Page 22 of Secret Service
And hear something unexpected: laughter.
That low rumble is Reese’s voice, too. It unsteadies me, as if the plane had just dropped ten thousand feet, leaving my stomach an altitude above.
What does Reese look like when he laughs? I’ve only seen his professional smile, but there must be a bigger, truer one inside him.
My steps are light, almost silent, as I round the bulkhead and face the ready room. But my stealthy approach doesn’t matter. Not a single person notices I’m there. They’re all facing away from me.
Reese is sitting on the armrest of one of those beige leather chairs, counting off with the rest of the agents crowding the room, while a man and a woman pump out pull-ups on the rail of the overhead luggage compartment. They’ve both shed their suit jackets and dress shirts and are in their undershirts with Kevlar vests strapped on top. Her muscles ripple as she hauls herself up and lowers back down, faster than her male counterpart.
“Twelve! Thirteen!” Reese claps as he laughs. My eyes lock on him, on his easy, open smile.
Across the ready room, the man is slowing. At sixteen pull-ups, he drops to the floor, hanging his head as the woman grinds out four more before dropping to her feet. She barely looks winded, and the whole compartment erupts, agents clapping and whistling and slapping her on the shoulders. She hugs the man she beat, and that’s when she sees me.
“Mr. President!” She comes to military attention, and the rest of the agents are practically cartoon characters leaving light trails behind them as they snap from human beings having fun to no-nonsense professionals. Smiles vanish, and they’re back to the square-jawed, furrowed-brow monoliths I see in the West Wing. Personality, gone. Fun, erased.
Disappointment weighs me down like a boulder sinking into the ocean.
Reese stands in front of his team. “Mr. President! Did we disturb you?”
The agents behind him have clenched so tight, I don’t think any of them will shit for a week.
“What was that?”
Silence. Agents eye each other. Reese is out in front, and no one is coming to help him.
The explanation comes slowly. “Agent Nuñez”—Reese motions to the victorious woman—“is trying out for CAT, sir. Agent Roberts challenged her to a friendly pull-up contest.”
I meet Nuñez’s and Roberts’s gazes. Nuñez has deep brown eyes and black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Roberts is tall and muscular, but obviously she was his better in pull-ups. Both are flushed, cheeks and ears red. They’re standing there in their undershirts and vests, sweat beading on their skin. “I don’t think I could get ten pull-ups out. Much less sixteen or twenty.”
Reese flinches.
None of them has relaxed. They’re going to sprain something if I stay any longer. “Agent Nuñez, I hope to see you on CAT in the future.”
Nuñez cracks just enough to smile. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
I’m still holding two cups of coffee like a delivery boy. “Agent Theriot? Would you join me?”
The temperature in the ready room plunges. Eyes slide to Reese, despairing, sympathizing. Like I’ve invited him to his own execution.
“Of course, Mr. President.” He grabs his padfolio from his seat and follows me. We leave behind what feels like a funeral.
“I brought you coffee.” I make my first mistake when I hold it out to Reese. My second is the smile I offer.
Reese reacts like I’ve berated him, not tried to wipe the slate clean. In the quiet of the hallway, I hear his teeth scrape. He doesn’t take the coffee, and I remember—too late—my initial briefing from Secret Service Director Britton: agents will never accept anything handed to them on duty. Their hands must always be ready in case they need to draw.
We’re safely on Air Force One, but Reese still won’t accept. Instead, he pushes my office door open so hard it ricochets off the bulkhead and slams into his back as he waits for me to pass.
I take my seat. He shuts the door and faces it, not moving. His shoulders are clenched, hard and tight beneath his taut suit jacket.
Four steps bring him in front of me, where he pops to attention, hands clasped, chin straight, eyes fixed above my head. Probably glued to the presidential seal on the wall.
The two coffees stand like statues on my desk. “Agent Theriot—”
“I take full responsibility for what happened, Mr. President. There’s no excuse for our behavior. I hope you won’t let what you saw detract from your confidence in my agents’ abilities.” The muscle in his cheek is firing. “It was a joke that got out of hand—”
“It looked like fun.”
His eyes dart to mine, then away, lightning fast.