Homefront Defenders

PROTECTING THE PRESIDENT

Amid the idyllic scenery of Hawaii, rookie Secret Service agent Alana Preston is attacked, and a sinister plot to assassinate the president begins taking shape. But nobody seems to believe Alana, and she doesn’t know who she can trust—except Secret Service director James Locke. Now, with an assassin hiding in plain sight on the island, she and James may be the president’s last line of defense. The closer they get to cracking the case, however, the more intertwined their lives become. And they must fight to keep their hearts out of it. With the life of the commander-in-chief in their hands, falling in love could be a deadly distraction...

“Alana, can you hear me?”

Locke wanted to make her wake up, but it was probably a good thing she wasn’t conscious to feel her injuries.

She moaned. Locke gathered her closer to him and put his chin on her head. If someone had wanted to distract them, they’d succeeded. They had hit Locke in the place where it hurt the most and forced him to turn his mission from the president’s safety to taking care of his partner. Because he was going to make sure Alana was safe.

Somewhere along the way she had become more important to him than his job, and Locke was never going to apologize for that.

As he looked down at his unconscious partner, Locke realized that if he was going to save the president, he had to set aside his feelings for Alana. If it could be used against him, then it was a liability. And liabilities cost him his job. If the president was killed because Locke was distracted by Alana, all of them would lose.

He had to let her go.

Dear Reader,

So often our past defines us. And so often we allow other people’s expectations to change the course of our lives. But God’s way is freedom. It’s life.

In Him we find the fulfillment of all the promise we’re unable to drum up in our own lives. His path is so much better, richer, fuller. And it’s this grace, this goodness poured out in us that gives us strength to fight against those things that weigh us down.

My prayer for you in reading this book is that God continues to work in you that message of Himself and that you will go forward one more step in the journey.

If you have any comments or questions, feel free to email me at lisaphillipsbks@gmail.com, as I would love to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Lisa Phillips

LISA PHILLIPS is a British-born tea-drinking, guitar-playing wife and mom of two. She and her husband lead worship together at their local church. Lisa pens high-stakes stories of mayhem and disaster where you can find made-for-each-other love that always ends in a happily-ever-after. She understands that faith is a work in progress more exciting than any story she can dream up. You can find out more about her books at authorlisaphillips.com.

Homefront Defenders

Lisa Phillips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation.

—Psalms 68:5

Thank you to all my Hawaii friends for all your information, and my hubs, who suffered through a research trip over our anniversary!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

ONE

It was hard not to think about sharks, sitting on a surfboard off the coast of Hawaii. Secret Service agent Alana Preston could see the hotel, and the faintest hint of dawn reflected in the wall of windows as she bobbed up and down on the ocean. Soon enough she’d have to get back to her duties, but for now Alana intended to enjoy this moment and not think of sharks—or how so many of the humans she’d met had a bite far worse than the predators.

At least for an hour out on the water she could forget that she’d torn up her knee all those years ago and destroyed her chance to surf competitively. She could forget that she’d moved to the mainland to be a Secret Service agent. She could forget the fact that she hadn’t called home since she left.

Working at the White House was everything she’d imagined and nothing like she’d thought it would be at the same time. She was exactly where she wanted to be: on the front lines of the Secret Service.

But Hawaii would always be home.

Alana was part of the advance team setting up for the president’s impending visit, and though there was almost no time for anything but work, if her boss, James Locke, could make time for a morning run, she could surf. She’d seen the director leave the hotel in his running clothes and set out along the beach maybe forty-five minutes ago. Alana was the rookie on the team, which meant Locke would have his stern, chocolate-colored eyes on her until she could prove herself. Too bad every time he looked at her she wanted to squirm under his attention. Why did he have to be so handsome?

Not that anything was going to happen. She was way too busy proving herself, making it so that she was the kind of person her father would’ve been proud of. Alana looked over at the mountains, then to the shadow of the rest of Hawaii’s islands on the horizon. I’m almost there, Dad. She was so close to losing the rookie title she could feel it. I’ve nearly done it. Just like I said I would.

She began to paddle even before her mind recognized the swell of the water. The minute she’d heard the surf report, Alana had brushed her teeth and dug out of her suitcase the board shorts and rash-guard shirt she’d always worn for surfing. No way would she waste waves like these.

Alana plowed through the water using her arms to propel her. When the moment came, she grasped the sides and hopped to stand as the surfboard cut through the water. The tunnel was beginning to form in front of her. If nature cooperated she might get in there for the ride surfers waited hours to find. There was nothing like the isolation of riding the tunnel of a wave. Cut off from the world. Invincible. Cocooned from everything. Free.

The board jerked. Alana’s legs tightened on a reflex as something bumped into her from beneath the water. Shark. It hit her again, jostling the board. She started to fall, a black-gloved hand grabbed her ankle and she hit the water.

The wave pushed her down. It happened sometimes, and even as it happened now, she already knew the momentum of the wave had forced her down. In a second it would pass and she would be free to swim up, but she still fought that encroaching panic. It’d been a while, but instinct kicked in. Stay calm. Don’t freak out.

Where was the person she’d seen? Under the water it was almost completely black, and with the rush of the waves it was hard to even open her eyes, let alone find visibility for more than a split second.

Wait for the wave.

It would pass. Then she’d be able to swim to the surface and reach her next breath. She wasn’t going to die down here in the cold black ocean.

Seconds that felt like hours passed as the wave made its journey to shore. A hand slammed into her and knocked her head forward. Alana choked on water and tried to swim against the current. Then she felt the hot sting of a knife glance across her middle.

Unable to wait any longer, she kicked out. Her foot hit something solid. Not the sandy bottom of the ocean. No, she’d hit a person. He’s still here. She fought for the surface as two arms banded around her. She grasped at his arms, his wet suit, and then felt for his face. He wasn’t using scuba gear. That meant he was holding his breath.

Which meant he would drown as well if he stayed down here long enough.

Alana renewed her fight. She wasn’t going out like this.

* * *

Secret Service director James Locke ran for these moments, early in the morning when he could clear his head. Locke pushed out a breath and forced himself to run harder. He had a six-person team on this trip, but it was the lone woman who had all his attention.

He’d seen her on her board in the water. Then pretended he hadn’t. Then felt like a moron for it. He would spot Alana Preston in a crowd, no matter what. She drew him, and Locke had been fighting the pull of his feelings for her since the first day. Still, he wasn’t going to let the rookie distract him from leading his team and keeping the president safe. He had no time for a relationship.

With the hotel in sight, Locke’s legs protested. He slowed to a stop, and a splash in the waves drew his attention.

A surfboard bobbed out of the water, but no rider followed. Then he saw a woman’s arm. Alana’s head broke through the surface. Another person emerged from the water, hair as dark as hers. A man. He grabbed Alana. She sputtered and screamed, then went back down.

Locke sprinted toward her. Alana. She was in the water, and she was in trouble.

He ran into the waves. Someone on the beach yelled. Locke replied, “Call 9-1-1!” Who knew what condition she would be in when he got her out? She might need a trip to the hospital.

He didn’t want to think the worst. God wouldn’t do that to him. Locke was going to pull her out, and Alana would be okay.

Water soaked his sneakers and his clothes up to his waist. Waves buffeted his torso and face, but he reached the spot where he’d seen Alana and dived under to try to find her. Locke moved through the dark wet, the cold. He’d never liked the ocean overly much. The water had too much power. It could dictate whether a person lived or died, and nothing could stop it when the waves were high and ready to swallow a person whole.

He found her. Where was the man, her attacker?

Locke lifted Alana out of the water and pulled her up so he could see her face, close to his. “Alana?” Her eyes were shut. She could almost be sleeping, but she wasn’t. A wave crashed against them.

Locke raced back out of the water with her in his arms. A crowd had gathered. Someone said, “Cops are coming, and an ambulance.”

Locke nodded but didn’t take his gaze from Alana. He lowered her to the sand. She wore one of those shirts that surfers wore to protect their skin from being abraded by their surfboards. Across her left side, toward her ribs, was a wound. She’d been cut, but a reef wouldn’t make such a clean line. It looked more like the work of a knife.

Her usually vibrant, tanned skin was pale. “Alana?” He checked for a pulse and then brushed dark brown hair, softer than anything he’d ever felt, away from her face. Her heartbeat was slow and faint. Was she breathing? He’d read her file. She’d been a champion surfer back in the day. He could see the scar on her knee where she’d had the surgery that had ended her career. But that was years ago. Why had she been the target of an attack now?

His breath came fast, even as his thoughts raced. He couldn’t think what to do. She had a pulse. Was she breathing?

A lifeguard ran over. “Everyone back up.” He wasted no time performing mouth-to-mouth.

She isn’t breathing. Locke held his breath until he saw her jerk. The lifeguard turned her to her side, and she coughed seawater onto the sand. His eyes filled with hot tears, enough that Locke had to walk away or she’d see. She could be dead, and it would be his fault.

He couldn’t go through that again.

He studied the crowd. These people were early-morning surfers, beachcombers and dog walkers. Not the kind of person who would have tried to hurt his colleague. None of them were even wet. Beyond the crowd a man in a black wet suit ran across the beach from the shore toward the hotel. No scuba gear. Had he dumped it in the water?

Locke jumped up, pushed through people with a brief “Excuse me” and kicked up sand as he tore across the beach as fast as he was able.

The man ran with a knife in his hand, taking the tool of his trade with him. Straight but uncombed black hair, short on the sides and shaggy on top. Asian.

Locke didn’t even have a gun, which made it tricky if he was going to confront the attacker. He never carried his phone when he ran, or his keys or wallet.

The sand switched to concrete as he hit the walkway at the edge of the beach. He skirted around an elderly couple on an early-morning stroll hand in hand, then pushed his pace harder as the man raced to a parked Toyota. A rusted-out wreck with open windows and nearly bald tires. What kind of getaway vehicle was that?

“Stop!”

The man was almost at the car, so Locke yelled again, “Secret Service. I said stop!”

Wet suit guy dived across the hood. A head popped into view as the driver sat up in the front seat, which had been tipped all the way back. This second man wasn’t in a wet suit. Not even a shirt, but he wore a white shell necklace. Surfer dude. Older, though, in his sixties, as far as Locke could tell. Caucasian.

And he almost looked familiar.

The man scrubbed his face with his hands and brushed long graying hair from his eyes. Combined with the dark shadow of stubble on his chin, Locke couldn’t get a good look at his facial features. His friend yelled, “Drive!”

The car engine sputtered to life as the knife-wielding man got in the passenger seat. Locke memorized his wide-set eyes and flat nose.

The car sped away. No license plate, but he wasn’t going to forget either of the men.

* * *

Alana sucked in a full breath of salty sea air and moved to sit up. Someone put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy.”

She blinked, and the man came into focus. An EMT. “What...?” She didn’t have the energy to get more words out than that. And why did she think Locke should be here, standing among the crowd of people and a grim-looking lifeguard?

Alana waved off the pressure cuff and sat up. A sharp stab in her side hitched through her like she’d been nicked at exactly that second. “Ouch.” She touched her waist and felt the slit in her rash guard. When she brought her hand away, her fingers had blood mixed with sand on them. She’d been injured surfing before, but never like this.

A black-gloved hand.

“He grabbed my leg.”

Locke pushed through the crowd. “The perp drove away with a friend. Old car, no plates.” He stood over her in his running clothes, his wet shirt clinging to his dark skin. His eyes were filled with concern.

“You went in the water?”

He shrugged, not happy. “I had to get you out.”

Like that was supposed to be obvious to her? She was in trouble, so he’d retrieved her. No big deal. Alana sighed and let the EMT help her to her feet. She swayed a little, and the EMT held her steady. Not the man she wanted, not the one who would never give her even one indication he might feel the same way she did. Locke kept things completely neutral between them.

And then he jumped in the ocean to save her.

But that wasn’t what she wanted to occupy her thoughts with right now. As they walked she glanced over her shoulder at Locke. Her colleague shook the lifeguard’s hand and then brought up the rear with the second EMT, who carried a bulky bag.

The EMT beside her said, “We’ll get you to the bus and patch up that cut. See if you need stitches.”

Alana shook her head. “I won’t.” Not to mention she didn’t want them to call in the local cops. No way. She’d been avoiding that since she got here, and intended to escape the island unscathed by the wrath of her brother. Seeing Sergeant Ray Preston wasn’t on her to-do list.

The EMT didn’t seem to believe her, so Alana said, “I’m serious. I’ve had a lot of surfing injuries—reef rash, jellyfish. I know cuts, and I know this one isn’t deep enough to need stitches.”

Locke’s voice cut over whatever the EMT had been about to say. “He’s still going to check it out, Preston.”

Great. Now they were back to last names—hers at least. Everyone called him Locke.

Alana wanted to roll her eyes. She hated when he called her Preston, like she was just another one of the guys. A growl emerged from her throat, but she tamped it down. The EMTs didn’t need to know she was mad.

“Wait.” The EMT slowed for a step. “Preston? Alana Preston?”

“Yeah.” Alana said it on a sigh. He probably knew her brother.

“No way! My sister thought you were aces. Still does. Kept all her old surfing posters of you. She has the board my dad got her one Christmas that matched yours. She never went surfing, though, just kept it in her room. She’s graduating from U of H this summer. She’s gonna be a vet.”

“Awesome.” She shared a smile with the EMT, though the thought of a younger sibling hitting a milestone was bittersweet. She hadn’t seen her sister, Kaylee, either. Not because she didn’t want to. It was Kaylee who’d told her she never wanted to see her again.

And the last time Alana had seen her brother, Ray hadn’t been much nicer than that.

Alana climbed in the ambulance and lay down on the stretcher. Her fingers wouldn’t stay still, no matter how much she squeezed them together. Hopefully Locke wouldn’t notice. Was he going to file a report? Dumb question. Of course he was—with the police and the Secret Service. Her reaction would be noted, and that note would go in her file. She had to act calm. Cool. She needed something to think about other than the black glove as it gripped her ankle and pulled her into the water.

Locke stood just beyond the step, arms folded across his lean chest. What was he mad about? Was it the attack—like that was her fault—or the EMT knowing who she was?

Maybe he didn’t like the fact the other man knew she’d been a competitive surfer. It wasn’t like she hid it, though she didn’t talk about it too much. It was in her file, but it was unique to her and people often asked her about it. Occasionally she’d meet a fan of hers from way back, like this EMT and his sister. And why not? She’d done something not many people had. Why did Locke have to be such a downer about it?

Alana wasn’t going to back down. “What’s up with—” The EMT wiped her injury, and she gasped. “Ow. That hurt.”

Locke’s frown shifted into an almost smile. It was about as much of a smile as he ever gave anyone, so she counted it as one. Because she was acting like a baby instead of sucking it up like a real Secret Service agent? She didn’t know why that would be funny.

“I’m not saying sorry.” The EMT kept his gaze on her cut. “But you’re right, it isn’t bad.” He slapped cream and some gauze over it that he taped down. “All done.”

“Great.” She shifted to the edge of the bed. The quicker this was over, the quicker they could get to their morning meeting. They’d be late if the police took too long taking her and Locke’s statements.

Locke held up one hand. “Not so fast.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” the EMT said. “You’ve gotta keep that dry. Take care of it, or you’ll have to see a doctor.”

Locke shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant.” His gaze zeroed in on her, and she didn’t like it one bit. “Someone just tried to kill you.”

TWO

Locke ignored the bright Hawaiian sun and threw the car in Park outside the residence they were due at in ten minutes. He couldn’t believe Alana was brushing off what had happened to her. It was like she didn’t even care, or was trying to prove to herself she didn’t care.

They’d stopped for coffee after giving the police their statements and going to the morning briefing. At the police station, Locke had looked through mug shots trying to identify the men he’d seen. While he’d been searching fruitlessly through the police’s database, Alana had chatted with every cop in the building like they were old friends.

And yet every time the door had opened, she’d clammed up. Was she on edge because she’d been attacked, or was she not so excited at the prospect of seeing her brother? Ray Preston was a police sergeant, but he hadn’t shown up. Maybe he didn’t want to. Still, Locke figured it was just a matter of time before he did.

Maybe those cops had been old friends of hers. And maybe jealousy wasn’t ugly like he’d thought, but that was probably just Locke kidding himself. He should probably just tell her he was attracted to her so she could tell him that no way on earth would she fall for her uptight team leader, and then he could move on with his life.

That would surely be easier than wondering for a split-second what might have been, followed by convincing himself that dating in this job was the worst idea—which it was.

Locke sighed. They had a lot of work to do before Air Force One’s arrival, and she’d promised that if she needed a break she’d tell him. What else could he ask for? Still, she acted like it was no big deal that she’d nearly died, while Locke could barely breathe he was thinking about it so much.

Who was that Asian man who’d targeted her? Why try to kill her in the ocean? The police had issued a BOLO for both the car and his description of the two men. Locke wanted to be out looking for them, but they had Secret Service duties to attend to.

He glanced at her, pleased her color had come back, at least. He motioned toward the house and decided it was time to test the rookie. “Tell me about this one.”

Locke didn’t miss the face she made. Alana glanced up from the iPad in her lap and looked around at the street he’d parked on in Wainaku, just off the beach on the other side of the island from their hotel. On screen was the file she’d been reading over.

Alana frowned and then shifted in her seat to look out the back window. She wore black pants and a light blue blouse now, her hair pulled back. No earrings—they could get caught on something if a situation occurred. If he hadn’t seen it just hours ago, he wouldn’t think she had nearly died that morning. But she had, and he couldn’t forget it.

“I rode my bike this way to get to school.” Her Hawaiian heritage showed in the almond color of her hair and those peaked eyebrows. She was beautiful—not that Locke had made a point to notice. She was both his subordinate and five years younger than him. Even if he had time for a relationship women were too much work, and he had a president to protect.

Keep telling yourself that.

Alana said, “Does Beatrice Colburn live here now?”

She looked lost in childhood memories. “What does the file say?”

“House number is 456. It’s the right one.” Alana paused for a moment. Locke didn’t even try to figure out what she was thinking.

He grabbed the door handle on his side. “Let’s get on with this.”

They had visited three people since the briefing. Beatrice was the fourth, and it was still early. Before POTUS landed at Hilo airport, they had to visit anyone who’d ever been flagged by the Secret Service’s intelligence division. Anyone who’d written a threatening letter to the president was entered into a file. If they had the means or the inclination to actually carry out the threat, they were of particular interest to the Secret Service.