Ryan had been around long enough to know that at some point in their careers, virtually all agents in the Secret Service had to punch their tickets by working on some kind of protection; the best were assigned to PPD—Presidential Protection Detail. But even those assignments could range from any one of a variety of positions—advance agent scouting locations prior to the President’s arrival, outer perimeter, countersurveillance, or lowly post-stander at any of dozens of doors at any given venue.
While Ryan respected the entire agency, the SAIC and the principal detail agents who worked within arm’s reach—“inside the bubble,” they called it—were the best of the best. PPD agents didn’t have to be large in stature—but they did have to be extremely good at their job. From all accounts, Gary Montgomery was both. It said something about the man that he now stood in Ryan’s office with a gun under his suitcoat. Not many people in the world got to do that. The file said his range scores were near perfect with both his SIG Sauer pistol and the MP5 SMG. There was a lightness to the way he stood, with his large hands hanging easily at his sides, as if he knew right where they were if he needed them. The bio said he’d boxed at the University of Michigan, so it made sense that he would be self-assured. Still, it would take months to develop the relationship Ryan had with Joe O’Hearn. And the level of understanding shared between him and Andrea Price-O’Day—forget about it.
“Welcome to the Big Show,” Ryan said, referring to what the agents themselves called PPD. His eyes narrowed as he studied the new addition to his detail. “We’ve met before . . .”
Montgomery possessed a disarming smile for such a ferocious-looking man. “I was warned you had an incredible memory, Mr. President.”
“So we have met?”
“Not officially,” Montgomery said. “I served as whip of the VP detail shortly after Special Agent Price-O’Day became SAIC on yours.”
Ryan sighed. Andrea Price-O’Day was one tough human being. She’d picked him up and dusted him off—both figuratively and literally—during his first moments as President. That was what? A million years ago? Not many agents in the Secret Service could say they’d gotten a field promotion from the President to lead PPD—but then, considering the carnage that had led up to that promotion, no one wanted that kind of bragging rights. The longtime agent in charge of his detail, Andrea had retired after injuries sustained protecting him in Mexico City. Ryan was sure Montgomery knew the story.
“The VP detail?” Ryan mused, instead of boring the agent with bloody memories. “The Little Show with free parking.” The Naval Observatory, home to the VPOTUS, offered agents a place to park—something not available to them at the White House.
“You know your Secret Service culture, sir,” Montgomery said.
“Just enough to get me in trouble.” Ryan closed the file folder. “Welcome aboard, Gary.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Montgomery said. “I thought I should stop by and introduce myself before I get started in case you had any questions.”
“You’re not handling the Tokyo advance for the G20?” Ryan asked.
“No, sir,” Montgomery said. “I’ve assigned Assistant Special Agent in Charge Flynn. I thought it more important I stay here and get my feet planted firmly in the detail. It allows me to get to know you and your idiosyncrasies so that I can better prot—”
Ryan’s head snapped up. “I have idiosyncrasies?”
“You do, sir,” Montgomery said.
“Name one.”
Montgomery’s hands hung still and relaxed. He cocked his head to one side. If he was nervous, he didn’t show it.
“For starters,” he said. “You test your agents.”
“This isn’t a test.”
“Of course not, Mr. President.”
Ryan smiled in spite of the pain in his foot. This guy was direct. Direct was good. “Well, maybe it is a test, but it’s a good-natured test. I’m sure we’ll get to know one another well enough.”
“Very well,” Montgomery said, taking that as a dismissal. He paused at the door to the secretaries’ office, then shook his head as if thinking better of something. At least he’d picked the right door; agents had been known to walk into the personal study. “I beg your pardon, Mr. President, but I happened to overhear DNI Foley mention that you might have a bout of plantar fasciitis going on. I don’t know if you are aware of this, sir, but that particular malady is also known as ‘policeman’s foot.’ Protective agents are on our feet for long hours, standing post and whatnot. I feel your pain, Mr. President, and I have some tried-and-true remedies if you’re interested.”
Ryan thought for a moment, then motioned to the leather chairs in front of the Resolute desk and leaned forward, all ears.
This Montgomery guy might work out after all.
7
THREE HOURS EARLIER
Magdalena Rojas leaned her head against the window in the backseat of her pimp’s Chrysler 300 sedan and wondered if tonight might possibly be the beginning of a different chapter in her life.
She was a small thing, bony at the knees and elbows, and not quite five feet tall. Parrot wanted his girls to look nice, so he gave her plenty of makeup and a brush when she needed to tame her wayward black hair. Even that was thinner than it had been. Others might not be able to tell, but she could. She’d been beautiful once. Her father had told her so when she was little. Other men in her home country used to say it all the time—and mean it. But the men she went with now hardly even took the time to speak. Some of them were scared of her. Those were the worst. They had to hurt her to be real men.
Magdalena could not understand how a grown man could be so frightened of a thirteen-year-old girl.
She touched the outline of the item in the pocket of her nylon gym shorts and felt a flicker of hope. It had been so long since she’d possessed any hope at all that even a hint of the emotion caused a deep and abiding pain in her chest.
Parrot wasn’t driving. He’d gone ahead in a different vehicle. That was something. His long dreads made him look like the Predator from the movies and he had to be one of the meanest pimps in the known universe—at least that’s what Blanca said, and she was his favorite. And because she was his favorite, he’d chopped the shit out of her when she pissed him off—that’s what he called a whipping, getting chopped.
Didn’t nobody wanna get chopped by Parrot.
Magdalena had nearly fainted when she saw how bad he’d hurt his favorite, especially considering what she now carried hidden in her pocket. But Parrot had decided to let Reggie drive the girls home because he looked more like a college kid than a pimp and the cops wouldn’t hassle him so much. Reggie might have looked like a college kid, but he was almost as mean as Parrot. He was just sneakier about it.