Bullseye (Michael Bennett 9)

“Better your phone than you, you idiot,” I said. “You’re up to something. Your brother is sick with whatever it is. What the hell is going on in my house? I want answers.”

“It was nothing. I went to the library, and I met my friend. We just started walking and talking.”

“Which friend?”

“Rob from the football team. He came down to the city from Westchester, and we were just chilling. He just hopped in a cab the second you showed up.”

I squinted at him.

“Brian, people lie to me all day. I need to get it at home, too?”

“I swear, Dad. Please. Call him if you don’t believe me.”

“And listen to what? What you told him to say? No, thanks.”

“Leave it for now,” Seamus whispered, leaning over toward me. “Remember the lasers, Michael.”

I rolled my eyes as I ripped the tranny into drive and hit the gas.

Seamus was right. And not for the first time.

Chapter 65

President Buckland heard the trill of the Sikorsky VH-60N White Hawk’s rotor lower in pitch as the two Secret Service agents on the midnight shift softly closed the Rose Garden doors behind him.

As he cleaned his shoes on the mat and walked down the warm carpeted corridor, he thought about the Secret Service and the two young full-dress marines who had just popped the double doors of Marine One for him. Thought about all the Americans out there in the cold and dark, around the world, manning their posts.

In the beginning, it had been difficult to accept all the fuss and ceremony of the job, but then he realized it wasn’t about him. The fact that spit-shined marines would greet him with a salute at three o’clock in the cold morning was just a small symbol of the extraordinary lengths they would go to to protect their country. The dedication and full commitment of America’s first responders never failed to humble and inspire him.

He made a right at the end of the corridor and found the basement stairs. His chief of staff had texted during his late meeting at Langley that Buckland’s presence was requested in the White House kitchen.

Which could mean only one thing.

Some trick his wife was pulling, of course. Forty-three years of age, and she still loved tricks and pranks. Even here in the White House. Upstairs in their personal quarters, she would hide on him from time to time, like an overgrown three-year-old.

As he approached the kitchen, he looked around for Danny, the workaholic head chef. Even at 3:00 a.m., he probably wasn’t too far away, waiting for the president and his wife’s little “moment” to be over so he could have his kitchen back.

The kitchen was dark but for one pendant light shining down on his wife, who was sitting at one of the stainless steel prep counters, smiling and beautiful in her robe and slippers.

He watched as she quickly slipped her rosary beads back into her pocket. She had always been a woman of faith, but ever since he’d gotten the big job, she’d become even more so. He prayed from time to time, but it was a constant with her.

He sat beside her and kicked off his shoes.

“And what the heck is this, now?” Buckland said to his wife. “It’s the middle of the night!”

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” she said.

“Forgot what?”

“Our anniversary.”

“That’s in June!” Buckland said, throwing up his hands.

“Not that one,” she said. “The other one, silly.” She pushed over the covered silver tray beside her.

He took off the cover and his mouth fell open as he saw the two Klondike bars on the tray.

“Oh. That one,” he said, laughing.