Homefront Defenders. Lisa Phillips

       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