Page 11 of Hidden

“I’m leaving. Your goons outside the door gonna follow me?”

“Yes, sir. That’s their job.”

As he opened the door, Corbit turned to face Peter one more time. “Enjoy being in charge while you can, son. If you would do things my way, I’d have you running a field office in no time. But if you won’t, I’ll make your life a living hell and you’ll be out of a job before the month is out.”

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“I wouldn’t recommend threatening me, Sir. It didn’t work in Afghanistan. I don’t know why you think it’s going to work now.”

While Peter waited for Director Upwood to finish his meeting with the Vice President, he took the time to review his roster of agents. Some he had worked with before on other protection details or during his stint in the investigations division of the Secret Service. Others were new to him.

Two of the agents were waiting outside of the vice president’s office, so he introduced himself.

“I’m Special Agent Peter Mercer.”

“Jason Lubert.”

“Ryan Savko.”

He was shaking Savko’s hand as the door opened and Director Upwood came into the hallway.

“Let’s go gentlemen. I have a luncheon to get to back at CIA headquarters.”

“Savko, you drive. Agent Lubert, take shotgun. I’ll be in the back with the director. The others will take the follow car.”

It wasn’t typical for the agent in charge of a detail to be present for all transports, but he wanted to take the time to get familiar with Director Upwood’s typical schedule, so he climbed into the backseat with him.

As the SUV pulled into traffic, he began questioning him. “How much travel do you have on the docket for the next six weeks?”

His earlier discussion with the director seemed to have stuck because he didn’t resist his questions. “Nothing is on the schedule now, but that can change at a moment’s notice. You know how the agency is.”

Peter nodded. “My team will be on a thirty days on, thirty days off rotation. You’ll have two teams of agents covering you in thirteen-hour shifts—an hour overlap to allow for a smooth transition.”

“This thing better not last longer than one rotation or I’m going to raise hell.”

Raising hell was Corbit Upwood’s strong suit, so Peter didn’t doubt his threat.

“What’s this luncheon you’re going to? I’m sure with today’s events, nobody would care if you canceled your appearance.”

“Nonsense. I’m not about to let some jackass with explosives ruin my day. It’s an inter-agency luncheon being held in my building. No way in hell I pass this up. The CIA needs a little good publicity right now.”

As the SUV pulled up to the CIA building, Peter gave instructions.

“Savko, Lubert, escort Director Upwood directly to the luncheon. I’m right behind you.”

The two agents gave terse nods, and everyone exited the vehicle.

They rode the elevator to the floor where the luncheon would happen in relative silence. But when they stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, Director Upwood was bombarded with questions from the press gaggle that had formed there. Upwood’s press secretary was trying to control the crowd but wasn’t used to so much excitement in this building and was failing miserably. Reporters shoved microphones and mini recorders in his face as they shouted questions about the bomb threat this morning and the one from several days ago.

Savko and Lubert walked in front of the director, and Peter trailed behind. A third agent who was in a follow car stepped in and helped the press secretary gain control of the rowdy press. Peter kept his head high and his eyes constantly scanned the room as he led the director through the lobby.

Why the hell did they let the press in to this thing? He could hear people asking questions about things they shouldn’t even know. It always amazed Peter that anyone would talk to the media, let alone divulge secrets they had no business divulging to a journalist. They were vultures who had little care for decorum and respect when they were after a story. All they cared about was printing a splashy headline that could get a lot of clicks. Peter’s relationship with the press had always been tenuous at best and downright hostile at its worst. The constitution gave them the freedom to do their jobs and the rational side of him saw the good in that, but mostly he just thought the press were animals who needed to be caged. He didn’t bother keeping the scowl off his face. It made him look more intimidating, which was a plus in this situation.

A blond caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Did she have glitter eye shadow on? What kind of journalist wore glitter eyeshadow? Something else about her kept him staring. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

As they crossed the threshold into the corridor that led to the rest of the floor, the blond broke away from the crowd.

“Director Upwood, how often do you visit the Doll House Cabaret?”

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