Page 8 of Valor on the Move
“Like heck it isn’t. My only child is graduating from college. Deals don’t get much bigger than this, my boy.”
His last bite of bagel was still in his mouth, and he forced it down as he returned the frame to the table, angling it away. Six years now, and at times it felt like forever. But sometimes it hit like a ton of fresh fucking bricks, and he rubbed impatiently at the sting in his eyes. If I’d been there…
No. This wasn’t the damn day for it. It was time for work. Time to be his best, and his best didn’t include…this.
A red headline flashed up on CNN, screaming of a dire threat to the life and liberty of the United States due to an incoming storm front. Standing in the entry to the galley kitchen, Shane watched the early morning anchors and their pinched faces. He didn’t bother turning on the sound.
The drive to the unmarked headquarters building on H Street was quick, with early dawn fortunately one of the few times traffic in DC wasn’t a fucking nightmare. After he went through a security check, he drove his silver Yukon down into the garage below the building, smiling as he spotted Alan Pearce leaning against a black Suburban. Most of the service vehicles they called G-rides were Suburbans or sedans, with some limos sprinkled in. All were black, of course.
When Shane parked and joined him, Alan held out his arms with a grin. “Ready for the big show, Agent Kendrick? Well, it’s more like the pre-show, but we’re close. Damn good to see you, Kenny.” Pearce extended his hand, and then pulled Shane into a back-slapping hug. “Apparently you’re stuck with me again. We can relive our glory days from the Albany field office.”
Shane stepped back and gave him an exaggerated once-over. “How long has it been? You’re looking old.” Shit. As soon as the joke left his mouth, he realized the last time he’d seen Alan had been Jessica’s funeral.
But Alan only laughed. “Yeah, fuck you very much too. I’m forty-one, and if I recall correctly you’re not that far behind.”
Pearce actually looked hot as hell with threads of gray at his temples in his dirty blond hair. His green eyes still popped, and his grin was boyish. His lanky frame filled out his dark suit nicely, and if Alan was gay, Shane would have tapped that ass years ago. “Still thirty-nine for a few more months.” He paused. Should I ask? Is it rude to not ask? Or is it rude to ask? “How are Jules and Dylan?”
Alan’s smile tightened, and he hitched a shoulder. “Okay. We’re doing our best. One day at a time and all that shit.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and pressed his lips together. “It’s been tough. Especially now that Dylan’s been diagnosed.”
Son of a bitch. Life really knew how to kick certain people in the nuts over and over. Losing his parents had been harder than Shane had ever thought possible, but it was still the natural order of things. He could only imagine what Alan felt to lose his daughter—and now possibly his son too. “God, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, but thank you. It’s genetic.” He laughed harshly. “My genes, to be specific. I passed down this shitty disease, but I’m fine. Just going to end up killing my kids. Guess it’s good Jules and I only had the two.”
“God. I’m sorry. There’s nothing the doctors can do?”
Alan scuffed the toe of his leather shoe over the concrete floor of the garage. “There’s an experimental treatment. Swedish doctor. We’re saving up.”
Shane had never had kids, and never really thought much about them. But he’d met Jessica once as a baby, and she’d clutched his finger and flashed a crooked little grin, and his heart clenched to think of that smile gone now. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have your child die. To watch them waste away. “If I can help, just say the word.” He couldn’t call a clear image of Dylan to mind, but the kid had to be seven or so by now. Shane couldn’t remember the name of the rare disease they were afflicted with, but he wasn’t about to ask.
“Thanks. I’m trying not to think about it too much. Makes it hard to get out of bed if I do. So if you don’t mind, I’d rather focus on the job. Or sports. Or even politics. Pretty much anything else.”
“You got it.”
Alan tossed him the keys with a smile. “Come on. Showtime.”
At the southwest gate of the White House, the sun peeked over the East Wing. One of the Uniformed Division officers stepped out of the guard house. This was the gate for those who already had clearance, but of course their vehicle still had to be searched. He rolled down his window, handed over their IDs, and waited while a sniffer dog eagerly went about its business.
