Kazak Guardians: Book III: Megan (Kazak Guardians Series 3)

by C. R. Daems

  We left with Patterson screaming obscenities.

  "I didn't think we could just leave if we didn't like someone," I said. I didn't think we were slaves, but Witton had said the company had spent years training us and giving us our dream, therefore assignments weren't optional.

  "Normally, we can't and shouldn't. If there is an overriding reason why you feel you can't or shouldn't take an assignment, it should be discussed before you start. Once you're given an assignment it's yours for better or worse. Some clients are great people and others are assholes, like Patterson. You learn to ignore them. Liking or hating them is a luxury you can't afford because it will affect your performance. Getting too fond of a client could cause you to be a martyr, which could result in you both being killed. Hating the person could make you slower to respond. But if a person doesn't want you or makes it impossible for you to protect them, then they have cancelled the contract. Patterson probably thinks she hurt my feelings and that's why we left. I couldn’t care less what she says or thinks about me. However, if she doesn't want us around there is no point staying."

  Made sense now that she explained it. Lynn hadn't decided to quit because Patterson had called us lesbians. Patterson had, in effect, fired us when she demanded we not follow her. These were the subtleties of the job which made me glad Lynn was partnered with me on my first assignment. We had just reached the airport when Lynn's cell rang.

  "Hi, Boss." Lynn turned on the speaker phone.

  "Patterson called me and said lesbians were unacceptable and wanted you replaced. I told her you were Kazaks and she had terminated the contract not you. You didn't care that she was an asshole. You were professionals and would have done your job regardless." He snorted. "I think that upset her because she hung up. When she realized whoever she called had no influence over the Kazaks, she called and requested you back. Normally I wouldn't give you a choice, but in this case you may shoot her before an Assassin can." He sounded serious.

  "Boss, it's fine with me." She looked to me. I nodded. "And Megan. We're Kazaks. If the powers-that-be think it's important to protect her, that's fine with us." After Witton cut the connection, Lynn called Chuck and found Patterson was beginning a bus tour of her district—the 4th—which extended from Oklahoma City to the Texas border. Her first stop was in the Town of Moore for a fundraising event at the Springhill Suites. We caught a cab and arrived to find Patterson shaking hands, giving hugs, and kissing babies. Lynn nodded toward the wall, which I took to mean my position. I could see her point. We didn't need two of us standing next to Patterson. One would be enough to make the point we were going to follow her whether she liked it or not. Better Lynn than me. I was still trying to work out the Kazak-client relationship. On the Hill, the assigned client was paid to be a client, and therefore a passive participant. In the real world, clients were free to express themselves, as Patterson had so eloquently demonstrated. Lynn's attitude seemed clear—a Kazak was assigned to protect the client not to make him or her happy. That contrasted with the FBI, which had to be careful not to inconvenience the person it was assigned to protect. Lynn's rules, which she had developed after her first client had been killed, were invasive but made her the perfect bodyguard. She stayed close to the client every minute, making it difficult for an Assassin to get to the client without going through her. It was one of the reasons none of her subsequent clients had been killed, and the reason she had a body full of scars.

  It would be safer to give the client more space and wouldn't require the clash of wills Lynn had experienced with previous clients. Patterson provided a good example. It would be easier just to warn her of the dangers of being out of sight and then let her decide how much privacy she wanted—to let her determine the amount of risk she was willing to assume. But was that what I wanted—a stress-free, safe, carefree job? As I surveyed the room, Chuck and his crew were doing just that. If I did I could have joined the FBI and saved years of pain. The only difference would have been the benefits.

  I wondered if Jody would have the same thoughts when she got her first assignment. No. Jody would be as dedicated as Lynn and have no trouble telling the client who made the rules. Jody would consider Lynn's rules the Kazak bible. I won't. I'll implement them but for different reasons. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have believed I'd love the action, challenge, and the chance to watch the lives of those people who impacted the future of America—oh, and protect them. I smiled. Get ready world, Kazak Megan the Wolf has arrived.

  I watched Lynn shadowing Patterson, not too close so she had a view of the potential trouble from behind. Every now and then Patterson would give her a dirty look but didn't say anything. Chuck stood scanning the room, smiling every time his eyes passed Patterson and Lynn. Eventually, Patterson made it to the podium and Lynn moved back against the wall, not ten feet away. Patterson gave her a scowl before adjusting the microphone and smiling at her audience.

  "My opponents want to turn our state…no, our country into a haven for lazy illegals to take your jobs, sponge off your hard work and taxes, change our language, and to take away our religious rights…" The tirade went on and on—a ten minute speech regurgitated over and over again for hours. Well maybe it just seemed like hours since the sun hadn't set. I had to admit she had an enthusiastic audience who clapped at the appropriate references to illegals, queers, godless, child killers, wetbacks, lesbians… After light refreshments and more handshaking, hugs, and kisses, Patterson left with Lynn and me only a few steps behind her, and her staff and the FBI following—like a mother duck with her ducklings.

  "Do you have to walk so close behind us? The FBI doesn’t!" Patterson said to us as she turned to enter her campaign bus. "Oh, and you can find you own ride."

  Lynn ignored her and we followed her up the stairs. The bus continued on Interstate 35, and Patterson made two more stops for campaign speeches. The bus was half full, with several people on the phone coordinating events for the next week, making reservations, and soliciting funds. Several others were on laptops monitoring current events and writing cards for her to use during her speeches. Her advisor, Simon, surprised me. I'd have expected another out of control individual stoking the raging fire in her. But he talked quietly and, while agreeing with her, subtly moderated her approach. I thought that must really be hard work. Except for his impeccable attire and penetrating eyes, he was an average looking man with graying hair. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but Patterson treated the folks on the bus in an easy, friendly way, almost like family. She ignored us if you didn't count the disgusted looks she gave Lynn and me every five minutes. The FBI followed in a big black Chevy Tahoe.

  Around seven that evening, we stopped at a Marriott hotel where she had a suite reserved. Lynn made for the desk to reserve a room for her and me while I followed Patterson up to her suite. She stopped at the door and turned toward me and Chuck, who followed behind me.

  "You can stay out here with the FBI. There isn't any reason for you to be in my room, and I don't want a Lesz in the same room." She spit out the last few words. Chuck looked like he was dying to say something but knew he couldn't without major consequences. What could they do to me? I had no rank so I couldn't be demoted, and they had spent too much time and money to fire me. I smiled to myself.

  "I'm not FBI. They're here to catch the wacko after he kills you. Not because they aren't competent, but because you won't let them do their job. And because they are FBI, they can't leave. I can. So I don't stand in hotel hallways, and I can't be made to stand in the corner no matter how disgusting you may think I am." I needed all my acquired self-control to keep from laughing. Patterson's face turned several colors before settling on magenta, and spittle spurted from her lips. Chuck turned a choke into a cough.

  "You, deviate bitch. Who do you think you are?"

  "I'm Kazak Megan the Wolf. Contrary to what you may believe, I don't care whether you are a good person or bad, rich or poor, gorgeous or ugly, nasty or pleasant. You're a client, who I'm willing to risk my li
fe to protect, but I can't protect you if I can't see or easily reach you. If that is too much of an inconvenience, then you don't need a Kazak. Your choice." I tried to produce a pleasant smile, but it was hard when I was having so much fun. I sobered. What I said was, and would always be, true. I wasn't protecting Patterson—she's a wacko—I was protecting a Kazak's client.

  For a moment she looked like she was going to slap me, until my smile widened. She turned and walked in, leaving the door open. Chuck stood there with his whole body shaking with suppressed laughter.

  "I'll have a man patrolling the hallway. It's standard protocol," he said with a shrug.

  "Let him know Lynn and I will be changing shifts at one a.m.," I said as I entered the suite and closed the door. It wasn't fancy, but better than a standard room. I walked around the room, looking out the window to evaluate exposure, and into the bedroom. Patterson opened her mouth but before she could speak, I held up my hand.

  "I'll be sleeping on the chair in the other room. I'm checking the windows to determine how easy it would be for someone to target you from outside. If you don't pose in the window and do close the drapes at night, it should be all right." I walked into the other room. There I turned the most comfortable chair to face the door and sat. Patterson closed the door, and I heard the television shortly afterward. Sometime later, there was a knock at the door.

  "Megan, it's Chuck. We have Miss Patterson's luggage."

  I unlocked the door and stepped to the side as it opened. Chuck stood with a porter, I presumed, since he wore a tie. I waved him in. As he stepped across the threshold my hand shot out, hitting him opened handed in the solar plexus. He gasped and dropped the bags as Patterson came out of the bedroom. Before she could speak, I held my finger to my lips.

  "Sorry, young man," I said handing him a twenty dollar bill and pointed to the bedroom door. He smiled and carried the bags into the bedroom. After he exited, Patterson and Chuck stood looking at me—actually Patterson was glaring.

  "Why?" Chuck asked. I thought it a good time to try and convince Patterson the FBI and Kazaks weren't the same.

  "Illusion Assassins can make themselves look like anyone, even people you've known for years. Only mannerisms or conversations can alert you that they aren't who you thought. But pain causes them to momentarily lose control of the illusion." When he nodded, I continued. "Yes, all Kazaks are paranoid, especially those trained by Master Lynn the Fox. Better I look cruel or foolish than get a client," I nodded towards Patterson, "killed."

  "I'll remember that the next time you open the door." He laughed and closed the door. Patterson stood appraising me, a thoughtful frown on her face. Without a word, she entered the bedroom and closed the door. A little while later she came out with a blue calf-length skirt, a white V-necked blouse, blue low heel shoes, and a plain gold necklace.

  "Time for dinner," she said, heading for the door. She didn't even glare. In the dining room I asked the waiter for a table near the wall. Patterson remained quiet as she was seated. I moved to the wall while the two FBI agents remained in the lobby. Shortly afterward she was joined by Simon and two others. When the waiter finished taking their order, he looked to me.

  "Anything I can hold in one hand and isn't messy and a glass of milk."

  When he looked back to the people at the table, Simon nodded before continuing the discussion he was having with Patterson. Throughout the meal, Patterson kept glancing in my direction but said nothing. Before the Hill, like most people, I had definite likes and dislikes—loved desserts and alcohol. The Hill had changed all that. Today food was just fuel to keep the body going, didn't need to be eaten sitting or at specific times, and had to able to be held in one hand.

  After dinner Simon returned with Patterson to her suite, and they spent an hour discussing tomorrow's events and talking points from today's news items. On the way to the door he stopped and looked at me.

  "Is it difficult staying alert constantly? You never sit and your eyes are continuously evaluating the people and the area."

  "No, I'm a Kazak," I said. He nodded.

  "Yes, the elite of bodyguards. What do you think of the threat to Miss Patterson?"

  "No one has shown me the threats, so I'd be guessing."

  "They were emails sent to her personal email account. Several said she deserved to die for her positions on gays and lesbians, abortions, and illegals. One threatened to kill her if she didn't quit the race, and one said she would pay for her sins."

  "I'd be guessing."

  "Please."

  "The ones on her positions sounds like the rants people make when you've upset them. I'm not sure what they think it will accomplish, but it makes them feel better. Threatening to kill her if she didn't quit the race is probably a more aggressive rant. The person may plan to interrupt a speech or paint graffiti on her bus or join with others displaying signs of protest. I'd be more concerned about the last one. Religious threats should always be taken seriously."

  "Religious?" Patterson interrupted.

  "Yes, the use of the word sins. That sounds more personal. Like the others that could merely be another rant, but it could be a commitment to punish Miss Patterson for some perceived wrong. The good news is that it doesn't sound like the kind of threats that would justify getting a professional Assassin involved. They're expensive. Of course, you understand I can't guess and must assume a professional could be involved. Besides, even amateurs can be dangerous. Look at Hinckley. Regan was surrounded by FBI, yet Hinckley managed to shoot him."

  "True. But you're just one more person."

  "Yes, but unlike the FBI, I'm not concerned with Miss Patterson's comfort or convenience—only her safety."

  "Interesting. Let's hope the threats are all just rants and Miss Patterson can learn to tolerate you Kazaks. There seems to be more and more Hinckley's running around lately. Goodnight, Arlene."

  Simon was a very bright and subtle man. Rather than tell Patterson why she needed a Kazak, he made it sound like he was seeking information about Kazaks. And the reference to Hinckley at the end, the frosting on the cake. After checking the door, I settled into my chair and fell into a restful meditative state of awareness.

  * * *

  Lynn and I quietly exchanged places at 1:00 a.m. and I went to the standard room she had rented. Not really tired, I made a cup of coffee and sat reviewing the day. It had been interesting … fun … and I had learned a lot. I understood things better today. For example, I knew why Lynn didn't mind taking assignments without relief. Where were you going to go with your twelve hours off? You couldn't party because you needed to be alert the next day. By the time you found someone you wanted to hookup with and got to the hotel, you would have to be getting ready for your shift. Better to get Witton to compensate you for not having to tie up a second Kazak. I don't think Lynn realized Witton would most likely have given her a month or so off even if she hadn't gotten shot up. After all, on an assignment of say six months, she saved Witton six months of a Kazak's time. So if he gave her a month off he’d saved five. And with a month off, I could travel to someplace nice like the Caribbean or the Rivera and have time to relax and really party. I had made the right choice ten long years ago.

  * * *

  "What did you do to her, Megan? We're not puppies to be ordered around, but we're not allowed to beat them into submission," she quipped during our second bus ride.

  "Whacking the porter when he delivered her bags, helped. I remembered your Illusion check procedure, but Simon really gets most of the credit. He's a very shrewd man. When he was alone with her he questioned me about being a Kazak, pulling out the pertinent information to emphasize the difference between the FBI and a Kazak. My reference to Hinckley didn't hurt." I grinned. Lynn gave a quiet snort.

  "I'm impressed. I think you're going to do well as a Kazak. I'd have ignored her, which would have been awkward—for her. You've managed to finesse her. What about shifts?"

  "I've decided I'll work alone. I believe Jody als
o will after I convince Witton he owes us extra time off for saving him a Kazak for the length of the assignment."

  "Yes," she said, smiling, after a few minutes’ pause. "I could have gotten the time off whether I was injured or not, and a month off gives you time to recuperate and…party. All right, I pronounce you ready to take the lead."

  For the next week, I was the one who stayed the closest to Patterson, and she seemed resigned to having me there. At least she stopped giving me dirty looks. Lynn had said many times the job was ninety-nine percent boring and one percent fighting for your life and your client's. I believe that challenge was what the Fox loved. I'm sure I'd also love that, but I found the life of my client interesting, which reduced the boring part significantly. It should be even better when I had him or her twenty-four/seven.

  As the time passed, I wasn't sure whether to dismiss the threat—well concede the emails are just rants—or to be concerned that the individual had a plan and wasn't going to pull a Hinckley and just plan to walk up and shoot her. Lynn seemed to have similar thoughts as her paranoia seemed to ratchet up a notch, if that were possible.

  It was midday and we had just exited the Homewood Suites where Patterson had been giving a campaign speech. A small crowd had gathered in the parking lot close to her bus. They waved signs and chanted, "Bigot, racist, this is America not Iran." I was scanning the crowd, looking for any hostile movements, when I heard two shots and breaking glass. I spun into a snake stance while drawing my gun. As I a rotated through a 360 degree turn, I saw Lynn pointing her weapon in the opposite direction of the crowd and a car speeding away with its rear window shattered. Lynn had obviously seen something where I wasn't looking. I berated myself. But she had that covered so I continued my rotation into a sitting position, facing the crowd again. The FBI had all turned to face the car and two moved to get in front of Patterson. Just then a man with a gun pointing in Patterson's direction stepped out from behind a woman holding a sign reading, "Bigot is a disease."