Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  “Prostitutes? Drugs?”

  He nods, and I take a deep breath.

  “Children?”

  He pauses, studying his manicured fingernails. “Teenagers.”

  And you were one of them.

  “But they were underage.”

  “Yes. I thought, when I bought the Farm, that if I hosted the parties I could stop … that. It probably still goes on,” he admits slowly, “but I’ve made sure that my gatherings are the best, the most outrageous, with the most desirable guests, but it’s consenting adults only. It’s for people who require a certain adventure, should I say, within safe boundaries.”

  “And you knew the filming was going on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you arrange the filming?”

  “Yes. It was how I managed to stop the underage participants. I had enough collateral to help people see that it was not in their interests to continue.”

  “You blackmailed your guests?!”

  I’m finding the conversation hard to follow.

  “Not at all. They never knew they were being filmed. I was persuasive without needing to resort to that.”

  “But you could have.”

  “Yes.”

  “So … what’s this? Is this blackmail real?”

  He runs his hands through his hair.

  “Oh, it’s real alright. I began to suspect that the filming was being intercepted and relayed from the Farm to … elsewhere. I’d always used a secure, closed circuit.”

  “And … you suspected Van Sant?”

  “He was the obvious candidate.”

  I fold my arms.

  “Too obvious?” I ask, pressing the point.

  “Possibly. I would have expected Aston to make a more direct approach. This cloak-and-daggers email doesn’t feel like him.”

  “So all along you’ve been expecting something like this. Is that why you hired me?”

  “That was part of it. But the other threats against me are real, too.” He grimaces. “Wealth and success brings out the bastard in most people.”

  And I don’t know if he’s talking about himself or other people. What a mindfuck.

  “Did you remove the recording devices, too?”

  “Of course.”

  I’m hanging on to my temper by a thread.

  “And you weren’t planning on sharing that information with me or Mason’s team?”

  He cocks his head on one side.

  “I needed to know that you weren’t part of the conspiracy.”

  My brain is beginning to throb nicely when Howard reappears.

  “Dude, that email was pinged halfway around the planet.”

  Probably not the planet Howard is on.

  “Epic, like Forrest Fen! But, you know, without the Rocky Mountains.”

  “Howard, did you find where it was sent from?”

  “Oh sure. Manhattan. Pretty boring.”

  I glance at Anderson, but his expressions is neutral as he stares out of the window.

  “Send the coordinates to Mason’s team.”

  “No, can do, Mr. T. He’s set a trip. If you pick him up, he’ll spam it to millions of networks. Dude is clever.”

  Anderson’s head snaps around.

  “Can you access his computer?”

  “Not legally.” Howard’s eyes spin with excitement. “But I can be inside within forty minutes. I’ll Trojan him and spike his circuitry. He won’t know what hit him. It’ll wipe out everything.”

  Howard cracks his knuckles as Anderson nods.

  Without looking at me, he gives his next order.

  “Have Mason’s men pick up Aston in 45 minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Finally, something I can call action.

  I’m halfway to the comms room when I get a call from Rachel.

  It’s odd. She normally just texts or I call her when I’m working so she doesn’t interrupt anything.

  “Rachel, honey, you okay?”

  “Justin…”

  Her voice is shaking.

  “Fuck, what is it?”

  “You need to tell Mr. Anderson to come home.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Please, Justin! Right now! It’s important!”

  She sounds upset. She sounds scared! My pulse is racing but I need to manage this situation. The words are so tight in my throat that I can hardly spit them out.

  “Okay, honey, keep calm. Just answer yes or no. Are you alone?”

  “No.”

  Fuck!

  “Is it a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “Ye—”

  I hear shouting in the background and the phone goes dead.

  Chapter 21

  Heartbreak Ridge

  MY HEART TRIPLE-TIMES. It’s a Marine’s worst nightmare, the people you love in danger when you’re not with them and there’s nothing you can do.

  I turn so quickly, an employee who was behind me in the corridor slams into my chest. I catch her elbow and set her upright against the wall, ignoring her squeak of surprise. Automatically, I check my Smith & Wesson as I run to the express elevator. Then I call Mason on my cell, cursing the slowness as I drop thirty floors.

  “There’s a lone male intruder at Wolf Point. Armed. And he’s got Rachel!”

  As I end the call, I can already hear him shouting orders.

  Mason’s team knows how to access Wolf Point and will get there faster than the police. Besides, I know Mason’s men and I trust them to handle any situation. They can back me up because Rachel needs me and I’m not letting anyone or anything get in my way.

  Then I violate every known traffic law on the way and screech into the underground garage.

  I take the service elevator, pulling my Smith & Wesson from the holster as the doors slide open with a soft rumble. I duck down automatically, but there’s no one there.

  Moving silently, I make my way into the main living area. And that’s when I see them.

  Rachel is seated on Anderson’s sectional, her ankles and wrists secured with zip ties, and standing over her, pointing a gun at my woman is Aston Van Sant.

  Rachel’s eyes widen when she sees me and she whimpers softly.

  Van Sant turns and frowns.

  “You’re not him. Where’s Devon?”

  I swallow, my throat dry, but when I speak, my voice is calm.

  “He’s on his way. He’ll be here soon. Why don’t you put the gun down, man?”

  He shakes his head slowly.

  “No. He has to come. He has to. I didn’t do it! He must know I didn’t do it! I’d never do something like that! I’d never try to hurt Devon!”

  I take a step forwards, but that’s too much for him, and he swings the gun back to Rachel.

  “Don’t come any closer!”

  At that moment, I hear the main elevator doors open and Anderson walks towards us cautiously.

  “He’s armed, sir!”

  Anderson holds out his hand, telling me silently to keep back. Rachel looks like she’s in shock, and the boss is only just reining it in.

  We all stare at each other. I’m less than a heartbeat from pulling the trigger. If Van Sant makes a move, I’ll take him down. If he touches one hair on Rachel’s head, I’ll take him down. If he even looks in Rachel’s direction, I’ll take him down.

  But then the boss’s face changes. The fear and uncertainty drop away, and his expression grows diamond hard.

  His voice is a harsh whisper, an order cracking like a whip.

  “Aston! Stop this!”

  Van Sant hesitates, his arm wavering, then he lowers the gun and slumps onto the sectional.

  He looks crazed. The Miami Vice-wannabe is a mess. His face is pale but blotchy and covered in stubble, his clothes are wrinkled and stained. He looks as if he’s been sleeping in his car for a few days. His eyes are bloodshot, the pupils tiny points of black. He’
s high as a kite and desperate. A dangerous combination, but the boss seems to know how to handle him.

  He’s staring at Van Sant as if he’s trying to calm a wild animal.

  “Put the gun down. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Van Sant blinks rapidly, staring at the gun as if he’s not sure how it came to be in his hand. Finally, he lowers his hands and lets it slip to the carpet.

  I cringe when I see it’s a Sig Sauer—known to fail drop tests.

  Thank fuck it doesn’t release a bullet this time.

  Moving slowly and deliberately, grimacing with disgust, Anderson picks it up with the tips of his fingers and places it out of reach.

  I holster my weapon and take Rachel into my arms as she sobs, terrified, her tears soaking my shirt. Gently, I untie her hands and feet, rage filling me when I see angry red marks on her pale skin.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay,” I murmur, quietly.

  But it’s not okay. It’s really fucking not.

  A soft whimper escapes her.

  What can I say to comfort her? I’ve failed her utterly. And what do I do—pass her a fucking handkerchief to wipe her tears.

  I hold her against my chest, reliving the terror of seeing a gun pointed at her head.

  I carry her to a sofa in the corner of the room and hold her. I just hold her.

  She can’t speak, her sobs softer but just as desperate. And my battered heart breaks wide open.

  I try to speak, to tell her how sorry I am again, but no sound comes out.

  Her pain is judgment enough.

  I’m filled with loathing and anger for Anderson whose fucked up life has put Rachel in danger, but also for myself, for my failure today. None of this should ever have happened.

  I hear Anderson talking to Van Sant quietly and calmly.

  “You’re not well, Aston, but I’m going to take care of you. I’ll do everything to help you get better.”

  “I didn’t do it, Devon! You know that, right? I’d never hurt you! Never! I love you! Tell me you know that!”

  The boss takes Van Sant’s hands in his.

  “Yes, I know, Aston. I’ve always known. And now I’m going to help you.”

  Van Sant collapses into the boss’s arms, sobbing.

  Anderson’s eyes are wide and worried when he turns me.

  “Is Rachel…?”

  “Safe.”

  “Call Doctor O’Brien at Phoenix House. It’s a rehab center on Long Island. Speed dial five. Get him here.”

  “Sir.”

  I don’t know why the fuck Anderson has a rehab clinic in his contacts and I don’t ask.

  Keeping one arm around Rachel, I catch the cellphone that the boss throws to me, dialing the doc’s number.

  “Yes, this is Justin Trainer, I work for Devon Anderson. We have an emergency at Wolf Point. I need to speak to Dr. O’Brien immediately.”

  Seconds later, they call is transferred.

  “Doctor O’Brien speaking.”

  “I’m with Devon Anderson at Wolf Point and we have a distressed man, some sort of mental breakdown, probably high?”

  “Is he physically injured?”

  “Negative. I’m no doctor, but he looks pretty out of it. His name is Aston Van Sant, mid-thirties.”

  “We have a private ambulance service in the city that can be there in twelve minutes.”

  I give him a temporary access code then call Mason so he can tell the armed response team to stand down. They’re already in the building, so will check all the access points just to ensure that Van Sant acted alone.

  I can’t help wondering where Van Sant got the gun. But then again, I can only guess at the kind of contacts he’s made over his years with Anderson.

  A kernel of disgust hardens to stone in my chest. Van Sant is a casualty of the train wreck that is the boss’s life.

  “Go with him,” Rachel whispers. “Just in case…”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I’m fine, Justin, I promise. But it’s not right that they’re alone. He could say anything … later.”

  Even after all this, Rachel is still thinking of others. She’s also right about the possible consequences. Reluctantly, I follow the boss.

  Van Sant is a blubbering mess but Anderson is being … tender. Is that the right word? I wonder if they were ever together, lovers. It looks more like Van Sant has some sort of unrequited crush on the boss, but I could be wrong.

  I hear the boss saying that he should call Landon, but that makes Van Sant shake even worse, his eyes widening as if he’s afraid.

  Frederick Landon. He brought both Anderson and his godson into this fucked up lifestyle. And they’ve paid the price. And paid. And paid.

  Christ, I hope the ambulance gets here soon.

  Van Sant murmurs wordlessly. Suddenly he says, “What day is it?”

  “It’s Tuesday, Aston,” Anderson says, quietly.

  “No, no it’s Saturday! You always come on a Saturday. What day is it?”

  “It’s Tuesday.”

  “But why? Why is it Tuesday?”

  “It’s going to be okay, Aston. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Take care. Take care. Take care. What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Hmm. Mmm. Mmm.”

  Anderson looks at me helplessly.

  “The medics are on their way, sir,” I repeat, uselessly.

  He nods and continues holding Van Sant.

  When the elevator doors open, the boss jumps, Rachel cries out, and I nearly fucking shoot myself, but Van Sant doesn’t even react. He’s somewhere else, completely detached from his mind, and I can’t help wondering if he’ll ever find his way back.

  Two male EMTs approach, taking in the situation quickly. The older of the two goes up to Van Sant.

  “Hello. I’m Walter Hicks, and this is Ben Wroska. We’re friends of Devon’s and we’re going to help you.”

  “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. What day is it?”

  “It’s Tuesday. Do you like Tuesdays?”

  “Mmm. Tuesday? Is it Saturday yet? I see him on a Saturday.”

  Hicks and the boss exchange a glance. Anderson looks tortured.

  He fucking should be.

  “I’m going to give you something that will make you feel sleepy. It’ll help you to rest.”

  “Mmm. Mmm. Is it Saturday?”

  Hicks takes a syringe out of his bag, rolls up Van Sant’s sleeve and slides it into a vein.

  And suddenly he turns to the boss and smiles.

  “I love you,” he says. “My Dark Angel.”

  Anderson looks utterly shattered.

  We’re all relieved when the drugs start to work and Van Sant’s eyes close. He’s still smiling.

  Then the medics wrap him in a blanket and help Van Sant into a wheelchair, taking him out to the waiting ambulance.

  I throw Anderson a look that should freeze his testicles, then I hold my hand out to Rachel. She stands shakily, and I put my arm around her as I take her to our room and we lay down on the bed together, holding each other.

  She doesn’t speak, but folds her hands into my shirt and eventually, she falls asleep.

  My brain is whirling, wondering how Van Sant got in. He wasn’t on the approved list, I know that much. Unless Anderson gave him access and didn’t tell me. I need an update from Mason’s team.

  I ease away from Rachel, carefully loosening her fingers from my shirt, then covering her with a quilt. I close the door behind me softly.

  As I walk into my office, I see the reassuring presence of John Evans, one of Mason’s men who I’ve worked with before. We shake hands quickly and I explain the situation, who and what Van Sant is. He tells me that Anderson has gone to visit Van Sant in the rehab clinic but has chosen not to inform the police. I’m not surprised. We discuss the security implications, wondering how the fuck he got into Wolf Point when all the guest entry codes have been changed weekly since I came here, and to my knowledge Va
n Sant has never been inside. Me, Rachel and the boss all have fingerprint entry, of course. It would be a fucking nightmare remembering a new code every week. Yeah, I keep the intel in my phone, but a hacker as clever as Howard could get in. Fuck.

  Anderson arrives home hours later, looking drawn and exhausted. My anger reignites and I want to hurt the fucker.

  My expression makes it plain that he’s not welcome in my office.

  “Is Mrs. Smith … okay?”

  “No, she’s NOT fucking okay!” I snarl at him.

  He looks taken aback, but not angry.

  “I have to ask you … about what Aston said to her. Did he say why he wanted to see me? Anything to explain what drove him to this?”

  “No. He wasn’t very coherent, but he did say he hadn’t done it. He could have been referring to the blackmail threat. The dude doesn’t seem like he could have set it up, but he might know who did.”

  Anderson nods slowly.

  “I don’t know what could have precipitated this. I’m sorry that Mrs. Smith has … been affected. Security will be tightened up—we’ll find out how he got in.”

  Yeah, pile the fucking guilt on my plate, Anderson. I fucking KNOW security is my job. I fucked up.

  But I can’t bring myself to look at him, and eventually he leaves.

  Because I screwed up, the woman I love could have been badly hurt. I just want to hold her and hold her and never let her go.

  RACHEL DOESN’T SLEEP well. She thrashes about, muttering to herself. I’ve never heard her talk in her sleep before. The only word I can make out is, “Don’t”.

  I keep running through the security arrangements in my head.

  At four in the morning, I give up and get out of bed. Rachel is frowning in her sleep, and I’m fighting every instinct to pull her into my arms, but I don’t want to wake her and she needs her rest.

  I tug on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and start working my way through the building. I check every door, every window, every possible entry point except the balcony in the boss’s bedroom. Van Sant would have to be fucking Spiderman to have gotten in through there.

  The only conclusion is that someone let him in. Landon is my number one suspect.

  I see a light on in the boss’s study. Someone else who can’t sleep. I don’t feel like talking to him, so I head to the kitchen. But he’s not in his study, he’s sitting at the breakfast bar, still wearing the clothes he went to work in yesterday morning. He hasn’t even tried to rest.