in bare feet and plaid boxer shorts, his white T-shirt splashed with red. His hair, usually slicked back within an inch of its life, was tousled over his forehead. “You can go now. I’m fine.” He jerked his gaze to the floor.
The kid didn’t seem to like looking Shane in the eye, but he’d never been hostile. Perhaps Shane had jinxed it. “I’m sorry to upset you. I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, consider it done. Can you please leave?” He took a tentative step and winced.
“Don’t move. Is there a broom?”
“I can clean up. It’s my mess.”
Shane choked down a swell of frustration. “Yes, but you don’t have shoes on, and there’s broken glass and crockery and tomato goop everywhere. So tell me where the broom is. And the paper towels.”