Politics of Blood (Gray Spear Society Book 8) (14 page)

She nodded. "True. I'm trying to learn by your example. In terms of leadership skills, you're obviously better at it than me."

Haley looked around. It took only a moment to locate George Seferis in the crowd. As usual, the Secret Service Director was keeping watch over Ethel. Haley waved for him to come.

Seferis jogged over. His tuxedo fit better than Haley's. "Sir?"

"I thought I told you to not bother Miss Pickenpaugh's people," Haley said angrily.

"What are you talking about, sir?"

"Two of your agents were caught snooping around the Pure America barbecue."

Seferis stared silently for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Those men were just observers. They weren't going to interfere."

"That's a weak excuse."

"I apologize, sir."

Haley frowned. "I'm flat-out ordering you to keep your men away until I say otherwise."

Seferis gave Ethel a resentful glance. "Excuse me, sir, but when did this woman get jurisdictional priority over the Secret Service? It's our mission to protect you. If there's a threat, we need to be involved."

"These are special circumstances."

"Why?"

Why indeed?
Haley thought.

He looked at Ethel. She was the most intriguing person he had ever met. He still didn't know the limits of her capabilities if there were limits at all. Even the laws of nature were no match for her fierce will. The rest of the world seemed dull and plodding in comparison. She had also proven herself to be an invaluable friend and ally. If he had to pick a side, the choice was obvious.

"Because I say so," Haley said to Seferis. "On a related topic, I'd like you to stop spending so much time around me. You're not assigned to my protection detail. You don't have to follow me all the time. You're the
Director
of the Secret Service. That means you tell other people how to protect me instead of doing it yourself. Frankly, you don't need to be in Chicago at all. Last I checked, your office is in Washington. Now get out of my sight before you disappoint me again."

Seferis stormed off and disappeared down a stairway.

Ethel shook her head and sighed. "I fear this won't end well."

"Is that a threat?" Haley said.

"Just a statement. I don't make the rules. I only live by them."

"That's an odd claim for a woman who doesn't seem to obey any rules at all. How many people have you murdered?"

"Exactly as many as I needed to," she said. "Every death served a higher purpose. Let's not talk about me. It's not safe. You already know too much."

He wondered if she would ever open up to him.
Probably not,
he thought.

She walked off.

A fat man with a bad toupee immediately took her place. He started blathering about oil drilling rights in Alaska. Haley tried to pay attention. He assumed a concerned expression and just the right posture, but his heart wasn't in it. He was getting tired of little people with little problems talking at him.

A band began to play a waltz. The people at the party started to pair off and dance wherever open space was available. Haley felt the pain of Cynthia's death. She had been a great dancer.

He really wanted to dance now. His miraculous heart surgery had given him a lot more energy and enthusiasm. He looked around and saw plenty of beautiful women who seemed to be available. He expected none of them would reject an invitation to dance with the President.

However, he had only one dance partner in mind. He spotted her lurking in a back corner with Boreas.

Haley walked across the deck. As always, many eyes followed his every move. Being the center of attention all the time was part of his job. Some days it felt good, but at the moment, he wished all those people would mind their own business.

Ethel's eyes widened at his approach.

He leaned over and whispered to her, "Would you like to dance, madam?"

"I can't." She shook her head. "It's a sweet offer though."

The rejection stung. "Why not?"

"People would wonder who I am. It's bad enough we're being seen together. Touching each other is unacceptable."

"This is a closed function. Invited guests only. No reporters."

"I'm very sorry." She looked down. "I want to dance, but when we're with other people, we have to be all business."

He refused to be denied. He went to the nearest Secret Service agent and said, "I need to have an important, private meeting. Find a place on this boat where we can be alone."

"Yes, sir," the agent said. He grabbed his radio and began to speak into it.

Haley waited. More random people tried to strike up a conversation with him. He politely but firmly sent them off. He felt bad about not doing his job. He was supposed to be raising money not flirting with a woman.

"This way, sir," the Secret Service agent said.

Haley gestured for Ethel to follow. She raised her eyebrows and did so. Boreas trailed a few paces back.

They climbed up to the top deck of the boat. It was big and open, designed to give tourists an unobstructed view in all directions. Nobody else was there.

A cool breeze was blowing across Lake Michigan, but the afternoon sunlight felt warm on Haley's face. He looked across the water at Chicago. The famous skyline was like a picture from a postcard. He recognized the monumental black Willis Tower, but he didn't know the names of the other big buildings. There were a lot of them. Only New York City was more impressive.

"Will this do, sir?" the Secret Service agent said. "We cleared the whole deck for you."

"Yes, thank you," Haley said. "Now give us some privacy. Twenty minutes."

The Secret Service went below. Boreas stood guard at the stairway, blocking it with his massive body.

Haley faced Ethel and held out his hands. "Shall we dance?"

She stood there stiffly.

"What's wrong now?"

She grimaced. "It's been such a long time."

"You don't remember how to dance?"

"That's not the problem." She sighed anxiously. "I just hope I don't make a fool of myself."

It was hard to hear the music, but that didn't matter. He put his arms around her slim body. The muscles in her back felt like tight ropes under his fingers. No part of her was soft.

"Relax," he said gently.

"I'm trying," she replied. "It's difficult for me. All I know is fighting."

His hands moved down, and he discovered something hard under her dress. "What's that?"

"A knife."

"You're armed?"

"Of course," she said. "I'm here on business."

They began to dance. He expected a little awkwardness at first, but she moved in perfect synchrony with him right away. Her natural grace overcame her obvious unease. It was an unexpectedly delightful experience.

"You're good at this," he said.

"Thank you." She smiled for just an instant. "Why are you dancing with me?"

"Gratitude. Curiosity. Maybe desire, too."

"You could've danced with any woman on this ship."

"None of them are you," he said. "No woman in the world is like you. I wish you would let me peek behind the mask."

He gently took off her sunglasses and looked into her eyes. The darkness in her enlarged pupils was just as disturbing as the first time. They were holes leading to a place he didn't want to know about.

"I was a nurse a very long time ago," she said softly. "I treated soldiers as they came off the battlefield."

He tried to judge her age. "Vietnam?"

"Yes. I watched a lot of young men die."

"I don't want to hear about death. Tell me a happy story."

The music stopped, but they continued to dance. The sound of the wind and the waves provided the rhythm.

Ethel remained silent.

"Well?" Haley said.

"I'm thinking."

"A woman who can command miracles must be happy once in a while."

"Some of my missions turned out rather well," she said, "but I can't tell you about those."

"Now you sound like a soldier."

She nodded. "Yes. I suppose I'm like the general of an army."

"You're fighting a war?" He boldly looked into her eyes.

He was finally gaining a little insight into her secret world. Her organization was an army of covert operatives.
Who is their enemy?
he wondered.

She shook her head. "What's wrong with me? I shouldn't be talking like this with an outsider. I can't answer that question. Sorry."

They continued to dance in the warm sunlight. He felt her muscles finally loosen up a little. She put her head against his chest.

"What are you thinking about?" he whispered in her ear.

"Something I heard recently," she said. "I'll paraphrase. God has no use for a woman who can't accept love."

"That's a little harsh."

"It was a warning and a promise."

"A promise of what?" he said.

He felt wetness on his chest. He lifted her face and saw tears on her cheeks. Her smooth, brown skin was beautiful. For the first time, it looked properly illuminated. The strange darkness was gone, and she stood fully in the sunlight.

"Roy," she whispered, "this is dangerous. It appears both of us had heart surgery today."

She abruptly dashed away, vaulted a railing, and dropped out of sight. He ran over to look. She had disappeared.

Boreas joined him and peered over the railing at the side of the ship.

"Where did she go?" Haley said.

"I don't know," Boreas replied in his deep, scratchy voice. "I've never seen her act this way. She's usually the last person to get emotional."

"Are you going to look for her?"

"I think she wants to be alone. Bothering her now would be suicide even for me."

Haley furrowed his brow.
I just wanted to dance,
he thought.
What have I done?

* * *

Aaron had to admit it was a pleasant party. The music was lively and the barbecue was outstanding. There was also sweet corn on the cob, fresh from the fields. As long as he didn't listen to the idiotic conversations, he was fine.

These facts bothered him. An enemy that could throw a successful party for forty guests was an enemy that knew how to plan an operation.

Olaf Wagner approached. The man's red hair was truly impressive, but that was his only attractive feature. He didn't look particularly strong. A crooked nose and a weak jaw made his face unappealing.

"Having a good time?" Olaf said with a smile.

Aaron grinned. "A great time. Thanks."

He checked to see where Smythe and Sheryl were standing. The
legionnaires
were nearby, ready to provide support if needed.

"Julie told me you're a trucker," Olaf said.

"That's right," Aaron said. "I'm independent. I own my own tractor. What about you? What's your line of work?"

"I own a gun store not too far from here."

"Sweet! You can take home all the guns you want and nobody gives you shit."

Olaf nodded. "I have a large, private collection."

"Same here," Aaron said. "I'm always looking for new suppliers. I like the exotic stuff though. I don't want to own the same guns as everybody else."

"That's no problem. We do custom builds, too."

Olaf was carrying a revolver in a holster on his hip.

Aaron pointed at the weapon and said, "That must be one of your favorites. Can I see?"

Olaf handed it over. Aaron recognized it as a modern reproduction of the classic Smith & Wesson Model 57. It held six rounds of .41 caliber ammunition. The blue finish was flawless.

Aaron cycled the firing mechanism a few times. "It feels a bit sloppy."

"It shoots faster that way," Olaf said.

"I suppose."
At the cost of accuracy.

"What kind of guns do you have?"

Aaron reached under his shirt and pulled out a HK Mark 23. A four-inch suppressor was screwed onto the barrel. It was a relatively heavy gun which fired .45 caliber bullets with great accuracy.

"Whoa," Olaf said.

The other people at the party were starting to gather around. Several men murmured words of admiration.

"I paid for a few upgrades," Aaron said. "Titanium frame. Carbon grip. Check out the ammunition."

Olaf took the gun and popped out the magazine. He stared at the bullets inside. "What the fuck? These are cop killers."

"Just in case I have to kill a cop."

Aaron grabbed the gun and put the magazine back where it belonged. He was uncomfortable with other people touching his weapons.

Olaf smiled. "I'm starting to like you."

"Hey, you want to have a little shooting competition?"

"Sure, but I shoot every day. I'm pretty good."

"Then you won't mind making it interesting," Aaron said. "How much money are you willing to lose?"

Olaf reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. "I got about five hundred dollars on me."

"Sounds good."

Aaron took out his own cash. He let everybody see he was carrying a lot more than five hundred dollars. He counted out the wager and put the rest back in his pocket. All the money was given to another man to hold.

"How do you want to do this?" Olaf said.

"Trick shots," Aaron said. "Each man gets three bullets. The audience decides the winner."

Olaf looked at the crowd around them. "That's not really fair. Most of these guys are my friends."

"I trust your friends. Do you want to go first? Show me how it's done."

"Sure."

Olaf went to a garbage can full of discarded bones. He picked out three small ribs. He tossed them onto the ground about twenty feet away. He aimed his revolver, took a deep breath, and fired three times. All three ribs shattered.

Aaron was mildly impressed. Making accurate shots with such a sloppy weapon took real skill.

"That was great shooting," he said. "I'll have a tough time beating that. Tom and Jessica, do you mind helping me? Grab a tablecloth. Thanks."

Smythe and Sheryl went to one of the tables. They cleared off the food and took the yellow, plastic tablecloth. It was smeared with crusty meat drippings and barbecue sauce.

Meanwhile, Aaron picked out three ribs for himself. He tried to make them the same size as Olaf's. Aaron tossed the bones out to twenty feet. It looked like he was going to duplicate the trick.