The Night Is Mine

Chapter 32

32

“Ah, there you are.”

Emily heard the door snick shut behind her. For that alone, Frank Adams would not escape the gym unscathed.

The Oval Office spread out before her. She’d entered near the apex. A fireplace to her left sported a portrait of George Washington above the mantel. Her buddy Abe stared down on her from the right, not looking nearly as friendly as his statue. A circle of chairs and couches filled the center of the space.

Commanding the far end of the room squatted the impossible mass of the Resolute desk. It was a psychic blow declaring, “Here is power!” There were no chairs facing it or beside it. Nowhere to sit when facing the man behind the desk. Nowhere to hide. If this President wanted you to sit in his presence, he gave up the hammer-blow force of his desk and sat with you in the central area.

If there were a corner, she’d have gravitated to it. But there weren’t any to hide in. The room was oval and filled with a richness that nothing so trite as money could provide. A richness of history anchored the room like an aircraft carrier anchored a strike group. This room was the seat of global power, and its force radiated out into the world beyond the massive, bulletproof windows. And woe be unto those who stood in its path; this room would run them right over, whether they stood beside the President or squatted in a South American jungle.

A face resolved itself before her.

“Hi, Em. Want a soda?”

The President carried an open beer, domestic, in the bottle and offered her a 7-Up still cold in the can.

“Did you shake it first?” She kept her voice low. The room’s mass made more than a whisper feel sacrilegious.

“No, you’re safe this time, Em.” It had been his one joke, and he’d never tired of playing it on her.

Sometimes she’d let a can explode in her hand simply to get him to laugh, as if she didn’t know that he’d set it up. Frequently the cans positively bulged he’d shaken them so hard. She wasn’t up for that at the moment.

“Don’t want to stain the rug.”

She looked down at the shielded eagle poised to jab her foot with thirteen arrows bunched in its claws and looked up again quickly. “What the hell am I doing here, sir?”

His smile was that of a little boy, not the President.

“What? Didn’t Frank tell you to bring dessert? I miss your desserts. Next time bring a pie. No, I’m kidding. Let’s see…”

His phone rang and he moseyed over to his desk, comfortably at home in a place she’d only seen on TV shows. There was no sign of anyone to act as a buffer: no Chief of Staff Ray Stevens, no brilliant assistant like Daniel, not a stray secretary to be seen.

Emily could use a corner right about now, preferably a dark one to hide in. She tried to look casual by strolling along the perimeter of the room. When she passed the fireplace, she popped the can there, in case Peter had shaken it. It opened with pfitz and settled into its traditional overly perky, bubbling sounds.

In only a few steps she’d circled most of the room, nearly walking square into an enormous grandfather clock, polished as thoroughly as the cherry wood furniture and the Resolute desk, which now loomed far too near.

The President hung up the phone.

“This room isn’t as big as it looks.” She’d reached him without intending to in less than a fifteen steps.

“I know. I’ve always liked that. You’d think a fair-sized yacht could slip in here unnoticed when you first come in. Yet it’s only thirty-five feet from bow to stern. Of course, having eighteen-foot ceilings makes it airier than you might expect. Still, not much room for a decent mast.”

Emily dutifully looked up at the distant ceiling, the eagle clutching olive branches and arrows carved into the ceiling glowered at her from there as well.

Peter waved her to a seat. She chose an armchair that probably went back to Abraham. This place was freaking her out.

He sat in the next chair over.

It felt…cozy.

Only the two of them—exactly where she didn’t want to be.

This was the President’s home court and it gave him all of the advantage.

Well, she’d certainly faced down worse. Combat mode. Let it all flow through you and over you, Emily. If she started along the path to emotion, to anger or revenge or pride or fear, she’d be toast. “I am a leaf…” she recited the old Serenity movie line to herself, “…watch how I soar.” It had become an unofficial motto of the SOAR’s 5D. The fact that it was the last line the hero pilot spoke before a twenty-foot spear skewered his heart was beside the point. Or perhaps was the point. He was a pilot first, foremost, and last of all. That it was also the WWII Japanese k******e motto she was going to completely ignore.

She’d let whatever was to come wash over her. A pilot first, foremost, and last of all—whatever might happen.

“I’m so glad you could join me, Em.”

“Sure.”

“Not terribly respectful there, Captain Beale.” His smile was back.

“Sue me, Mr. President Matthews.”

She glanced at her watch. Mark Henderson was knocking on her parents’ door right about now.