Eggsecutive Orders Read Free

up with excuse after excuse. I knew my mother was a reluctant flyer, and my nana had never been on a plane. Fear of the unknown kept them in Chicago, and now that I’d finally convinced them to come visit me, I should have been ecstatic.
    I wasn’t. I was panicked. Today was now in turmoil. I had planned to get breakfast finished and lunch started before heading to the airport to pick up my family. Instead, I was racing along the streets of D.C. in a specially armored limo because one of the guests I’d fed last night was dead.
    I leaned toward the bulletproof glass and tried to see the sky. God, I hoped their plane wasn’t delayed. It might be all the reason they needed to cancel the trip.
    “My cell phone!”
    The agent next to me startled at my exclamation.
    I grabbed at my purse. Even as I pawed through its cavernous pockets, my heart dropped. The early morning call from Paul had thrown me off and I’d left the cell phone charging at home.
    How would my mother get in touch with me?
    I gripped my hands into fists and shut my eyes against the frustration of it all. Now she wouldn’t be able to reach me.
    “We have to go back,” I said.
    The agent next to me shook his head.
    “My cell phone,” I said again, in case he’d missed my distress. “I forgot it.”
    “You’ll have to do without.”
    “But my mother is—”
    “Sorry, Ms. Paras. Our orders are to bring you in as quickly as possible.”
    Oblivious to my concerns, the agent in the passenger seat spoke into a microphone. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I wasn’t focused on him as much as I was on my own irritation. Great. Of all days to leave my cell at home, I’d picked the absolute worst. Not only did I not know what was in store for me, I wouldn’t know how Mom and Nana were progressing on their trip. I would be incommunicado until these agents saw fit to set me free. I would have to make other arrangements for my family, but at this moment, I couldn’t quite figure out how.
    Lost in my ruminations, I didn’t catch what the driver said, but the next thing I knew bright lights surrounded us and a crowd of news media swarmed the car. They glowed like ethereal monsters clawing and reaching, shoving cameras and microphones at the bulletproof glass. I shrunk down in my seat as spotlights swept the car’s interior. For the first time, I wished it was still storming. Then maybe these vultures would disappear. Dissolve on the ground like a hundred Wicked Witches of the West. But instead of stealing their brooms and handing them off to the Wizard of Oz, I’d be content to grab their microphones and crush them beneath my heel.
    I hadn’t had the happiest relationship with the press since my promotion to executive chef. They liked to portray me as a lucky bumbler. It didn’t matter that I’d won awards, or that my menus were respected by prestigious culinary experts. What mattered was that I’d gotten myself in the middle of an assassination plot, and followed that up with a disastrous—though ultimately laudable—holiday spectacle. In order to sell newspapers and magazines, they’d portrayed me as either a good-luck charm for this administration, or as a fumbling cook who fed the First Family and, between courses, fought off assassins.
    The press didn’t know the real me. But the First Family did. What I wanted, more than anything, was for my mom to see me in my element. To understand that I was not just a cook, but a respected member of the White House staff.
    I rubbed my forehead as we pulled through the security gates. This wasn’t what I’d hoped for when my mom came to visit. For a chef, this situation—a dead dinner guest—couldn’t be worse.

CHAPTER 3

    TWO AGENTS ACCOMPANIED ME TO A UTILITARIAN office on the second floor of the East Wing. Although it was no larger than ten by twelve, the area felt cavernous with its high ceilings and spartan furnishings. Blue-draped windows, white walls, and a man at a desk, scribbling. Two