As the reporter’s eyes practically gleamed, the PR flacks sprang into action, redirecting the interview to a few final questions about the president’s last birthday celebration in the White House.
When they were finished, Adriana glared at Rafa, who quickly took the chance to hurry out of the Blue Room. The west side of the entrance hall was clogged with staff, so instead of crossing to the back stairs, he took the main staircase. Alan and Shane followed to make sure he got up safely, and as he reached the second floor, Rafa turned back.
Shane could see the turmoil on his face, but he could only stand there as Rafa opened and closed his mouth, and then disappeared up to the family’s private floor, his shoulders hunched.
Shane’s earpiece squawked as the command center spoke. “Negative. Request denied. All guests will be magged. No exceptions.”
Beside him, Brent Harris rolled his eyes. He kept his wrist at his side and didn’t speak into his mic, but murmured to Shane, “And tell the freaking White House staff that we’re in charge of security for a reason.” He shook his head. “They always want to cut corners. And what happens if we don’t put everyone through a metal detector and someone has a gun? Well, it would be our fault. They’re always in such a goddamn rush.”
Shane nodded. The use of magnetometers was time consuming, and often a bone of contention between Secret Service and the White House staffers, who seemed to care more about appearances and PR than safety. “They think it’s enough we run a security check on the invite list. As if someone’s social security number and a clean record will tell us the whole story. Like a movie star can’t go nuts and try something.” As far as they were concerned, no one was above suspicion.
“I’m just about done with this whole damn place. All of it.” Harris’s cheeks puffed as he exhaled.
Shane frowned. “With the service?”
“Yep.” Harris shook his head. “Ah, hell. Don’t listen to me. I’m in a mood.”
“It’s all right.” Shane watched as Rafa stood with his mother in the entrance hall, nodding every so often as the guests they spoke to said something. Wearing a tuxedo that hugged his body, Rafa looked like he could have been a movie star himself. Stop thinking about him like that. Stop. Shane had never understood it when people talked about not being able to get someone off their minds. People came and went, and he usually didn’t think about them much at all. So why was Rafael Castillo different?
Shane tugged at his collar, adjusting the coiled cord that hooked his earpiece to the transmitter clipped to his belt at the small of his back. The service provided agents with formal wear, and it had been a while since Shane had worn his tux. He preferred his usual suit since the collar of the tux was just a little too tight.
He cleared his throat. “What’s bugging you?” Because I sure can’t talk about what’s bugging me.
“What isn’t?” Harris replied. “I’ve always loved this job, Kendrick. Serving my country. Keeping people safe from harm. And hell, obviously we’re all adrenaline junkies at least a little bit. When I joined, all the travel and long shifts seemed exciting. But I’ve missed my kids growing up. And now they’re hell and gone in California and the service won’t transfer me. I offered to pay my own moving costs. No dice.”
Shane had heard of other agents who’d faced the same stubborn bureaucracy. “What are they doing in California?”
“Sharon’s company transferred her to Santa Barbara. So I figured, okay. I’ve been in DC now more than a decade. Time to get some sun. LA field office is still big and active, and it’s a hell of a lot closer to Santa Barbara than DC. So I put in for a transfer. Denied, of course. They can’t spare me, and there are no openings in LA. Okay, fair enough.” He pressed his lips together. “So I asked them to put me on a waiting list.”
Shane kept his eyes on Rafa, as well as surveying the people around him. Alan was on the other side of the entrance hall doing the same. “That’s a bitch.”
Harris barked out a laugh. “Yeah, especially when the bastards put up an internal notice not a month later asking for agents to move to the LA office. Paid moving costs and the whole nine. Well, I just about broke my damn arm waving it to volunteer. Nope. They said they can’t replace me. Look, I know I’m a superstar, but come on. This detail isn’t rocket science. But they give me this spiel about ‘the needs of the service’ and how duty has to come first.”
“That’s a crap sandwich, all right.”
“Want to hear the cherry on top? They ended up forcing one of my buddies in Philly to transfer. He didn’t even want to go, but you know—the needs of the service. It makes no damn sense.”