by C. R. Daems
* * *
Ann Marie had managed to book the company plane. Since I had been told to be there at eight a.m., I was scheduled to take off at five the next the morning, rather than a late night flight. Although it was little more than a four hour flight, I gained three hours because of time zones.
The next day I grabbed a taxi and was at the airport a half hour early. When I entered the plane, Kathryn met me with her sunny smile and cheerful voice.
"Good morning, Kazak Megan. I see you managed to get the company plane without the hospital stay. And you're our only passenger." She smiled, waving towards the cabin. "Can I get you anything before we take off?"
"I'm not sure I can handle complex decisions like where to sit and what I want this early in the morning. You make the decision. Whatever you have handy to drink." I shook my head at having a private plane all to myself. She turned into the galley as I wandered down the aisle and found a seat midway. Kathryn magically appeared while I was still recovering from the shock of having the plane to myself and placed a glass orange juice and a cup of coffee on the tray in front of me.
"I hope this isn't too much of a decision." She grinned.
"I'll drink both, that way I won't have to decide," I quipped. Kathryn not only had a cheerful personality but also a good sense of humor. "Thanks, Kathryn."
After the plane attained its cruising altitude the pilot visited, and Kathryn served me a breakfast I would have expected in a good restaurant. We arrived at Phoenix Sky Harbor shortly after six a.m., Arizona time.
"I hope you've enjoyed your flight with us, Kazak Megan."
"No," I said and Kathryn face turned to stone. "You've ruined traveling first class for me. After you, first class is going to feel like traveling on a military cargo plane. Thank you, Kathryn, for another delightful experience. I'm going to talk to Lynn about buying half interest in her plane."
I caught a taxi and was treated to a good look at Phoenix—crowded, dry, and flat. The look improved as we left the city proper, entered the suburbs, and approached mountainous country. There we passed very large houses, many bordering fairways. After checking his GPS unit, the cabbie pulled into a large circular bricked driveway. I'm not sure what I had expected. The house appeared large and had a three-car garage, but seemed modest for the money I was sure a star NHL player made. The architecture was radically different from what I was used to in the Northeast. The house looked like several round structures of different heights attached together. The structures were gray, had an adobe exterior, and lots of windows. As I exited the taxi, an average-looking man left his black Suburban sedan. He wore dark blue slacks, white shirt, a flack jacket with FBI on the front, and a cap with FBI in large letters. They weren't taking any chances after the shooting at the rink where automatic weapons were used. The message was clear, you're shooting at the FBI. The taxi beat a hasty retreat as the man approached, hand on his gun.
"Can I help you, Miss?" he said, and then drew his gun when he realized I was armed. "Raise your hands or I'll shoot."
"I'm Kazak Megan and Mr. Harkin is expecting me," I said, raised my hands palm up, turned, and walked toward the step to the front entrance.
"Stop or I'll shoot," he hollered. I knew he wouldn't since he would have to shoot me in the back and the consequences would be disastrous. He would use his phone to call whoever was inside. I continued walking up the four semi-circular steps set between large boulders and down a path surrounded by a variety of cacti. My peripheral vision showed him tagging along, gun still pointing in my direction. At the front door, a tall older man stood waiting, hands empty.
"Kazak Megan, I'm Kevin Wickman the senior agent in charge of Mr. Harkin's detail. Can I see some identification please?"
"Good morning, agent Wickman." I rolled up my sleeve to show my Kazak tattoo. He took my arm and inspected it closely, flipped open his cell and dialed a number, then handed the phone to me. I was impressed. It was the agreed-upon protocol to identify a Kazak. You dialed a number and entered the Kazak's ID number, he or she typed a password, and the Kazak's picture was displayed. I typed 7837737, the telephone equivalent of Steppes, and handed it back to him. He looked at it and nodded.
"Thank you, Megan. I'm looking forward to introducing you to Harkin." He grinned and waved me into a large open area which seemed to be two or three circular rooms separated by walls extending only partially into the room. I found it interesting, if awkward, in a firefight.
He walked to curved stairs which led up to a large circular room with a panoramic view of the surrounding mountains and golf course. Seven or eight plush leather chairs were dotted around the room, and a seventy-something-inch television hung on one wall. Three men were in the room. Two sat engrossed in a hockey game on the television, while a big man with an underarm Glock clearly visible sat off to the side, glaring at me. When one of the two men looked up, Wickman spoke.
"Mr. Harkin, this is the Kazak you were expecting,"
"Very funny, Wickman. I don't know why you let her in but show her out." He turned back to the television. I picked a wall and went and leaned against it. Wickman stood there grinning, knowing he couldn't throw me out since I was authorized to be there. Besides, I suspect Wickman was enjoying this and wanting to see what would happen when Harkin realized I wasn't leaving.
Ten minutes later the same young man turned off the television and rose.
"Well it’s time to leave for the Ice Den." He stood well over six-foot, had a muscular build, short straight sandy hair, and square rugged-looking face.
"Sir, I can't throw her out. She's a Kazak and has FBI clearance to be here. You can throw her out, but I can't." He tried not to smile but only partially succeeded.
"You're a Kazak? Rubbish. I could kick your ass with one arm tied behind me." He sneered.
"Please don't try. My boss would be unhappy," I said, leaving off the putting you in the hospital part. I wondered if this was what Lynn had to put up with all the time. She thought it frustrating. I thought it amusing.
"Mack, throw her out." Harkin pointed at me. Mack got out of the chair with a smile on his face. He was as tall as Harkin but double his weight and, except for a bit of a stomach, it looked to be all muscle. He was bald, clean-shaven, and a prize-fighter's scared face. He looked like a bouncer at a biker's bar. I moved away from the wall as he approached.
"Okay, bimbo, that way." He pointed towards the stairs and smiled.
"Sorry, Mack, but Mr. Harkin has confused thugs with professionals."
Mack's face twisted in anger but his eyes sparkled with excitement. He stepped closer and threw a head-size fist at my face. I twisted ninety degrees right, changing my profile, and his fist slid by only inches from my face. As I rotated right like a revolving door, my right arm blocked his right and my left slammed into his temple. It was as though I hit a cement wall. I uncoiled, twisting to the left, and delivered a back fist to his left temple. He looked frozen but was still standing. I shrugged. Lynn had taught me that when you have the advantage you don't give your opponent time to recover. Mack was used to knock down bar fights and had a head like a brick fireplace. I moved into him, driving my knee into his balls and, with my foot behind his, drove my head into his nose as he bent with the pain. He stumbled backward, hitting a chair and tumbling over it. I leaned back against the wall and smiled at Harkin. He glared back at me for several minutes. The way Wickman stood looking at Mack, there must have been bad feelings between them.
"I'm not having a woman following me around. I'd look like a wimp. What can you do my bodyguards and the FBI can't?"
"Your bodyguard would only be protection from your fans. The FBI, while extremely competent," I thought that a nice touch, "will catch your killer and make sure they do jail time. That may sound harsh. But most of your detail have never shot another human, and they know shooting someone will be scrutinized afterward by people who will expect the agent to have used minimal force. Therefore, they will be inclined to shoot after your killer has shot."
I looked to Wickman who unconsciously gave an imperceptible nod of agreement.
"And what about you?"
"I'm a Kazak. I'll shoot if I think someone intends to harm you and, yes, I've killed another human. And because I did, my client lived through the experience. Besides, no Kazak, no training, no playing."
"All right, I want a Kazak, just not a woman."
I took out my cell, hit "1" on the speed dial, and put it on speaker.
"Put Mr. Harkin on," Witton said. He obviously knew the problem, having had lots of practice with Lynn. Harkin moved closer to me.
"I want a male Kazak—"
"Mr. Harkin, you have been assigned Kazak Megan. If she is unacceptable, I have other clients who need a Kazak and would welcome her. But in that case you go to the bottom of the list. The list is long and the Kazak few." Witton had the nerve to disconnect.
"Well?" I asked.
Harkin stood there in shock, looking from his friend, to Wickman, to Mack, and back to me several times.
"You can stay, but you will keep out of sight!"
"I'll be a good girl and not talk, but you'll be able to see me by turning your head. One of the reasons the FBI has trouble protecting individuals is that the clients don't want to be inconvenienced. Therefore, the agents can't be where they know they should be to protect you. Instead, they try to keep the trouble away from you by securing the area. I, on the other hand, don't care what you think. I'll be close enough to you so that the killer will have to take me on before he can kill you. In that case the FBI will be action and you should live through the experience. I will not compromise with your life. I can't protect you if I can't see you."
"What if that is unacceptable?"
"I leave."
"What am I going to tell my teammates?"
"To treat you well. I shoot people who I think are going to harm you."
"What do you think, Sean?" Harkin asked the other man who had been sitting with him, watching the television. He shrugged.
"You're going to get a lot of ribbing, but the threat is real and serious. Isn't that worth the inconvenience and some ribbing?"
After a few minutes of looking at the floor Harkin shrugged, picked up his black leather bag, and headed for the stairs. At the bottom he cut through the kitchen and through a doorway into the garage. There he stood, surveying the area. The garage had three cars: a Mercedes-Benz SL convertible, Jaguar F-type convertible, and a BMW X6 SUV.
"That one, unless Sean has his own transportation," I said, pointing to the BMW. The convertibles were two-seaters.
"The FBI has their own transportation." He stood, staring down at me.
"I don't have a driver's license. Even if I did, you could lose me in traffic or I could have a flat. In either case, I wouldn't be there when the gang drew even with you and the AK-47 shredded you and your vehicle," I said. He looked a bit pale when I mentioned the AK-47.
"And what can you do if that happens?" Harkin said, grinning. I didn't know what he had to grin about since they would be shooting at him.
"This is the West, so consider me riding shotgun," I said, padding my Glock. "I repeat, I can't protect you if I can't see you."
Harkin said nothing. He turned and went over to the BMW, with Sean following us. When we reached the car Sean looked to me. I nodded toward the passenger's side and entered the rear seat behind Harkin.
"Shit, we're late," he said as he accelerated to well over the speed limit—no matter what it was. As I scanned the area, I couldn't help but be fascinated by the names of the roads—Running Deer Trail, E Dynamite, N Cave Creek , Agua Fna Fwy. After he ran the second red light, I wondered if I might have more to fear from him than whoever wanted him dead. I'm not sure if I were more surprised that we made it without an accident or that the police weren't chasing us. As we pulled in the parking area I scanned the area but didn't see anything suspicious. He parked in reserved parking, which was only a short walk to the entrance. As we exited the BMW, Wickman and another man left their Suburban. The security guard on duty nodded as we entered.
"Good morning, Mr. Harkin, Mr. Aaronson."
"Hi, Charlie," Sean said as we proceeded down the hallway. When we reached the locker room, Harkin stopped with his hand on the door and turned toward me.
"This is as far as you go, Kazak Megan. You can sit with agent Wickman and watch us practice. He'll have a man guarding the hallway." He nodded to the man accompanying Wickman.
"Are you going in there?" I asked. He nodded. "Where you go, I go. No exceptions."
"Women aren't allowed!"
"It will help if you stop thinking of me as a woman. On the Hill, that's the Kazak school, I was a candidate—not a woman candidate. Now I'm a Kazak—not a woman Kazak."
"But you are a woman!" His voice rose a couple of octaves. "I'll let agent Wickman come in and guard me."
"Then you don't need me and I can get another assignment," I said, pulling out my smartphone. "Oh, no point in you attending training. The condition of you returning was that you had a Kazak as a bodyguard."
"Wait. There has to be some compromise we can make."
"Mr. Harkin, think for a moment beyond your needs and wants." I held my finger to my lips before he could respond. Although it seemed the concept was new to him. "If a gang were to enter the hallway and kill or disable agent…"
"Williams," the agent with Wickman said, looking amused.
"Agent Williams, and enter the locker room, they would not only shoot you but also several of your teammates. Some of those will be trying to save you while others will be caught in the cross-fire. Your mere presence puts everyone around you in danger. The least you can do is provide them some protection."
Sean had paled as I talked. I don't think he realized being close to Harkin was potentially dangerous. He had apparently forgotten a security guard had lost his life for that exact reason. Harkin looked to Sean, who nodded. Harkin shrugged, opened the door, and waited for me to enter. I shook my head and held the door while he entered first. As I fell in behind him, I noticed Wickman followed.
"I wouldn't miss this for the world. I thought this assignment was going to be boring," he said, smiling as his eyes swept the room. The scene turned comical as the players and coaches realized a woman was in the room. Some became suddenly embarrassed in their half-naked state, others smiled, and others looked angry.
"Get out! This room is off limits to women!" a gray-haired stocky man shouted. He had to be the head coach. They seem to like screaming as their first choice of responses. Harkin spoke before I could decide on a non-Lynn response. Lynn was my hero, but while she loved the challenge, I enjoyed the interaction with the people.
"Charlie, she's the Kazak the owners have insisted I be assigned as a condition for me returning to the team. Agent Wickman is the head of my FBI detail." Introducing Wickman was a clever attempt to draw attention away from me, but it didn't work.
"I don't give a rat's ass! She can guard the room!"
"No need for me to guard the room, Charlie, because if I leave Mr. Harkin won't be in the room."
"I make the rules here," he shouted, moving in my direction. We now had everyone's attention, some amused, others siding with Charlie.
"Let's go Mr. Harkin. The coach makes the rules here." I grabbed his arm and pushed him in the direction of the door. Charlie took two steps and grabbed my arm. When he did, I let him pull me toward him. As the momentum carried me into him I drove my knee into his groin, my head into his nose, and then swept my leg through both his. He went horizontal and crashed to the floor.
"Rule number one," I said into the resulting silence. "Never touch a Kazak. Rule number two. Never get between a Kazak and her client. Rule number three. Kazaks are not puppies. They do not respond to commands or do tricks. Any questions?" That was treated with stunned looks and silence, if you didn't count Charlie screaming on the floor.
"You bitch," he screamed between gasps for air.
"Now that we've had a chance to get t
o know each other, Charlie, do Mr. Harkin and I stay or do we leave?"
To his credit, Charlie got to his feet and didn't look too much the worse. He stood staring at me as though he were debating whether to attack me as he wiped the blood around his nose with his sleeve.
"Charlie, this is not a game. People are trying to kill Mr. Harkin. Do you think a hockey rink is off limits to gangs? They won't care who is next to him when they try. I would think you'd be happy to have someone around, not sitting in the stands, if it happens."
Charlie stood staring at me, mouth open. Slowly, the tension in his body eased. "Party's over. I want you on the ice in five minutes," he said in his normal megaphone voice. "You too, Doug. We've got the Kings tomorrow night, and it's a must win game," he said as he headed for the door.
"I wouldn't have missed that for the world," Wickman said, grinning. "I've never worked with a Kazak before, but I've heard all sorts of rumors, mostly about Kazak Lynn. They all agree Kazak's are dangerous and Lynn is trouble."
"The only thing you need to know about a Kazak is that their only concern is their client. Nothing else."
"What about the FBI detail?"
"I don't mind the extra security. You do what I can't—check out the area. That reduces the risk. It would be best if I knew at all times who was on duty and his or her responsibility. Kazak's are extremely paranoid and tend to shoot people they think intend to harm their client."
"I'll brief my team."
* * *
I wasn't much of a sports fan, unless you count scrimmages with boys at parties, and I'd been out of touch for ten years. I knew what it meant to score in all the sports, but little else, so the practice was interesting. Coach Charlie and his assistants ran the players through a series of drills and discussed the King’s strengths and weaknesses. The practice lasted a little more than an hour. After another weigh-in, the players spent an hour in the weight room—lots of hot, muscular, sweaty bodies. Lynn may have considered this boring, I didn't. I thought it interesting and entertaining. This was a significant part of a Kazak's life I was looking forward to—to see the lives of the VIPs Kazaks guarded. Finally, Harkin spent some time with the team's strength and conditioning coach, discussing his current weightlifting and diet regiments. Apparently diet was a critical part of maintaining a hockey player's fitness for the eight-month season.