Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  I’m trying to write a postcard to Lilly. It’s got a picture of Buckingham Palace, but Rayment keeps interrupting me, insisting that I need to be ‘educated’.

  So far we’ve done currency. I’ve learned that a pony is £25. A monkey is £500. A ton is £100, but if you drive ton-up, you’re breaking the speed limit at 100 plus mph.

  And £1 is a pound, quid or knicker. It would be legitimate for a bloke to say to a mate, “Here’s the ten knicker what I owes you.”

  Okay, so I have to admit that my blood-alcohol level wouldn’t bear very close investigation at this precise moment in time, but what the fuck? It’s an evening off. And nothing against Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, but going with someone else on their honeymoon officially blows.

  The boss is getting it left right and center—probably—and all I get is a couple of minutes Facetime with the lovely and very-far-away Rachel. My balls will be bluer than the Queen’s carpet.

  Anderson is totally in love, and Maria … Mrs. Anderson … is totally adoring. Which adds up to totally sickening for the poor sap—that’d be me—who has to follow their every loving, ever-loving steps. Except for tonight.

  Rayment’s beta team is on the case, escorting the happy couple to a performance of the Merry Widow at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, which seems to be tempting fate I’d say. But since no one asked for my opinion, I’m getting quietly wasted in a soccer-themed pub where the photographs are of some dude named Nobby Stiles. Not wanting to cause an international issue, but Nobby? Does that sound like a famous soccer player?

  It kinda reminds me of when I was a kid and I wanted a really cool nickname. I got my friend Dylan to call me Hawkeye for a whole year. Fuck, I loved that nickname. I could see myself running wild through the woods, hunting with the Mohicans and all that. Until my teacher, Miss Van Hendon (known to us as Van Helsing), told me that Hawthorne’s character Hawkeye had a White name, too—Natty Bumppo. I was only ten, but even then I didn’t think it was possible to have a more uncool name. Seriously. No one called me Hawkeye after that.

  It’s been a long day. The intrepid honeymooners have visited Whitechapel, following the trail of Jack the Ripper. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but following the route taken by a serial killer 120 something years ago doesn’t constitute my idea of honeymoon heaven. It seemed macabre to my way of thinking, but then again Mrs. A. has just married Mr. I-had-a-dungeon-in-my-penthouse. Go figure.

  But when the tour guide started going into a considerable amount of grisly detail that made Maria look nauseous, I’d had enough. Anderson was scowling and about to throw an epic shit fit in the middle of the cobbled street. I decided to have a quiet word in the guide’s ear, explaining that if he continued describing the murders in graphic anatomical detail, he’d soon be feeling said anatomical detail via the toe of my boot.

  Discreet. That’s me.

  I hadn’t expected to like London so much. A city is a city, right? But here history really is all around you. Something built a couple of hundred years ago is practically brand new. The Whitechapel tour included a run down to Wapping and Ratcliffe Lane which was originally ‘red cliff’ because of the color of the soil, another site of notorious murders and not far from a pub where pirates were hanged five hundred years ago. Five hundred goddamn years ago! The pub’s still there, although they don’t stick heads on spikes anymore. But if Anderson catches anyone else staring at his new wife, it might come back in fashion.

  We walked past part of an old Roman Wall when Maria wanted to visit the Tower of London. It felt weird. Two thousand years of history as we watched the Thames float past. It screws with your brain.

  Anderson arranged for Maria to get an individual guided tour after the Tower had closed. I organized a boat to take them in via the river entrance named Traitors’ Gate. Maria got a kick out of that, and I got a kick out of seeing her so happy. And as for the boss, it’s kinda scary seeing him baring his teeth all the time.

  So, yeah, the happy couple did all the touristy things, and Rayment had all the local knowledge to make it happen.

  “So, you must like your gaffer, because you’ve been with him a while now, huh, JT?”

  “Yep, nearly eighteen months.”

  Jeez.

  “The wife seems nice.”

  I had the same thought when I first met Maria, but she’s so much more than that. She’s got the Scion of Sorrow singing a new tune and it’s good to see. I know he still gets nightmares, but it’s not nearly as often now. Maria is beating back his demons one by one.

  I don’t want to talk about the boss anymore, and Rayment knows when he’s being shut down.

  “So, what you been up to, Jimbo? Work gone quiet?”

  “Is that a bleedin’ joke, JT? Nah, it’s been full on. I’ve just given up doing celebrities. Lost me fuckin’ nerve, din’ I.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I can’t imagine Rayment losing his nerve. What the fuck?

  “I used to do a lot of red carpet work, but it’s put more gray hairs on me head than Desert Storm. Seriously, mate, when you’ve got crowds like that and all that’s keeping them back is a poxy rope and a couple of bollards, all it would take would be one tiny thing to set it off. Then you haven’t got a crowd of fans, you’ve got a howling mob. You don’t know if someone’s got a gun, a knife, a hypodermic needle. It’s a bleedin’ nightmare waiting to happen. I know, I know. If the security have the surroundings controlled and there are good physical measures in place, fencing for a start, then it’s a matter of managing expectation between me and my team, venue security and the principal. How much space do they need? Are they to be photographed without protection in shot? Are fans searched prior to entry? Who needs that kind of crap in their lives? Know what I mean?”

  He shakes his head, and I can completely understand where he’s coming from. It’s the ultimate nightmare of close protection work—that you won’t be able to control the situation. We spend our lives trying to control the uncontrollable, trying to outguess the unexpected. The boss likes to be low-key which makes my job a helluva lot easier. But I never forget that he’s a potential target. He’s a billionaire, and that makes him visible. Maria is a billionaire’s wife—that makes her a target. I don’t even know if she’s realized that from now on her life will be lived in a gilded cage.

  “What’s keeping you off of the streets now then, Jim?”

  “More your sort of work: security for high value-low profile peeps. There’s no shortage of one-offs for people like me. Next month, I’ll be out in Libya looking after some French geologists who are scoping out new oil wells. Then I’ve got two months in Nigeria. That’ll be grim, but it pays well. This is a picnic by comparison.”

  He sees the expression on my face.

  “Don’t worry, JT. My team has your boss covered. There won’t be any slip-ups, not on my watch. Wiltshire tomorrow, right? We’ve got two cars as well as the four-by-four that mister and missus will be riding in. More under the radar than a limo. I like the way Anderson thinks.”

  That is a scary thought.

  “You want to ride upfront or with the happy couple, JT?”

  “Yep. I’m with the Andersons. Who’s driving?”

  “Dead Ed.”

  “Okay.”

  ‘Dead Ed’ is one of the best on Rayment’s team. I don’t ask how he got his nickname—some British humor just doesn’t translate. Although the guy does remind me of a zombie. You know the kind, where the head has been bolted on backwards. He’s freaky, but he’s a damn good driver. Especially in a country where they all drive on the wrong side of the road. And so many damn roundabouts! Who the hell invented those and what were they on at the time? And mini roundabouts, or double mini roundabouts. Too fucking weird.

  So our driver is ‘Dead Ed’. I worry about Rayment’s sense of humor. And fuck me, the jokes were bad.

  “You’ll like this one, JT. Last night there was a big fight in our local fish and chip shop—a lot of fish got battered.”
<
br />   Yeah. Like I said.

  I was too tired to reply when I heard him mutter under his breath, “Bloody colonials.”

  But just to prove that we all carry our problems with us, when I get back to the hotel, Mason calls me.

  “Trainer, Howard is closing in on the blackmailer. Plus, I’ve dug up some more dirt on Landon. It’s looking ninety percent certain that he’s the one pulling the strings.”

  Fuck. I knew this was going to be bad.

  “What do you want me to tell Anderson?”

  Million dollar question.

  “Nothing right now. Not until we’ve got concrete information to give him. The poor bastard’s on his honeymoon. I don’t want to give him ‘maybe’ or ‘could be’. When we know something for sure, yeah, then I’ll tell him.”

  “He won’t like you keeping information from him.”

  “Don’t I fucking know it, but right now information is what we’re short of. But just to be on the safe side, ramp up the security at all sites. And tell Howard.”

  “Okay, Trainer. Your call.”

  Yeah, my call.

  I CAN SEE that Rayment is falling under Maria’s spell, too. He’s met Anderson before so he knows what a double-hard bastard he is, but now his assessment of Maria being a ‘sweet kid’ is being re-evaluated. Rayment’s a smart guy and he can see the dynamics at work. Anderson might think he’s calling the shots, but Maria is the one in charge.

  After a full day of sightseeing at Stonehenge and Avebury stone circles (although we avoided any ritual sacrifice), Maria looks exhausted. That brings out Rayment’s protective side, and I can’t help raising an eyebrow as he grumbles about ‘that little girl’ being all worn out. He glares at Anderson. It’s pretty fucking funny. If you’re me.

  The drive back to the hotel is quiet. We’re still in a convoy of three cars with the SUV in the middle. Rayment calls it a four-by-four, which as it doesn’t have sixteen wheels, makes no sense to me whatso-fucking-ever.

  Rayment’s team has been discreet during the trip. The last thing Anderson wanted was for Maria to feel like she was being watched all the time—which she is, of course. But I can do discreet, too. I wasn’t born wearing a shit hot, made-to-measure suit. I can do casual. You’re not going to catch me in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, because that shit just isn’t cool, but my woman got me a couple of pairs of chinos and some polo shirts. The Smith & Wesson kinda stands out, even under a linen jacket, but I am not going anywhere without my weapon. Anderson hates it.

  There are a few details to iron out for the next leg of the honeymoon to Italy. The security will consist of ex-Legionnaires who served in the first Gulf War and Sarajevo. That was a bad fucking business. It’ll be interesting to meet them. Mason says they’re the best. They mostly work out of Dubai these days, but Mason pulled some strings.

  We’re traveling to Italy by train, the Eurostar to Paris and then picking up another fast service to end up in Sorrento, then a short boat trip to the island of Capri. I don’t know if the boss is trying to do trains, planes and automobiles, or if he just wants to fuck on other forms of transport. I don’t give a shit. What I do care about is that this Eurostar goes under the English Channel—that’s under the fucking ocean. I know, I’m a Marine—but we go on the ocean—on the fucking ocean. I am not a fucking submariner. That shit is just wrong on so many levels. I don’t even like going in the Holland Tunnel, but at least that’s only a mile and a half long. The Channel Tunnel is over twenty miles. Shit. That makes me nervous. If there’s an accident or a fire, there’s no way I can guarantee to get Maria and Anderson out.

  I shake away the dark thoughts and keep my eyes open as we effect the handover at Waterloo Station. And just to really put me off my fucking stride, I’ve got those irritating fucking Abba lyrics going around in my head.

  I’m having an out-of-body experience.

  Fuck me. I need a vacation. With all the shit that went down during the summer, the only leave I could take was that fantastic, long weekend with Rachel and Lilly.

  It was great having my two best girls getting to know each other, but not nearly long enough. Rachel taught Lilly to bake chocolate chip cookies. Lilly’s mom can’t bake anything. She burns water. Probably by staring at it.

  At Waterloo train station, I head out first to meet the French security who will be taking over from Rayment’s team.

  “JT, this is Marcel and Yves Dupont.”

  God help me, it’s the Thomson Twins. All I need now is Tintin and Snowy. Seriously? Did they use a cookie cutter to make these guys? Hardly the most discreet undercover security Mason and Rayment could find.

  My eyes swivel towards him, and the bastard is about ready to burst at the expression on my face.

  “Yeah I know, but don’t sweat it, JT. They know what they’re doing. Met up with them in Kuwait. Men, this is Justin Trainer, CPO for Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”

  “M’sieur,” says A.

  “Bonjour,” says B.

  “Why me?” says C (which is me).

  But I say it very, very quietly and determine to piss in Rayment’s shoes next time we meet up, maybe rig up a boobytrap involving blackpowder and dog shit. Choices, choices.

  We shake hands, and Rayment signals he’s out of here. I see relief on his face. I know where he’s coming from: any job where you or the client doesn’t get killed is another that you’ve won. He gets paid, he goes home. Job done.

  There’s a certain satisfaction in being able to hand over the responsibility. I don’t say anything to Rachel, but I think she gets what it’s like for me. I’m never off duty, not really. Whether I’m with her, or with Lilly, I’m still working. Anderson is pretty fair about it, but things still happen at the last minute. That’s what I’m paid for. But the weight gets heavy after a while.

  No one can do it forever, but the alternatives are boring and bleak.

  A few days ago, from her guidebook-of-really-weird-British-shit, Maria told us that they used to kill witches by laying them down and putting a large stone over them. Then they’d add another stone, and another, and another, until the weight of all the stones pressing down killed the alleged witch. Sometimes I feel like that—I feel the weight pressing down. I’m 33—can’t stay the hard man forever. No one can.

  Or maybe it’s just because this fucking train takes me under the ocean and I can feel the pressure of tons of water waiting to squash me like a tiny little bug.

  Maria and the boss have rented their own compartment which has a private bedroom. I wonder what the opposite of the mile high club is, because the ‘down under’ has connotations that I really don’t want to think about. And that’s not even taking into account Australians.

  I can’t blame Anderson—the bastard—but it leaves me fucking horny for Rachel. So when I call her that night, I’m really hoping for some phone sex.

  “Hey, baby. How are you?”

  “Oh! It’s so good to hear from you. I’m fine. I’m at Allison’s.”

  In the heart of the coven.

  “Yeah? Say hi from me. On second thought, don’t say anything, she’ll put a hex on me.”

  “Justin! That’s my sister you’re talking about!”

  “I know, baby, but it felt like she tried to rip out my entrails that time I ate her cooking.”

  She giggles. God, I love that sound.

  “I miss you, baby. I miss that sound you make when I…”

  “Is that so? I’ll have to see what I can do about that, but I’m actually standing in the middle of the grocery store at the moment.”

  Oh.

  “Allison says hi.”

  “Okay,” I mutter. “Keep a silver bullet handy.”

  “Bye, Justin!”

  “Bye, baby.”

  And she’s gone.

  Things go smoothly in Paris. We visit the Left Bank of the Seine which is opposite the Right Bank, and visit some art galleries. We visit the Tuileries Palace that doesn’t have a palace and look at some flowers. What
a shock. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the opera, the ballet. It all goes smoothly.

  And then we get to the South of Italy and the beautiful island of Capri.

  It’s hot. It’s sunny. The boss has rented a 120 foot yacht. It should be relaxing.

  But then my cell phone rings.

  “Hey, Pam. How are you?”

  “Peachy with a slice of pie,” she says dryly, and I wonder if the job has driven her to drink. “How’s it going on the love boat?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather chew off my foot up to my eyeballs than stay here with Anderson much longer, and I’m really looking forward to gray and rainy New York.”

  She sniggers.

  “I thought honeymoons were supposed to be romantic?”

  “I’m not on my honeymoon,” I remind her. “I’m working.”

  She sighs.

  “Yes, I know. About that. I need to speak to Devon. Is he available?”

  “Sure, Pam. Give me a minute.”

  LATER ON THAT afternoon, we discreetly follow Maria and Anderson through the crowds of tourists in the local town. It’s hard to stay focused when it feels like a damn vacation; too easy to relax and take your eye off the ball. Look at those amateurs who were guarding Kim Kardashian in Paris. There she is, flashing around the diamond bling, I mean ring, showing the world of social media that she has rocks in her head as well as on her hand, and her fucking security don’t even bother to check out the inadequate locks on the door of the apartment that she’s using. The place may as well have had a welcome mat for burglars.

  The woman and her ass were both traumatized, and her man thinks rapping about how hard he is will get the job done. It should never have happened.

  One guy I knew who was in this line of business used to put a small stone in his boot when he was working. Said the irritation kept him sharp. Mad fucker.

  The happy couple wander around some more the island, and I’m getting bored. Anderson doesn’t usually move this slowly and it’s fucking irritating. I can feel a headache coming on and I’ve really had enough of being away from home. I miss the large, gray skies of New York; I’ve missed too many of Lilly’s evening Facetime calls because of the time difference; I miss Rachel. Fuck, I miss her.