Moving on.
I’m less happy to hear that up until recently child jockeys as young as six years old were used in racing up, and that practice is still legal in some countries. It’s linked with people trafficking and twenty-first century slavery.
Fucking people. Give me camels any day. Although I wonder how many times I’ll have to dry-clean my suit to get the stench of eau de camel out of it. Nabila stinks like a goat. Or camel.
I spend another hour reading up on my latest client until exhaustion takes me. I fall asleep dreaming of big brown eyes fringed with long lashes and a strong propensity to spit.
THE NEXT MORNING, I’m up before dawn, but still later than most of the men working here. I guess they get going when it’s slightly cooler, and by that I mean 70oF instead of 89oF. In the summer, the mercury regularly tops 110oF.
I’m wearing my desert camos, civilian style, but I’m still armed. Mason got permission for me to bring my favorite Smith & Wesson M&P with me as a side weapon. Not that I need it here, but we all like what’s familiar. One guy in my platoon used to take his own pillow with him wherever he went. Said he slept like a baby with that piece of foam.
I take a peek at my en suite arsenal and pick out a newish AK-103. Not a bad weapon.
With Nabila’s handler on duty grooming her, and the black-clad bodyguards standing outside the stable, I have a free hour to go down to Talal’s firing range and make sure I know everything there is to know about my AK-103.
None of Talal’s men seem to speak English, or if they do, they’re not practicing their linguistic talents on me. But that’s fine. I watch and I learn, picking up the rhythms of stable life.
One of the ANA guys I got to know when I was in the sandbox, said that Allah gave us two eyes, two ears and one mouth, so we should watch and listen twice as much as we talk. Smart guy.
I follow in an ATV as Nabila is exercised and pampered. Her trainer is a young guy of about 18 who seems terrified of me, backing away whenever he sees me. But he’s kind to Nabila, encouraging her and talking to her. I kinda hope the kid goes with Nabila to her new home or he’s gonna be joining the Lonely Hearts for Camel Lovers website.
Even so, I watch him closely as Nabila’s post-exercise food is weighed out, then I examine it carefully through a magnifying glass. Then there’s a test for common poisons, and, finally, it’s fed to a chicken that’s specially brought in for the occasion. When the bird is still scratching around in its cage after 15 minutes, the food is given to Nabila. I’m pretty happy about that, because I was wondering if my next job was to be official taste-tester to a camel.
Nabila is not happy to be kept waiting. I have to say, she’s kind of a diva.
It’s been a long day, and Nabila and I are ready to hit the sack, or straw, in her case. The stable is locked and the alarm set, but I also have a code number that overrides all the systems in the event of a fire or armed attack.
I’m therefore more than a little surprised to see a beautiful woman standing in my bedroom, her dark eyes watching me dispassionately.
I don’t think she’s armed since the silk robe she’s wearing doesn’t cover much at all, but I draw my Smith & Wesson and point it at her, just in case. Women are weapons of mass destruction all on their own.
“You don’t need your gun, Mr. Trainer,” she says in a husky voice. “But you might need your … weapon.”
I’m not seeing the funny side. How the fuck did she get into a high security facility … into my private space.
“Relax,” she says, slinking over to the bed and taking a pose right out of a high-class porn movie. “His Royal Highness sent me. He thought you might need some company.”
She could be telling the truth. The Prince could have hired her to check how much I have my mind on the job. On the other hand, she could also be something much more lethal.
Either way, I want her out of here.
“I’m calling bullshit, lady. I’m also calling security.”
“You seem tense,” she says, her voice only slightly accented. “I can help you with that.”
Her eyes widen as I reach across to press the stable’s silent alarm that will bring security running.
“Don’t! Please!”
I pause, my hand hovering over the button.
“Talk.”
“His Royal Highness really did send me. I’m … a gift.”
A gift or a test?
She pulls open her robe. Nope, not even slightly interested. I prefer my women uncomplicated these days.
I press the button and her lips turn down, a look of fear on her face.
The guards arrive quickly and guess who else? It’s not Talal, but the Little Prince, malicious intent darkening his face. The woman shouts something at him, her tone begging. He gazes at her dismissively as she’s dragged away still begging for his help. They definitely know each other.
Now why would the little shit want to harm Nabila? And what’s Big Daddy going to say about it?
But I’m left in the dark. After the woman is taken away, no one comes to tell me what’s happening. I can’t leave the stable in case someone takes it as a gift-wrapped opportunity, and I don’t know who to trust.
Finally, Nabila falls asleep. I’m wide awake, on edge and pissed. I message Mason with an update and a request that he finds out what the fuck is going on.
The next morning, I’m tired and gritty-eyed, feeling mean as shit and possibly feral. All the guards avoid me as if I’ve suddenly contracted plague or a severe case of unpopularity. Nabila’s handler starts to pray when he sees me, which is slightly unnerving. I don’t see Talal or the Little Prince, and I’m left to carry on with my duties.
Eventually, I hear back from Mason. It’s all being hushed up, but Nayef has been sent back to school in the UK and his mistress has been banished. Yup, the fifteen year-old with the Roller and bad attitude has a mistress on the pay roll. Well, ex-mistress. Turns out that wasn’t enough for the little asswipe, and he’d wanted Nabila, too. When Big Daddy finally said ‘no’, he decided to get his own back.
I’m stuck in a half-world where Talal can’t stand the sight of me because his son’s betrayal has shamed him, and I’m the lucky asshole who knows the truth. But he still wants me around to ensure Nabila’s safety. He obviously doesn’t trust his spawn not to take revenge anyway.
I spend a lot of time thinking about that, how sometimes your family turns out to be your worst enemy.
Chapter 3
Jarhead
I’M CONTEMPLATING THE meaning of life. Philosophical questions. You know, deep shit that you only find at the bottom of a cold bottle of Bud.
It’s the kind of peace that comes at the end of a long, tough job, and being able to relax for the first time in months.
I’ve only been back in New York for a few hours, and I’m fully appreciating the cool temperature and the cooler beer. These things matter when you’ve been working in an alcohol-free desert state. After Nabila won Saudi’s Next Top Model, I had three days to visit Lilly, then it was another top-paying job in Qatar for a month. Well, it was supposed to pay top dollar, but the op didn’t work out too well, or to use the official Marines term, it was completely FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition. I’m ready for some down time, but not too much.
Time to think doesn’t suit me—too many bad memories.
I did twelve years with the Marines before I decided to call it quits. It was another year before I was allowed to leave: lucky-thirteen. Joined the day I graduated high school and never wanted to do anything else. I did tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, Germany and Hawaii. That last one was really dangerous—a lot of hot women in bikinis could be considered a temptation to a married man.
But I never cheated. Not once. And leaving the Marines was supposed to be the start of a new life for me and Carla, a.k.a. Super Bitch.
The day I got home was the day she tossed me right back out again. I didn’t even get to kiss my daughter hello before I was kicked to the cu
rb.
It was a good thing I had Mason on speed dial, because what else was I going to do? Get some night security job and bore everyone with stories about firefights I’ve known and loved?
The work is varied and rarely as dangerous as being a Marine. Pays a lot better than being a Jarhead, too.
So the target, um, client might change, but the job is pretty much the same in any country in the world, and there are only four lines in a bodyguard’s job description that matter:
1.Ensure the safety of the client.
2.Ensure areas are kept secure and all personnel have been approved.
3.Provide crowd control.
4.Observe location and situations for potential dangers.
To be good at my job, I need organizational skills, attention to detail and patience. I have two out of three of those.
I’ve been asked to score drugs and hookers. It’s easy to find out who’s providing that particular service: hotel concierges always know. I might not like it, but it comes with the territory.
Memories scroll across my brain, some better than others, none that I want to revisit.
I twist the cap off another bottle and get more comfortable on the hard hotel mattress while I watch a ball game.
I’ve also got a postcard next to me that I was planning to send to Lilly. It’s got a picture of a goofy-looking camel that will appeal to a six year-old’s sense of humor. I didn’t get to mail it before I flew home, but I think I’ll still send it.
I’ve been sending her postcards since before she could read. I just want her to know that wherever I am in the world, her old man is thinking of her.
The phone rings in the last innings of a Yankees game. I consider leaving it, but old habits die hard. I check the number and withhold a sigh.
“You checking up on me already, Mason? I’m touched.”
“I might have something for you.”
I sit up straighter. I could really use a new job. Lilly’s latest dental appointments, ballet classes, karate classes and upcoming summer camp costs have diminished my bank account, since most of my wages from Saudi are now padding out Lilly’s college fund. At this rate, she’ll be going to Harvard. But the last guy, the Qatari businessman went and died on me—natural causes—so Mason didn’t get paid which means I don’t get paid, and I’m out of work until something else comes in. I’d rather take an interesting job, but right now, I’ll consider almost anything. As long as I get this weekend to see my baby.
“What’s the job?”
“A new client. A businessman who’s just made his first billion. Hotshot entrepreneur, operating out of Manhattan. There have been some non-specific threats against him recently, to do with redundancies at a factory he bought in Michigan. Nothing serious, but now he’s in the super-rich league, he’ll need 24/7. You interested?”
Yeah, I’m interested. The Big Apple is only a couple of hours from where Lilly and the soon-to-be-ex live. I could see my baby more often. I’m certain Mason has that in mind, but no way I’m admitting it to him. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
“What’s the catch?”
Mason laughs.
“You don’t change, Trainer.”
Not true. I tried crunchy peanut butter. Once.
“Well, I don’t know that there is a catch. I’m still doing some deep background checks on him, and apart from some normal hijinks when he was a teenager, and the fact that he dropped out of his expensive private college—no reason given—I’m coming up empty. His name is Devon Miguel Anderson, single, twenty-nine years old, gay. That a problem?”
Shit! A baby-sitting job?
A guy that age with more money than everyone except Bill Gates and God—maybe. It’s a recipe for disaster. I can guess what’s coming: fast cars, fast dates, drugs and debauchery—all the kind of shit that is dangerous and difficult for the poor slob who’s hired to keep the fucker safe.
“It’s not what you think, Trainer,” says Mason, guessing my thoughts. “He needs personal protection and someone running point on security at his homes and office building. Just meet the man, then make up your own mind.”
Fair enough.
“Okay, give me the time and location.”
“Seventeen-hundred hours at his office on Monday. And you’ll need to sign an NDA before you speak to him.”
I shrug. The type of people I work for spit out Non-Disclosure Agreements like old chewing gum.
“Wait till you hear what he’s prepared to pay—plus dental and health for you and your family.”
Mason gives me a figure, and I whistle. It’s fifty percent more than I got working for Saudi royalty, and that was tax free. But the amount makes me nervous, too. Someone who pays that much must have something to hide. Is he trying to buy my silence?
Mason emails the NDA, gives me a downtown address and hangs up. I go back to the Yankees game. They’ve just lost. Again. Maybe this won’t be their year.
I check my watch, staring at the date. April 1st. Is it a sign?
But tomorrow, I have a few hours with my baby girl.
WHEN LILLY SEES me, she half runs, half skips down the driveway yelling, “Daddy! Daddy!”
It’s a bittersweet moment, seeing my gorgeous girl and also knowing that I’m just a peripheral part of her life.
I kneel down, and she throws her chubby arms around my neck so I can bury my face in her soft curls. I can’t get enough of that.
“Hey, baby girl! I think you grew again. Got a kiss for your daddy?”
She plants a loud, wet kiss on my cheek then wrinkles her button nose.
“Ugh! Prickles, daddy!” and she rubs one finger cautiously over the faint stubble that’s grown since this morning.
I look up when I feel eyes watching me.
“Justin.”
“Carla. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Good.”
She sighs.
“Still the great conversationalist, Justin.”
I ignore her and take Lilly’s hand in mine.
“Ready to have some fun, Princess?”
She grins up at me and my day is a thousand times better.
We drink milkshakes, eat burgers, go to the park and play on the swings. Well, Lilly plays—those tiny ass seats definitely aren’t made for adults.
Carla is always saying that Lilly is like her, a girly-girl who loves nail polish and hair clips, glittery shoes and frou-frou dresses, and that’s all true; but Lilly is also my daughter, and she’s brave and strong, and always wants the swings to go higher and faster, climbs trees and jungle gyms, and gets her knees muddy and her clothes messed up. See, my girl.
The day is too short and when I take her home, I tune out Carla’s complaints.
I’m still getting used to leaving. Carla and I bought that house together, made dreams, lived and loved there. Well, one of us did. Now, I’m on the outside, unwanted like a stray dog that can’t take a hint; definitely unloved. I suspect there’s someone else, but she’s never admitted it. I don’t care anymore. I only care about seeing my baby girl.
If I have to work as close protection for some billionaire asshole just to be near my Princess, then that’s what I’ll do.
ON A DULL MONDAY afternoon, I’m booted and suited and on my way to meet this Devon Miguel Anderson kid. Jeez, that name is a mouthful-and-a-half. Poor kid learning to John Hancock that.
I Googled him last night and found a lot of fluff stories, but not a single serious interview. All the usual stuff: so rich, so young; some about his family—upper middle class—his mom is a homemaker and his dad’s a stockbroker—figures; he’s got a sister who’s a freshman in an expensive private college. Sure, he does. These rich types keep the money in the family.
But there was nothing about his private life, nothing about who’s he’s been seen with or dated. Reading the reports, I wouldn’t even know that he was gay, and I wonder how Mason got that intel. I could ask him, but I doubt he’d tell me his sourc
e.
The twenty-story construction of DMA Solutions is almost new enough for me to leave handprints in the concrete, and I admit I’m impressed to see that Anderson owns the whole building. A classy receptionist in a tight-fitting gray suit gives me a security tag and sends me up to the top floor. From what I can see of the security guards and CCTV in the foyer, it’s a pretty tight ship.
Anderson’s assistant is waiting for me when the elevator doors open. Also in gray.
“This way, Mr. Trainer. I’m Ryan Parker, Mr. Anderson’s Personal Assistant. May I offer you refreshments? Tea, coffee, water?”
“No, thanks.”
He shows me into a large office, and I get my first look at the kid.
He’s taller than I expected, and I can tell by looking at him that he’s built of hard muscle. He obviously works out. His eyes are cool and assessing me as thoroughly as I’m assessing him. When he shakes hands, I can feel calluses.
His suit looks expensive. Hell, everything in his office looks expensive, from the original art on the walls, and a landscape that could be a Monet or a Manet or something that begins with M.
It’s subtle, no bling, but it’s there—the wealth and power. And the Lower Manhattan address overlooking Battery Park is worth a mint.
He points me to a seat and I take the chair opposite his desk. He may be young but I was wrong to call him a kid: there’s something about his eyes … they remind me of men I served with in Iraq, men who’d seen too much.
Interesting.
I wait for him to speak.
“Mason tells me I need personal protection and that you have experience in that area.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hasn’t asked me a question yet, but he’s watching my expression. I keep it parked in neutral. I can keep that shit up all day.
“My schedule is busy and it can change very quickly. I need someone who can be flexible. I understand you’re separated from your wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So 24/7 wouldn’t be a problem?”
Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 3