Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  I start to back out of the kitchen, but I hear his low voice, speaking in a monotone.

  “Howard’s virus worked. The blackmailer is out of action. For now.”

  I nod, not particularly interested, even though I know I should be.

  “How is Mrs. Smith?”

  I sigh. Okay, let’s do this.

  “Sleeping. She’s pretty shaken.”

  “I’m sorry, Trainer. I couldn’t have guessed that Aston would do this…”

  “Couldn’t you?”

  His head snaps up, breaking the weird trance, and his tone sharpens.

  “What do you mean?”

  But I don’t need to answer because he gets it, and his head sinks to his hands, before he looks up at me again, pain and doubt and fear on his face.

  “You think I made him as fucked up as I am.”

  It’s the most honest conversation we’ve ever had.

  “There’s that … and the fact he’s in love with you. And the most likely suspect to help him gain entry is Frederick Landon.”

  I stare at him, leaving my words hanging in the air, meeting the darkness in his expression. Then I walk away, because if I say anything else now, one of us is going to really regret it.

  THE NEXT DAY, we’re all tired and edgy. The alarm technician arrives at 8AM to service all the systems, but I already know that there’s nothing wrong with them.

  I check the CCTV for the millionth time, but there’s no recording of Landon or Van Sant in the garage or in the foyer. It’s as if he just flew up to the thirtieth floor. I have my suspicions about one of the fire exits, but there’s no sign of a forced entry and I know for a fact that the boss doesn’t give out those access codes to anyone, not even Landon, he says. But even though all the codes have been adjusted to a rolling algorithm that now changes every few hours, just for my own piece of mind, I tape a small length of cotton over the door to each fire escape. If anyone tries to enter, I’ll know about it.

  It’s an old trick, but sometimes the simplest solutions beat the high-tech shit any day of the week.

  I really fucking hate shutting the stable door after the horse has fucking shit in the straw and bolted.

  The rehab facility is being difficult about updating us on Van Sant’s condition since none of us are related to him. Even Landon’s access is restricted, or so he says. I don’t believe him and I don’t trust him.

  And then like tragic opera that the boss is so fond of, things get worse after the interval.

  “He fucking what?!”

  Half of Manhattan can probably hear the boss yelling.

  “How? I thought they were watching him around the clock?”

  He listens intently, but my heart sinks. I can guess what’s happened and Anderson confirms it.

  “Van Sant absconded from the facility. He’s missing.”

  “How long?”

  “Could be hours! The fucking idiots weren’t watching him!”

  That is not good news. I want to take Rachel away from here and keep her safe.

  My eyes follow Anderson as he paces up and down the main room.

  He turns abruptly.

  “Yes. Work. Twenty minutes, Trainer.”

  Fuck.

  After I drop him off, I park the SUV and head to my office to call a meeting of all security team. There’s a frisson of excitement because I’ve never done this before at DMA Tower.

  “Gentlemen … and Miss Jameson. We have a situation that you need to be aware of. This man, Aston Van Sant…” I flash up his photograph on the whiteboard, “has a personal grudge against Mr. Anderson. He attempted to enter his home yesterday.” No need to give them all the gory details. “He is considered a medium to high level threat. Nobody, and I mean nobody, gets into DMA Tower without clearance through one of you. I don’t care if it’s a pizza delivery boy with a blind monkey on his grandmother’s bicycle: no one gets in without being vetted first. Any questions?”

  “Mr. Trainer, sir. Who is he?”

  “We only know that Van Sant is a person who has a dangerous fixation—and he may be armed. Anything else? Back to work, people.”

  I make sure they’re all jumping like frogs on a hotplate then head over to Wolf Point. I don’t like leaving Rachel right now. Evans will drive Anderson home from work later. Rachel needs me, whether she admits it or not.

  She’s still arguing about that.

  “Really, Justin. You don’t need to fuss—I’m fine.”

  I won’t be fine until we find Van Sant.

  Rachel smiles weakly. But that’s an improvement.

  When the boss gives her the rest of the week off, I want to punch him. Is that supposed to make up for everything that she’s been through? But then again, I don’t know what would make up for having someone point a gun at your head. I’ve always been the one on the other side of the trigger.

  She’s going to Allison’s later this evening, and I hate, HATE that she feels safer at her sister’s than she does with me.

  You didn’t protect her.

  She’s in her bedroom, packing, and the sight of her suitcase on the bed makes me feel like a failure.

  “How you doin’, baby?”

  She doesn’t look at me as she replies.

  “I’m fine, Justin.”

  I stand with my hands in my pockets, hating the distance between us.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No.”

  And isn’t that the truth?

  I brush a quick kiss on her cheek, trying to push away the pain when her body stiffens at the contact.

  “Supper will be at six.”

  She still isn’t looking at me, but I feel like she threw me a bone, pathetically grateful for those words.

  I head back to my office, wracking my lonely brain to come up with the answer of how Van Sant got in here and whether or not he’s in cahoots with Landon, which the crafty old bastard is still denying.

  By the evening, there’s still no sign of Van Sant, and he hasn’t tried to use any of his credit cards. And yes, I’m aware that I’m invading his personal files and violating privacy data. Do I look like I give a fuck?

  Frustration turns to acute irritation when I see Landon entering the garage in his sleek Speed Six Bentley. The battleship gray color makes it look like a shark cutting through the darkness. Perfect for the predator that lurks beneath the polished surface.

  His raptor smile is fixed in place when I meet him at the elevator. His eyes wander across my body, and I feel like roaches are skittering over my skin.

  I’m also feeling pissed and incredulous that the boss has already given Landon the access codes.

  “Hello, Trainer.”

  “Mr. Landon.”

  “You really are just the muscle, aren’t you?”

  What the fuck?

  “I made the mistake of thinking that you were in charge of Devon’s security, but obviously that’s not the case—not after yesterday’s fiasco.”

  He’s goading me and he’s fucking enjoying it.

  Do not engage the enemy in a frontal attack. Retreat, regroup, and prepare.

  I don’t reply, instead turning on my heel and leading him to the boss’s study.

  “Mr. Landon is here to see you, sir.”

  He doesn’t even look up from his computer.

  “Now is not a good time, Frederick.”

  “You need help managing the Aston situation you’ve created.”

  He looks up sharply.

  “The situation I created?”

  “Yes, of course. If you hadn’t treated him so peremptorily none of this would have happened. Have you learned nothing, Devon?”

  He’s talking to him like a first grader and Anderson fucking takes it.

  I clear my throat, earning a venomous look from the viper.

  “Should Mrs. Smith bring your dinner to the office, sir?”

  It’s a reasonable question, but you’d think I just detonated a bomb in the room, the silence is so shocking.
/>   This job should come with free therapy.

  At least the Landon creep decides not to stay. He doesn’t need to. He’s made his point and reinforced his waning control over Anderson.

  With a sharp look at the boss, he turns on his heel and leaves.

  After supper, Rachel is in the kitchen, staring out of the window. I didn’t realize I was walking quietly, but when she glances up, she jumps and holds her hand to her heart.

  “Oh, Justin! I didn’t hear you.”

  A sob escapes her, and I scoop her into my arms.

  “Oh, baby. I hate to see you like this.”

  We stand there, locked together, until her breathing calms.

  “Did you finish packing?”

  She nods.

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

  “No, Mr. Anderson needs you. I’ll be fine at Allison’s. I just … I just need to get away from here for a while.”

  Away from all this fucked up shit. Away from me? Does she blame me? I hope she does, because I blame myself, but I hate it, too.

  I walk her down to the garage and put her luggage in the trunk.

  “Call me when you get there.”

  “It could be quite late.”

  “I don’t care, baby. Just call me. I won’t be asleep—I need to know you’ve arrived safely.”

  I wish she’d let me drive her. I don’t think she’s in any shape to be behind the wheel of a car, but my woman is stubborn. Either that, or she doesn’t want me around.

  The thought kills me.

  So I don’t give her a chance to argue. I sweep her into my arms and kiss her hard, letting her know how much she means to me, holding her tight until she pushes on my arms.

  “Justin, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  Her eyes don’t meet mine as she says it.

  I watch her drive away and feel like a small piece of happiness has just dropped out of my life. I know she’ll be back on Sunday evening but, fuck, I’ll miss that woman.

  I hope she’ll be back on Sunday.

  I trudge to my office and check through the CCTV footage one more time. There’s still nothing to report.

  I watch some dumb zombie movie on TV until my eyelids feel like small people are stamping on them. Rachel doesn’t call but sends a text message to say she’s arrived.

  I drag my weary carcass into bed. It’s too empty without Rachel, and with everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, my brain is too busy to allow me to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time.

  Chapter 22

  Dante’s Peak

  I’M MISSING RACHEL.

  Two days have dragged by, and even though I’m only getting four hours sleep a night while I work with Howard and Mason to track down the blackmailer and Van Sant—although perhaps they’re the same person after all—the time passes slowly.

  I want her back. I want her with me. And right now, I don’t know if I’ll have either of those things.

  It makes me want to take Anderson out myself. You’d be surprised how many bodyguards end up shooting their employers—guess we get to know them too well, all their sordid little secrets. Or maybe I’ll just give him a stern talking to.

  Nope, shooting him would be more satisfying.

  Howard is enjoying the hunt, pitting his brain against the best there is, or so he says, and as he’s using words above my paygrade, I’ll just agree with him. He’s getting closer and even says that he knows who the other hacker is, a pay-per-play egghead who only takes on ‘impossible’ jobs.

  “Dude, they don’t call him ‘The Ghost’ for nothing. I’ve come across him before and he wouldn’t care about crashing the entire internet and causing a fire sale.”

  “A fire sale?”

  “Yeah, banks, utilities, air traffic, 911 calls—take those down and pow! Armageddon. Or what we call in the biz, a fire sale because…”

  “Everything must go. Got it. So can you stop this Ghost?”

  “Yeah. He’s good, I’m better. Scored ten points higher than him on the MENSA test. It’s pissed him off ever since.”

  “Wait, you know who he is?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Give me a name and I’ll hunt the fucker down.”

  “No can do, T. He’ll release the boss’s porn to the news channels. It’ll get messy. I can shut him down, it’ll just take time—an epic battle, like Gandalf versus Saruman.”

  “In English?”

  “I’m Gandalf, and Saruman doesn’t make it to the end of the movie.”

  “Right. Thanks, Howard.”

  I turn to go, needing to update Mason’s team.

  “By Grabthar’s hammer, by the suns of Worvan, you shall be avenged.”

  He looks serious, so I give him a salute.

  “Carry on, Marine.”

  “Epic, dude! Like a real soldier of fortune!”

  We’re doomed.

  Perhaps Howard’s approach is subtle. For all I know it could be a nerd war with Thor’s hammer as the weapon of choice. What I do know is that for 48 hours, no more threats have appeared and none of the other participants of Farm sex have been contacted.

  Okay, ‘farm sex’ sounds bad, like really bad. Like some cowboy who’s had a long, snowed-in winter and is getting frisky with a heifer. Oh hell. I’ve been working for Anderson waaaay too long.

  Howard says he’s close…

  And then Armageddon comes to DMA Tower.

  The first thing I know about it is when one of the security guards on duty in the lobby has pressed the silent alarm button.

  My eyes snap to the screen and I see Van Sant waving a pistol around and shouting something.

  Even on a tiny monitor, he looks bad—worse than when we found him at Wolf Point.

  “Secure Anderson!”

  The security guard on CCTV duty looks panicked and vacant.

  “Make sure he’s guarded at all times. Under no circumstances allow him out of his office—not even to piss! Got it?”

  “Yes, sir! But Mr. Anderson has a private bathroom, sir!”

  Give me strength.

  “Do NOT let him leave his office! Vasquez, inform Pam Russo that Aston Van Sant is armed and in the lobby, then secure the elevators including the freight elevators. Move, people! Follow the Lockdown Protocol! This is not a drill!”

  I make sure that everyone knows what they’re doing and are securing their positions. Mason is already aware since he’s got a direct link to DMA security systems.

  “Murdoch, who’s on duty in the lobby?”

  “Benson and Khan.”

  I swear quietly under my breath as I pick up a headset and turn it on. Khan is solid, an older guy, ex-military. He’ll be okay. But Benson is a rookie—he’s the worst possible person to have in a situation like this.

  Now is a fucking bad time to come to that conclusion.

  “Mitchel, with me!”

  I take the fire exit and we run down 29 floors, going slowly on the last set of steps. I tap my earpiece and speak quietly.

  “Vasquez, report.”

  “Lobby is cleared of extraneous personnel, but the perp grabbed Heidi Burey, the receptionist, sir. But I got a call from NYPD: they received a 911 saying that there was a gunman onsite and a SWAT team is en route. ETA: three minutes.”

  That is not the news I wanted to hear. Having cops storm the place will not help. Which gives me three minutes to end the stand-off. Shit.

  I can hear Van Sant screaming from behind the fire door.

  “Where’s Devon? I want Devon! I’m not leaving until I’ve seen him! Devon! DEVON!”

  I open the door slowly and step through it.

  Van Sant sees me immediately.

  “It’s you! Tell them that Devon will see me! Tell him I’m here!”

  “Not going to happen, Aston.”

  For a moment, he’s stumped, then he grabs Heidi’s ponytail and tugs hard. She shrieks and tears pour down her face, her legs wobbling.

  “
I’ll waste the bitch!”

  “You’re not a killer, Aston. Let her go.”

  “Stop saying my name like we’re friends! Tell Devon I want to see him! Devon always sees me! He’s the only one who ever did.”

  I lower my gun and take another step toward Van Sant.

  “He’s not going to come down.”

  His lip trembles.

  “He’ll come! He will!”

  “Let Heidi go. She’s not part of this. She’s innocent.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes wild. One hand wraps tightly around the receptionist’s long hair.

  “I was innocent once! So was Devon. But he understands. He understands me. Devon! DEVON!”

  Khan and Benson inch closer while Van Sant is distracted by me. I don’t like the look in Benson’s eyes. He’s sweating and his gun hand is shaking so badly, he’ll probably shoot himself.

  “The police are on their way!” Benson yells out. “Drop your weapon now.”

  Fuck! He wants to be the big hero, but he has no clue what the fuck he’s doing.

  Van Sant pushes the gun into Heidi’s cheek and this time she drops to her knees. He’s holding her in front of him by her hair.

  In the distance, I hear police sirens, and know that time is running out.

  “We can end this quietly, Aston. Let Heidi go, put the gun down, and I promise that I’ll arrange a meeting with Devon.”

  He blinks rapidly.

  “You will?”

  “You have my word.”

  He starts to lower the gun.

  “That’s right, asshole!” shouts Benson. “Put the gun down.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Khan hisses at him, but it’s too late.

  And just when I think the situation couldn’t be more fucked up, Anderson steps out of the elevator, cool as ice.

  “Aston, I’m here now. Let the girl go.”

  Van Sant sags with relief, dropping Heidi’s ponytail. She scuttles away and Khan moves her behind the large, heavy reception desk.

  Anderson is now in the firing line, and Benson is a wildcard.

  “Put the gun down, Aston, and we’ll talk in my office. Just you and me.”

  I hear the SWAT team screech to a halt outside. So does everyone else.

  Van Sant whips around, his gun dangling in his hand. And then Benson fires.