Homefront Defenders, page 7
Alana would be safe, and Locke would help her stay that way while they did their jobs here.
Alana was headed for the door.
“Whoa, Preston. Slow down.”
She glanced back. “I need to catch William. I want to be assigned to the president’s detail, not sidelined on coordinating the surf competition. I don’t think he knows I’m fine.” She frowned at him, but kept walking. “Did you tell him I’m not fine, is that why you want me on this with you?”
She wasn’t, but still. “I didn’t say anything. He probably pieced it together.”
“Well, then there’s no reason he couldn’t have reassigned me.”
The elevator had already left. Alana jabbed at the button.
“Hold up a second.”
She set her hands on her hips and glanced at him. Not mad, but close to it.
Locke said, “We’re headed to the surf competition. That’s our job for today.” Her job: feeling useful. His job: keeping her safe. Their job together: to be Secret Service agents who protected the president.
Alana didn’t pout exactly—that wasn’t what people like them did. But if she’d been anyone else, she likely would have. “I don’t want to be sidelined.”
“That isn’t what’s happening.” He stepped closer. “And it won’t reflect well if you argue with William.”
Alana sighed. “I still don’t like it.”
“How’s your…” He motioned to where she’d been cut the day before.
“It aches, but it’s okay.”
Locke said, “Years ago, if you were injured so you couldn’t go surfing, what would you have done instead?”
“Sat on the beach and watched. Cleaned my board. Helped the others if they needed pointers.”
“Those things are important. They’re not just busy work to pass the time. And that’s what this is.” He tugged on her arm. “So give yourself a break, okay?”
The elevator doors opened. Alana strode into the empty car, and he followed her. She pressed the button for the lobby and then turned to him. “Taking a break doesn’t make you a winner.”
*
She was still mad when they pulled into the parking lot at Hapuna. Memories washed over her as she looked around. The sound of the surf was a balm to her restless spirit. She ached to surf, but that would have to wait a few days—though she figured if she had to, she could push it to a couple of days at the most. It would sting, but she could do it.
Alana still wanted to go back and talk to William. He didn’t need to sideline her with Locke, she could pass any physical test he threw at her—so long as he didn’t ask her to surf. But yeah, she knew why he wanted her with Locke, separated from the rest of the team. And the president. If someone tried to kill her again, they could hit the president by accident. Alana would never forgive herself if something happened to the president and it was her fault. Not a good career move. Unless being beside the president was the one place she might be safe—if Brian Wells, their missing sniper, didn’t want to kill him, just her. Threatening the president was a whole different ball game than killing her. One a lot of people would think twice about.
Locke was looking at his iPad again, on the website for the surf invitational.
“There’s nothing on there that I can’t tell you,” she said. “Plus, you know these things are like sixty percent word of mouth. The website is for tourists and corporations. Sponsors and such.”
“Okay, so tell me about it.”
“First I have a question.” She unbuckled her seat belt and got her gun from the glove box. “Do you think Brian Wells wants to kill the president? Maybe this yakuza man and the missing sniper who seem to be targeting me are actually plotting to assassinate POTUS.”
“It’s possible, but I think unlikely until we get proof it’s a plot. Right now we have to go on what we know.” Locke got his weapon and climbed out of the SUV, iPad in hand.
He’d make notes, and they would decide which plan to protect the president they would enact for the invitational. Their scenarios fit every circumstance, but they were based on half a dozen prearranged plans and then tweaked for the variables of location, crowd size and expected threat level. Not as exciting as developing a scenario from scratch, but it meant the teams could work within an established framework and there wasn’t the lag where they each had to figure out how their part fit with the rest of the agents.
Alana checked the time on her cell phone. “The coordinator should be here in a minute. The admin assistant I spoke to said eight forty-five.”
Locke nodded.
“The surf isn’t bad this morning. If the weather holds out hopefully it’ll be good for Saturday.” Surfing in the rain was miserable but arguably kind of fun, since it made the waves look bigger than they really were.
Locke didn’t say anything. When she glanced at him, Alana saw that he scanned the whole area. His eyes were alert, his whole body tense like he was ready for the world around them to erupt.
“Locke.”
“Preston.”
Great. They were back to business. Alana wanted to roll her eyes. “Guess it’s time to sunbathe and get a shave ice.”
“Yep.” The word was low, like his thoughts were somewhere else.
She walked off. If he wasn’t going to listen to her, then she wasn’t going to stick around. She could protect herself.
The morning surfers returned her wave. Alana walked the beach until sand gravitated into her shoes, and then she pulled them off and strolled with them dangling from her fingers. She checked the time on her phone and then circled back toward the parking lot. Locke stood at the edge of the sand, his shoes still on. Hands on his hips.
When she got close, he said, “Feel better now?”
“Actually, yes.” The beach had always been a balm.
“For the record,” Locke said, “I would not be opposed to trying a shave ice.”
She didn’t have time to answer. Or to process the fact he’d evidently never had one before. A van door shut, and Alana saw a familiar face. That was the coordinator for the surf invitational? Of course. She grinned at the man as he approached in board shorts and a threadbare vest, no shoes. His big belly hung over the tied string on his shorts.
“Alana Preston!” Ikamu ran the last few steps, his big frame barreling toward her like a freight train.
Locke braced, but Alana brushed past him. This was going to hurt, but she didn’t care. She grinned at her friend. “Ikamu!” He hauled her off the ground and she squealed as the big man hugged her. Her stomach smarted, but not too much.
“We’re supposed to be meeting the surf coordinator, not socializing with old friends.”
Alana grinned. “Ikamu taught me how to surf like a pro. So, yes, I’m socializing with an old friend, but he’s also in charge of the invitational.” She glanced at Ikamu, who nodded. “The president wants to come.”
“For reals?”
She nodded. “There’s a lot to prepare, but with your help we can get it ironed out.”
“Sounds good, sista. I knew inviting his niece to compete would be a good idea. She’s real good. Nearly as good as you.” He bumped her shoulder with his football-size one. “But I didn’t think the big man would come. You think he’s gonna wear shorts?”
Alana grinned. “That would be fun to see.”
Locke ran through procedure on his iPad, and Ikamu emailed him everything he’d figured out so far for the invitational from his phone so they could work out the details. They needed a securable area the president could watch from, where he could be protected while also feeling like one of the crowd. The agents with him were going to have to blend in. No one would relax with a bunch of suited personnel all around.
“Hey, Alana,” Ikamu said. “You should surf Saturday. Show all these youngsters how it’s done.”
Locke said, “That’s not why we’ll be there.”
Sure, objecting furthered her goal of getting everyone to see her as a legitimate Secret Service agent. But she was home. Despite everything that had happened so far, maybe she needed to get back to her roots.
Alana said, “After the president leaves, if it’s still going on and I don’t have an assignment…maybe I could.”
Ikamu laughed. “I’ll put you down for last.” He knew she wanted to do it, but she had to make it fit her job now.
Locke sent her a look she didn’t need a code breaker to decipher. She ignored his disapproval and talked through the invitational proceedings with Ikamu, asking questions Locke didn’t know to ask simply because he hadn’t experienced that world. Her colleague made notes and added in some questions of his own. Personnel positions, teams for each detail. Where the bathrooms and food trucks would be, so they could keep the president out of the normal flow of traffic. Where he was going to park. Ingress and egress points in case the worst happened and they had to get him out fast.
She liked when they worked like this, bouncing things off each other like they were equals.
A car pulled into the parking lot, not a beater surfer vehicle full of sand and salt water. This was a brand-new black town car. “Who—”
Ikamu’s face darkened. “Yakuza.”
Locke grabbed her arm. “Let’s go.”
EIGHT
Alana shook him off. “Hold up a second.”
Locke wasn’t going to stand around and wait for someone to start shooting at them. She wanted to almost die again? A drive-by was not the end he wanted for her. No way. Not when his heart felt like this. And even though it was impossible, even though it would never work with their jobs, Locke just couldn’t switch off the idea of them together. More than just colleagues. More than this burgeoning friendship they seemed to be testing out lately.
“Alana.” He held on to her arm, determined not to let her rush into this when there was every chance the occupants of that car would roll down the window and spray the entire beach with bullets.
The car pulled up to a stop. The window never rolled down. Instead the front passenger door opened, and a suited Asian man got out. He almost looked like a Secret Service agent but for the scar on the side of his face. He didn’t spare them a single glance but moved to the rear door and opened it, watching the scenery—except for where they were. It occurred to Locke that this man didn’t consider them a threat. To this man, the threat would come from elsewhere. And he had to be on guard.
Locke pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Ray. They didn’t need a crew of black-and-white police vehicles and jittery officers if they were going to get some information. But Ray would likely want to know the yakuza had approached Alana.
From the back emerged a leanly built Japanese man with an expensive haircut and a movie-star smile. This man had not grown up on the rough side of anywhere. Locke knew what that was like, and the man almost reminded him of his spoiled cousin—a little too aware of the fact that he could get whatever he wanted by expending the minimum amount of effort.
“That’s Mikio Adachi.” Ikamu moved behind Locke as he walked. “And my cue to leave.” The Hawaiian man wandered off across the beach with a loose-legged stride.
Mikio strode over. His dress shoes clipped on the concrete of the parking lot. Locke surveyed the man as he turned his winning smile on Alana and reached his arms out. “Well, well. Alana Preston.” Alana tugged on Locke until he let her go and then met the man partway.
Locke didn’t let her get farther than arm’s reach away from him. If Mikio tried anything he didn’t like, Locke would take him down.
“Mikio.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s really good to see you. And also kind of weird, right?”
He chuckled. “Really weird. Didn’t think you’d make it back to the Big Island. But a presidential detail? That’s crazy cool, Alana. Who’d have thought my old English tutor would be taking bullets for the president?”
Locke’s stomach churned at the thought. “We actually try to not do that, if at all possible.”
The man’s dark eyes shifted to Locke. “Mikio Adachi.” He didn’t offer to shake, and all his pleasure at seeing Alana was gone in a snap.
Locke didn’t offer his hand, either. “Director James Locke.” Neither man disguised the fact they were sizing each other up. “Agent Preston and I have a few questions for you.”
Locke’s phone vibrated, one quick burst. He glanced at the screen. Ray was on his way.
Mikio looked at Alana. “Interesting company you keep. Kind of dry.”
“He’s not so bad.”
Locke knew it was for show because, judging by her body language, this thing with Mikio was as awkward for her as it was for him. She had this stance he’d seen her use when she was unsure of herself but putting on a brave face, and she was employing it right now. Locke wanted to touch her shoulder, hold her hand or reassure her in some way, but none of that would help. Alana had to get herself through this. But there was one thing he could do.
Locke prayed for her.
“I heard what happened to you yesterday,” Mikio said. “It’s all over the island that Alana Preston was attacked in the water—and not by a shark.”
She nodded. “After he stabbed me, he went to an elderly woman’s house. Beatrice Colburn. He murdered her.”
Mikio said nothing.
“We saw him in the room with her, holding the knife, Mikio.” She motioned toward Locke. “The director chased the man out the window. But not before we saw the tattoo. He’s yakuza.”
Mikio started to shake his head. He waved her away from the car, and Locke followed. “Things are different since my grandfather retired from the family businesses.”
“You’ve gone legit?”
He winced. “Not exactly.” Mikio’s gaze drifted to Locke. “Things are better, but none of us are perfect.”
“And we don’t claim to be,” Alana said. “But that man tried to kill me, and he did kill Beatrice.”
Mikio inhaled and glanced at the steady roll of the ocean waves. For a few minutes, he was quiet, and then he said, “His name is Daniel Kaiko.”
Locke entered the name on his iPad and found the file for Brian Wells. He needed to show the picture to Mikio, check for a reaction. To see what he said about this man and whether he was connected to Mikio’s soldier.
“Is Daniel Kaiko one of yours?” Alana folded her arms. “Because I didn’t recognize him.”
“He’s only been here three years. Before that he was in the navy. A SEAL, actually, but he was kicked out. He’s cold. Calculating.”
Locke figured it took one to recognize one—and Mikio had that streak in him. He was affable enough but could turn on a dime and become the kind of person who ran a family business that likely involved running guns, selling drugs and smuggling.
Locke said, “Do you know where he is?”
Mikio shook his head. “I haven’t seen him for about a week. He said he had something to take care of, that he’d be gone for a few days.”
Not good. “What about a phone number?”
“He left his phone with me. Said he needed to go off the grid.”
“I’ll need that phone.”
Mikio’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t suppose you have a warrant?”
Locke doubted Mikio would readily give up a phone that could incriminate him in illegal dealings. But if anyone could convince him to hand it over, even if it was after he’d deleted everything not pertinent, it was Alana. Though, if they needed to draft an agreement that gave Mikio immunity from anything they found not related to the threat, Locke was willing to do that as well.
Alana stepped between them. “Mikio, he nearly killed me. We think he’s working with another man, a marine sniper. We don’t know what they’re up to, but both of them have tried to kill me. If that phone can tell us anything—”
“Okay.” Mikio motioned to her with his chin. “I’ll give the phone to you. I might not be a good guy, but I’m not getting implicated in anything with the Secret Service. If Daniel is caught up in something, he’s not taking the rest of us down with him.”
So long as he could get the phone to the police and their techs could find out why Daniel Kaiko tried to kill Alana, Locke could overlook the man’s tone. Still, the relationship these two clearly had—whatever they’d created years ago that was still between them—wasn’t something that sat well with Locke. If Alana had been linked to the yakuza, the connection would have been thoroughly investigated when she applied for the Secret Service. Still, a person’s feelings often had nothing to do with association. She could have fallen for Mikio and have no investigable ties to the man other than the fact they had gone to the same high school. Hadn’t the guy mentioned that she’d been Mikio’s English tutor? It could have been a smart girl’s crush on a guy who was—even now—clearly a player.
Locke didn’t like him at all. Even if Mikio was willing to give them the phone.
Okay, so he might be a tiny bit jealous. But he was never going to act on it, and Alana and Mikio would never know. Still, Alana had to realize there was nothing between her and this man. Aside from a shared history that meant Mikio would give her the phone.
She was a Secret Service agent now. If he had to remind her of that, he would.
Locke said, “What about Kaylee Preston? Any idea how she fits into all this?”
*
Alana swung around, ready to…what? What could she do in front of Mikio? A Secret Service agent didn’t yell at their partner just for bringing up their baby sister in front of a dangerous man. Yeah, she wasn’t under any illusions about what Mikio did for a living. The man was bad news, and the fact Ray thought he had something to do with Kaylee more than freaked her out. It terrified her.
This Mikio was not the young man she’d gone to school with. He’d grown up…grown into the man she saw standing in front of her. She barely even remembered him, but for that tiny slither of recognition when he’d spread his arms wide. They’d always hugged. He’d been affectionate, but it was only part of the persona he’d played at school—the persona of an extrovert football captain.
Alana cleared her throat. “Ray said—”
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