Page 85 of Heston
“Ah huh,” London answered drowsily. “I miss her, too.”
Heston couldn’t resist. She was still mostly asleep. “But you missed me more, right?”
“Oh, yeah… Sure…” London yawned. “But I really miss your mom.”
Heston had to smile. He’d been worried about all the what-ifs that might destroy what he had with London. He’d been focused on the wrong things, on the negatives. Because life didn’t come with guarantees. Hell, the world might end. London might not really be in love with him. They might not make it. It could happen. Couples fell apart after ten, twenty years of living together. Things might still go wrong.
But what if they didn’t?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The day after Kelsey visited London, Alex pulled up to the young Marine guarding the White House point-of-entry off Pennsylvania Avenue. As usual, he handed over his driver’s license, contractor ID, and his personal pass from the Oval Office. Beneath those was a plastic container storing the oversized cinnamon roll Kelsey had sent along.
The sharply trimmed, immaculately groomed, young man in USMC blues scrutinized the documents and handed them back. Then carefully, he accepted Kelsey’s gift and tucked it, face up, under his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Stewart. Sure hope you sign on with President Adams. It’d be an honor to protect you.”
“Do I look like I need your protection?” Alex snapped.
The Marine stiffened to attention, his eyes forward. “No, sir!”
Alex nodded his approval at the loud and proud Devil Dog answer. “At ease,” he said more gently. “Don’t forget, you and the guys are coming over Christmas Eve. Bring your families if you got them. Remind everyone for me, Tony?”
Corporal Antonio Esposito relaxed as much as any Marine could. “We’re all planning to be there. You may not need my protection, Mr. Stewart, but it’d still be an honor to serve with you.”
Alex grunted. Kids in uniform. How was an old dog like him supposed to deal with a young pup’s blind loyalty? ‘We’ll see,’ was what he relied on with Lexie. But Esposito had served in combat. He deserved more. “How about you look me up when you’re done wearing that uniform? You know where to find me.”
A no-kidding grin cracked Esposito’s proud face. “Yes, sir!”
“But knock off the sir shit,” Alex growled. “I’m not military, understand? And I don’t tolerate ass-kissers.”
Grinning like a fool, Tony kept his lips zipped and waved Alex onto the White House grounds. Minutes later, Alex was admitted into the Oval Office, where he took the seat at the left of President Adams’ desk and waited for him to finish the phone call he was on.
Several years earlier, President Thomas Beauregard Adams had been the dark horse in a fiery presidential race between two mud-slinging, lying politicians. Adams had run as an independent, and he’d won by a landslide. Seemed the silent majority had been as sick of the ever-escalating political drama, backstabbing, and lies as Alex had been. Americans wanted a straight shooter and, in Adams, they’d gotten one.
The President was a dead-ringer for Mark Houston. Could have passed for him any day of the week. Had the same dark looks. Same work ethic. Same heft and country boy charm. But Adams was more polished, as a President of the United States of America should be. His brown hair was always fastidiously trimmed. His nails were short, his cuticles clean and neat. He could’ve passed himself off as a metro male, as good-looking as he was. The ladies of America certainly loved him. But Alex knew different.
Adams might look like he belonged in Hollywood, but there wasn’t a narcissistic bone in his body. He’d gotten elected because of his willingness to listen to the American public, to respond to them personally when needed, to meet them on their level in order to understand what most presidents never would—how to truly serve the people. Adams looked out for the little guy, for families struggling to make ends meet, for the homeless, and small business owners. He met one-on-one with illegal immigrants, not just popes, prime ministers, and others who thought they were God. He showed up with his shirtsleevesrolled up and ready to work when hurricanes devastated the shrimp industry along Louisiana’s shoreline. He probably drove the Secret Service crazy, but he’d worked twelve-hour days, then had the audacity to show up early the next morning, ready to start all over again.
He was known for his uncanny skill of compromise, as well as his commitment to the military. The man was a tactical genius, profoundly adept at talking obstinate senators and congress men and women into seeing things his way.
Unbeknownst to the American public, Adams was also behind the mysterious helicopter crash that had killed his first vice president, VP Winston, along with several renegade Secret Service agents, a few years back. But only after he’d discovered, via his man undercover, aka Alex Stewart, that Winston had orchestrated President Adams’ assassination. Winston had never wanted compromise, only revolution. To that end, he’d funded several radical malcontents who’d agreed that Adams had to go, including the subversiveChaos Now. Through President Adams’ devious, but well-planned counterattack—which included making it look as if Alex were murdered—Adams saved the nation’s capital, as well as thousands of lives.
In short, there was a genuine, diehard warrior in office for the first time since Teddy Roosevelt. A warrior Alex had come to disappoint.
President Adams ended his call and turned to Alex. “How’s Kelsey?”
“Getting stronger every day, Mr. President.”
“Tom. Call me Tom, damn it. You hired Special Operator Heston Contreras.”
Alex cocked his head, remembering Zack’s opinion of Heston. “He’s a fine operator.”
Tom was no dummy. He had a reason for bringing Heston up. “He broke up with Tuesday Smart?”
“He never hooked up with her, sir. Why do you ask?”
Tom pursed his lips. “Tom. Not sir and not Mr. President. Damn it, Alex. We’ve been over this before.”
Alex coughed and amended his reply with, “Tom then.” Problem was that respect was in Alex’s nature, and calling the President of the United States anything but Mr. President, seemed damned pretentious.
