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

by C. R. Daems

  * * *

  Ann Marie booked me first class on American Airlines out of D.C. into Chicago's O'Hare. I checked my luggage with Airport security using my Kazak authorization, as it contained guns, knives, and a baton, which I prefer in non-uzi fights. At O'Hare, I retrieved it from airport security. Fortunately, I didn't need or want a rental car. After ten years in training, I didn't have a driver's license and was positive I didn't want to drive after watching the traffic from the taxi window. The trip to Wacker Drive was short and I had no trouble finding Shale Energy and their middle-aged, red-headed guard dog.

  "Good morning. May I help you?" she said in a cautious tone. Couldn't blame her. Typical Kazak-wear, even if not all black, wasn't business attire.

  "Yes, I'm Kazak Megan. I believe Miss Vansise is expecting me," I chirped, feeling good about my first solo assignment. She relaxed with a visible sigh of relief.

  "Yes, she is," she said reaching for the phone. "Miss Vansise, The Kazak Megan is here." After a slight delay, she turned back to me. "Go right in, Kazak Megan. Miss Vansise will see you now."

  I walked over to the door she’d pointed at and entered a large room, well lit by a wall of windows facing Lake Michigan. Miss Vansise stood by an oblong table filled with maps and drawings. She looked to be middle-aged and was dressed in an expensive tan pantsuit with an orange open-neck blouse. She appraised me like a hawk deciding on her next meal. I returned the appraisal. She was several inches taller than me, thin, with a narrow face. Her black hair was styled in a short shag cut that rested over her ears and was slightly longer in the back.

  "You aren't what I was expecting," she finally said.

  "You were expecting a Navy Seal, a Shaolin monk, or maybe a Sumo wrestler?"

  "That's very rude."

  "I'm Kazak Megan. You may call me Megan after you get over your disappointment." I smiled at the arrogance of the rich and powerful, thinking only they could be rude, tactless, and speak their minds. She stood there silently glaring. Then she gave a small shrug and walked over to her desk and sat.

  "All right, Megan. I guess you can sit in the waiting room. I won't be leaving until six or seven. I seldom go to lunch, but when I do it's with someone and we're usually gone for an hour or two. Susan can order you a takeout lunch when I stay in, but you'll have to wait for dinner until I leave for home," she said, like she was lecturing a new employee on her duties. I laughed and sat down.

  "I don't know what you were expecting, but I'm definitely not it. I'm assigned to you to protect your life because the powers-that-be not only believe the threat is real but that your life is worth protecting. I'm a Kazak, not a hired bodyguard." I held up my hand before she could interrupt. "A bodyguard you pay and is therefore an employee who must cater to your wishes, even if it exposes you to unnecessary danger. I'm a Kazak, not an employee. I'm not concerned with pleasing you if it exposes you to harm. If your convenience is more important than your safety, then you don't need a Kazak. Hire a bodyguard." I managed a smile, although the look on her face warranted a hearty laugh.

  "What did I say that indicated you couldn't protect me? I'm safe in my office, no one is going to create a scene in a restaurant, and the FBI is watching my house."

  "If you are convinced the threat is from some troublemaker who wants to throw paint on you, then you need a bodyguard and I can leave. A Kazak will not presume to know who is threatening you, or what means they will go to seek retribution, or when or where he will strike. If it's an average person with a gun, then a couple of bodyguards allowed to stay close to you at all times may be sufficient. If it's someone with military experience, they won't be enough. And if someone with money wants you dead, they will hire an Assassin. In that case, you need a Kazak, and you must be willing to be inconvenienced."

  "How inconvenienced?"

  "You will be able to see me by turning your head but, like a perfect child, I will not speak unless spoken to."

  "I'm not safe in my office? Besides, there are company secrets…"

  "Miss Vansise, an Illusionist Assassin can look just like people you know. He or she could walk right by me into your office, kill you, and walk out without me knowing you were dead. If I'm in your office, he will have to kill me first if he plans to live through the assassination. As for secrets, I don't care whether you are a part time prostitute or file false claims to the government. I only care about your safety. Besides, under the law you have the same client protection with a Kazak that you do with your lawyer."

  "No, you're not what I expected. I've apparently made several erroneous assumptions. What you would look like, what a Kazak does, and the possible seriousness of the threat." She stopped and took a sip of water she had sitting on a tray with a glass and thermos jug. "What kind of qualifications do you have?"

  "Nine years at the Kazak school which graduated four individuals of the two hundred who applied for admission during the biennial competition I attended."

  "I understand why you don't consider yourself a bodyguard, and why Kazaks are scarce." She stared at me for a long time before continuing. "What you are trying to tell me is that I have to determine if the inconvenience is worth the safety you provide."

  I nodded. "Although the threat may be minimal or nonexistent, I have to assume it's going to be an Assassin. In that event, I have to be close enough that he has to kill or disable me before he can attack you."

  "All right, Megan. Rather than have you explain all the gory detail, which I'm sure I won't like, stay and we'll see if we can tolerate each other. Do you need anything?" she asked. I shook my head, stood, and pushed one of her chairs into a corner so I could see both the door and her. She frowned before picking up a document and began reading.

  Nothing much happened for the next several hours. She made and received several phone calls, typed on her laptop, and read. Around noon Susan opened the door and walked in.

  "Miss Vansise, would you like me to order something for you?" she said and snuck a quick look in my direction.

  "Yes."

  Susan handed her a sheet of paper, which Vansise proceeded to mark with a pencil. "Megan, I assume you're not going to lunch?" When I nodded agreement, she continued. "What would you like me to order?"

  "Anything I can eat with one hand with nothing messy inside that can drip or fall out. Milk or water to drink."

  "You don't care?"

  "No. On the Hill, that's the Kazak school, you learn not to care what you eat and to keep one hand free while you do. Or not to eat at all when it's inconvenient."

  She continued to stare at me as Susan beat a hasty retreat. Susan returned a half hour later with several Chinese dishes for Vansise and a tray of pot stickers and a glass of milk, which she set on a small table next to me. A perfect selection since the pot stickers had small skewers which were easy to pick up with one hand.

  "Thank you, Susan. That was a good choice," I said, and was rewarded with a nice smile. It was after three when the phone buzzed and Vansise answered.

  "Send him in, Susan," she said, looking toward me until a man opened the door and walked in. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, with gray streaked brown hair, a few pounds overweight, and a round clean-shaven face. When he saw me he stopped and then turned toward Vansise.

  "Harold, meet Megan. You're aware of the threats I've been receiving. I've been assigned a Kazak bodyguard."

  "Nice to meet you, Megan," he said and gave me a friendly smile. I nodded while evaluating him. Vansise appeared to know him, but… I began to understand Lynn. You had to stay vigilant—just in case. After a long pause he turned back to her.

  "We need to talk—alone."

  "Megan says discussions with Kazaks have attorney-client privilege, and from what I've learned so far, I don't think she plans on leaving."

  "Megan, Miss Vansise and I need to talk," Harold said, glaring in my direction.

  "Okay."

  "Alone."

  "Sorry." I maintained eye contact. When he took a step
in my direction, I laid the gun concealed by my leg onto my lap. He froze, then stumbled backward. "Harold, someone is threatening to harm, maybe kill, Miss Vansise. This is not a game where you or she can call for a time out. Until Miss Vansise no longer needs or wants my protection, she stays within my sight. And yes, I will use deadly force if necessary."

  "Harold, pull up a chair," Vansise said and picked up the phone. "Susan, get me Mr. Witton."

  Harold glared at me while Vansise waited. "Mr. Witton, the Kazak Megan seems a bit— Yes, that the word. Oh… She claims Kazaks have attorney-client privilege— And she threatened one of my associates when he confronted her— Oh— Thank you, Mr. Witton." She turned and looked at me for a minute before turning back to Harold.

  "Witton is her superior? Hopefully you can get her replaced."

  "Yes, Witton's her boss. He agreed her rules are invasive and confirmed all Kazaks have attorney-client privilege. He said she would be justified shooting anyone she felt endangered my safety. And, he added that he was short Kazaks and could use her on another assignment if I didn't want her."

  "Are you going to keep her? I'd hire a couple of bodyguards if I were you. She's a lunatic."

  "I don't know. Based on what Megan has told me about Kazaks and her actions, I believe her assessment is correct—it depends upon the level of threat and the risk I'm willing to assume. I think I'll wait to decide. Besides, I find the Kazak concept intriguing."

  Harold reluctantly stayed. They soon became immersed in the details surrounding an issue at one of their sites and forgot I was in the room. I didn't care about the specifics surrounding the issues except to assess reasons for individuals to want to hurt Vansise and the level of threat that may represent. He gave me a hostile look as he left the office.

  "You were good as your word—seen but not heard." She looked toward the back wall at a large stainless steel wall clock with moving gears. "I guess its dinnertime. Are you joining me or going home?"

  "If you're going to dinner, I'm coming along."

  Vansise frowned but said no more. I followed her to her car, a blue BMW 550 with tan leather interior.. Rather than use Interstate 290, she used Clark Street to West Madison Street going west. She remained quiet on the thirty-minute drive to Forest Park and the Francesca's Fiore restaurant. Inside, we clashed over my stipulation that her table be next to a wall, preferably a corner, and my refusal to sit to eat. It took the restaurant's manager fifteen minutes to arrange for a table acceptable to me.

  "You're very conspicuous, standing against the wall. It's embarrassing," Vansise said just above a whisper. Her face flushed a light pink. "I won't be able to show my face here again."

  "In less than five minutes the novelty will wear off and life will return to normal."

  "Maybe for them. I assume you going to eat with one hand, and standing up. I don't think they have a standup-and-eat-with-one-hand menu," she said with a got-you grin.

  "If they can't handle special requests, that's all right." I grinned back.

  "You're more aggravating than the environmentalists plaguing every one of my sites. Never mind. What kind of food do you like?"

  "I don't care. The more tasteless the better," I said as a good-looking waiter in his early twenties warily approached the table.

  "Miss Vansise, what can I get for…you tonight?" he asked, while trying not to look in my direction.

  "What would you recommend, Raymond?"

  "The swordfish looks good and it came in fresh this morning."

  "That sounds good. The house Cabernet, a Caesar salad, and the Pesce Spada Mia Notte. And ask Chef Lionetti if he could prepare something a person can eat with one hand, not too messy, and as tasteless as he can make it." She gave me a smug look over her shoulder. "And a glass of milk."

  "Perfect," I said, while continuing to scan the restaurant. By now everyone had returned their attention to their meals with only an occasional glance in my direction, which was quickly averted when they caught me looking at them.

  "Yes, Miss Vansise," Raymond said and beat a hasty retreat. After she had finished her salad, Raymond returned with her swordfish dinner and what looked like a meatball sub without sauce. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

  "Yes, Raymond. Another glass of wine," she replied and, as he departed, "I should probably order a bottle or two."

  "Don't. I don't have a driver’s license."

  She shook her head and began eating. With the second glass of wine and the food, she seemed to relax and forget about me standing behind her. After a cup of coffee and tiramisu, she paid the bill and we left. It was only a short drive to Maywood and her house. When we arrived, there were five people walking up and down on the lawn in front of her house. A car was parked on the opposite side of the street. Since all the other cars were in driveways or garages, I assumed it was the FBI, who were supposed to be guarding her house.

  "Shit," Vansise said, stopping the car at the curb because two men were standing on the driveway. They had baseball bats with a baseball glove hanging around each one. Nice touch, since it would appear like two men returning from a game. But the game was Vansise. I got out and walked around the car as two men and a woman came strolling toward the car with signs reading, "Frack Shale Energy," "Frack Vansise," and "Fracking the World and its children."

  "You come to frack us?" said a tall athletic man in his thirties as he left the driveway to meet me. As I continued to approach him he stopped, unsure what to do. When I was only a few feet away, I drove a front kick into his balls, kneed him in the face as he bent in pain, and snatched the bat out of his hand. As his biker-looking mate watched, I rotated the bat over my head in a circle ending at his kneecap. He screamed and collapsed. Couldn't blame him, it must have hurt more than the kick to the balls.

  Now the biker's face had turned ugly. As he came to meet me, I nodded to Vansise to proceed into the garage.

  "You bitch, I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll—" He stopped as he realized the garage door was opening and Vansise was slowing entering the driveway now that he had moved. He smiled—at least I think that was what his contorted face was attempting to do. "After I frack this bitch's face." He raised his bat, preparing to smash the driver's window. I shot him in the chest and two more times as he staggered backward. When I turned toward the three with signs, they were backing up. Then they dropped their signs and ran.

  "Drop that gun and get on the ground," the man said as he got out of the parked car.

  "I guess you've finished you coffee and donuts," I said, turned, and walked up the driveway. Vansise had left the car and was waving at the man. Don't shoot. She's a Kazak."

  "Stop or I'll shoot," he shouted again while trying to open his cell. I grabbed her arm and walked into the garage.

  "He could have shot you!" she said as the garage door slid closed.

  "No. He's FBI. He wouldn't shoot unless I shot at him—too many repercussions. He'll call for backup, it's easier."

  "What's going to happen to you?"

  "Nothing. However, if I let him hurt you, then I'd be in trouble. Mr.Witton would be pissed. Master Lynn would be disappointed. And I would be depressed for months." I hit "1" on my cell and put it on speaker.

  "Yes?"

  "Boss, I've got a FBI man outside wanting to arrest me for shooting…correction, killing a man who was attempting to kill Miss Vansise. He's probably calling for backup as we speak."

  "Try not to shoot anyone else." The phone went dead.

  "A man of few words," I said as I put my cell away. "Having heard Kazak Lynn talk about Mr. Witton, the situation should be resolved before I have to shoot anyone else."

  Vansise walked unsteadily into the front room and collapsed onto the couch. "Why?" She put her head in her hands. "The country needs an alternative source of energy and we have an abundance of natural gas. Fracking is new technology. If the technique has issues, we need to address them. Killing me isn't going to make the technology disappear."

  "This is
Captain Wilson. Come out, the house is surrounded." The voice sounded like it came from a megaphone. When I didn't answer several more requests for me to surrender, the phone rang. Vansise answered.

  "Yes?" Silence. "No, I'm not a hostage." Silence. "She's my bodyguard." Silence. "She's a Kazak." Vansise put the phone down. "He said he was Captain Wilson and he was coming to the front door unarmed."

  A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. "I'm Captain Wilson and I'm unarmed. I've just talked to Mr. Witton."

  I stopped Vansise when she started toward the door.

  "Is it locked?" I asked. She nodded. "Just one minute, Captain." I moved Vansise to a place where she couldn't be seen when the door opened, then went to the door, unlocked it, and stepped back so I could see who entered but wasn't in a direct line-of-sight from the street.

  "Come in, the door is unlocked," I said after I was comfortable I could handle a multiple attack through the door. The door opened slowly, and a tall broad-shouldered man entered with his hands in plain sight. He closed the door behind him. Smart man.

  "I apologize for the confusion. The FBI agent who called in the request for backup failed to mention it was a Kazak who shot the man and took the owner into the house. The officers who arrived assumed she was being held hostage." He shrugged. "If you would show me your badge and give me the basics of what happened, I'd appreciate it.

  "Miss Vansise, if you wouldn't mind getting the Captain and yourself something to drink, we can relax, and I'll answer Captain Wilson's questions. Vansise nodded, looking somewhat dazed.

  "Wine or coffee?"

  "Coffee, please, although the events probably call for something stronger," Wilson said with a small laugh.

  I walked over to him as I rolled up my sleeve so he could see my tattoo. He spent several seconds examining it.

  "Megan, a Wolf. Interesting. The only other one I've seen was a man and he had a Tiger's head. Are they all different?"

  "The Witch Meztlil names us at graduation. The men have always been named after large cats: tigers, lions, panthers, and cheetahs. But the women, now three, have not. The current three are a Fox, Wolverine, and Wolf." I said. He seemed like a reasonable man, consequently there was no reason for me not to be sociable. Besides, I thought it would help relax Vansise, who was having a bad day—getting used to having a Lynn-trained Kazak, an attack on her, seeing a man killed, and a swat team threatening to storm the house. Several minutes later Vansise came walking over to the table, placed a cup of coffee in front of Wilson, a glass of milk in front of me, and sat with a glass of wine. I remained standing—better to move quickly.