by C. R. Daems
"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 reaction was comical as the players and coaches realized a woman was in the room. Some became suddenly coy in their half-naked state, others smiled, and still others became outraged—like the coach.
"Get out. This room is off limits to women!" shouted a stocky gray-haired man. He had to be the head coach. From my experience, they seem to like screaming as their first choice of responses. Harkin spoke before I could decide on a response. I guess I was a bit slow, as I was enjoying the situation a little too much.
"Charlie, she's the ZAP agent the owners have insisted I be assigned as a condition of 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 entrance to the room!"
"Charlie, no point me guarding the entrance to the room since Mr. Harkin won't be there. If I leave, he leaves," I said and realized it was a waste of breath.
"I make the rules here," he shouted, moving in my direction. We now had everyone's attention: some were amused, others muttered encouragement, and a few looked to be making wagers.
"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 I crashed into him, I drove my knee into his groin, my head into his nose, and then swept my left leg through his legs. He went horizontal and crashed to the floor with a resounding thud.
"Rule number one," I said into the deathly silence. "Never touch a ZAP agent. Rule number two, never get between a ZAP agent and her client. Rule number three, ZAP agents are not circus animals. They do not respond to commands or do tricks. Any questions?" That was treated with stunned silence, if you didn't count Charlie on the floor.
"You mad bitch," he screamed between intermittent gasps for breath.
I ignored him. "Now that we've had a chance to get to know each other, do Mr. Harkin and I stay or do we leave?"
To his credit, he got to his feet and didn't look too much the worse. He stood staring at me as he wiped the blood around his nose with his sleeve and debated whether to attack me.
"Charlie, this is not a game. People are trying to kill Mr. Harkin. Do you think a hockey rink is off limits to the 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 here."
Charlie stood staring at me, mouth open. Slowly, the tension in his body eased. "The party's over. I want you all on the ice in five minutes," he said in his normal megaphone voice. "You too, Doug. We've got the Kings in three days, and it's a must win game." He headed for the door.
"I wouldn't have missed that for the world," Wickman said, grinning. "I've never worked with a ZAP agent before, but I've heard a few rumors. They all agree ZAP agents are dangerous."
"The only thing you need to know about a ZAP agent 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’ll be best if I know at all times who is on duty and his or her responsibility. ZAP agents are extremely paranoid, and our rules of engagement allow us to shoot anyone we think intends to harm our clients." I certainly didn't want to shoot another agent, but a stranger appearing with a gun at the wrong time could be easily be mistaken for an assassin.
"I'll brief my team."
* * *
I wasn't much of a sport's fan, unless you counted scrimmages with boys at parties, and I'd been out of touch for several 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 Kings’ strengths and weaknesses. The practice lasted a little over an hour. After another weigh-in, the players spent an hour in the weight room—lots of hot muscular sweaty bodies. Other agents might have considered this boring. I didn't. I thought it interesting and entertaining. This was a significant part of the ZAP life I was looking forward to—seeing up close and personal the lives of the VIPs I guarded.
Afterward, 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-long season.
Having identified each of the team players and coaches by now, I let Harkin shower in peace, although I was waiting as he and the others exited. I got a lot of wise cracks, dirty looks, and cussing when I wouldn't leave Harkin—and by extension the others—out of my sight.
"That was damn embarrassing," Harkin said as we left the locker room. Wickman stood waiting as we exited, with a smile on his lips.
"I know that you and the others considered it unnecessary, and today it was. And if I knew if or when someone would try to kill you, I could sit and read a book until then. However, I don't, so I have to assume it could be any minute of the day." This was a waste of breath, as Harkin just wanted to whine and wasn't listening as he rushed by me.
On the way back to his house, he drove a bit slower. I doubt he exceeded the speed limit by more than twenty miles per hour. Back at the house, I discovered he had his own private chef, who prepared his meals when he was in town and intended to eat at home. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties with a mature figure, light-blonde hair, and a pretty round face.
"Hi, Doug. Coach Phillip sent me an updated diet. According to your tweet, you will be eating at home tonight, but you didn't mention a … guest."
"Susan, this is ZAP Agent Mathis. She's my … bodyguard, who I'm hoping is now off duty and leaving." He smiled in my direction.
"Hi, Susan. I'm Mr. Harkin's live-in guest for the foreseeable future, so you can assume I'll be here for all meals; however, I'll be happy with anything that can be eaten with one hand, is not messy, and is preferably bland tasting. Water, juice, coffee, or whatever non-alcoholic liquid is available."
Harkin’s mouth hung open for several seconds. "Live in?"
"Yes, twenty-four seven, unless you know when someone will try to kill you. Oh, and who would be helpful."
"No one works twenty-four hours a day seven days a week."
"ZAP agents do. Since I don't know who wants to kill you, or how many, or who they may have hired, or when or where they plan to do it, I have to keep you in sight twenty-four hours a day until the situation is resolved. You should go about your business as normal and let me do my job, which is to keep you alive."
Harkin stared at me for a long time before he sat, and I moved over against a wall. No one spoke as Susan began placing food on the table: a platter with cooked chicken breasts and thighs surrounded with tomatoes, onions, olives and other miscellaneous things I couldn't identify, a large bowl of brown rice, and another with vegetables of some kind. It looked like enough food to feed a family of four. She returned to the kitchen and several minutes later returned with a sandwich on a plate in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. I took the milk and set it on the floor and then picked the sandwich up off the plate.
"Thank you, Susan. This is perfect." It didn't leak when I picked it up.
"You don't know what it is. It may be something you don't like. And it's going to be tasteless, because I didn't put anything on it since you didn't tell me what you like or don't like."
"Susan, it's perfect because it's food, I can hold it in one hand and eat, and it's not dripping."
"Don't you have likes or dislikes?"
"Yes. I'd prefer my food didn't move, wasn't greasy, and was free of anything that would prevent it from being tasteless."
Susan's face looked at me in horror, like I had claimed Harkin preferred road-kill to
chicken. "You can't mean it," she said, staring at me like she was waiting for me to smile at the joke. From the smell of the chicken, I'd bet she was a good cook and was eager to please.
"I know I may appear silly standing against the wall and wanting food I can eat with one hand when I could be sitting at the table feasting on all that wonderful food you've prepared for Mr. Harkin." I nodded to the table, where Harkin was plowing through his second or maybe third helping of everything. "The chance that anyone may come bursting through the door blasting away with an automatic weapon is close to zero, but my boss pays me to act like the odds are close to one hundred. She insists our client be alive when the contract ends."
"Seems silly ... standing and eating that is ... and it's not healthy." Her cheeks flushed as she turned to Harkin. "Sir, is there anything else I can get you?"
"No, Susan. The chicken cacciatore was delicious," he said as he leaned back with a glass of milk and sighed. Susan smiled and returned to the kitchen and began cleaning up. He finished the milk and rose.
"I'm going to take a shower and change. You can watch television or listen to music if you want. There are a couple of hundred albums in the iPad on the Bose SoundDock in the living room," he said, pointing left in the direction of the stairs leading up to the recreation room, then turned and began walking right toward a hallway. I followed. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Wherever you're going. Think of me as a sweet little puppy which can't stand to have you out of sight."
He stopped and turned to face me. "You plan on sleeping in my bed too?" he said with a sneer.
"No, I've been told my Glock, knives, and baton make sleeping next to me very uncomfortable." I patted my holster. When his sneer faded, I took pity on him. "Mr. Harkin, I understand your need for privacy at times, like sleeping, showers, and so forth. And so long as it doesn't subject you to unnecessary danger, I'm willing to accommodate you. All I want to do now is to check out your sleeping area and assess any potential danger. I don't need to be in your bed, shower, or bedroom so long as there is only one access point which I can guard and all windows are covered with material that doesn't permit you or your shadow to be seen from the outside."
Harkin stood staring at me for a long time before he turned and continued walking to the end of the hallway and into a large bedroom. He stopped and waved me in, frowning in resignation. The bedroom had a king-sized bed with a night stand on each side, a padded chair, a sixty-something inch television hanging on the wall above a long cabinet containing electronic boxes and CDs, and a wall of windows with a panoramic view of the golf course and the mountains beyond. I picked up a tablet-looking device, turned it on, found the window controls, and lowered the shades. They looked reasonably room darkening. The bathroom had a tub the size of a queen-sized bed, a walk-in shower with a built-in television, radio, and intercom combination, a long counter with two bowls, cabinets underneath, and a mirror that stretched the entire length—and more windows with shades like in the bedroom . On the other side of the room was a walk-in closet half the size of the bedroom. I was surprised it didn't have windows.
"Well?"
"So long as there is no access except this hallway to these bedrooms and you close the shades when the lights are on, I can position a chair to guard the hallway and see entrances to other access points into the house."
"You're going to sleep here, in a chair? Are you crazy?" his voice rose with each question and his face reddened.
"Yes, I'm your twenty-four-seven house guest, and yes, I'm crazy because I'm going to compromise on my you'll be able to see me by turning your head statement." I shrugged.
He stood with his mouth open staring at me as I left. He shut the door. I strolled down the hallway looking into each of the other three bedrooms. Then I pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat facing the hallway. Susan looked to be just about finished cleaning up.
"Do you really think someone would come out here to … harm Mr. Harkin? The police said he acted in self-defense and that killing that kid was an accident. Surely that settles it," Susan said, looking across the island in my direction. "He can be a little hot tempered at times, but he's really a good man and does a lot for the community."
"I have to assume they might. Whether Mr. Harkin is innocent in the eyes of the law or a good person doesn't matter if the gang members feel otherwise. If Mr. Harkins had killed one of his neighbor's kids, they would most likely sue him, or send nasty or threatening emails, or petition to have him removed from the country club. Gangs tend to like more direct action. They believe more in ‘an eye for an eye’," I said as Harkin came strolling down the hallway, dressed for going out.
"Where are we going, Mr. Harkin?" I asked, and alarms began ringing when he didn't protest.
"A drink with friends," he said as he continued walking down the stairs and into the garage, with me following. He stopped and surveyed his cars as the garage doors opened. He eventually walked over to the Mercedes, jumped in, and started the engine while I walked around to the other side. As I reached for the door handle, he hit the accelerator. Tires screeched and left a smoking-trail from burning rubber as the car lurched forward and out the garage. I smiled as I pulled out my Glock, took careful aim—didn't want to kill my client—and shot out both the rear tires. I was impressed when he managed to keep the car mostly on the driveway as the tires exploded. The FBI men stood there looking from the Mercedes to me and back to the car, which stood leaning up against a Saguaro. One drew his gun but hesitated when I put mine away and began walking toward the car.
"Why did you shoot him? You could have killed him," one of the FBI men shouted at me. I ignored him and continued to walk toward the Mercedes. The car door flew open and Harkin leaped out. He was screaming; his face twisted in rage as he shook his fist in my direction.
"You god damn lunatic. You could have killed me! I'll have you arrested. You're insane!"
"You've hurt my feelings, again I might add. And after I forgave you for running off without me. I thought about leaving, but I decided you just forgot, so I decided to give you another chance."
"What are you babbling about? I hate you," he shouted. Wickman stood off to the side with a slight smile, like he was watching a funny sitcom. I noticed he had kept his agent from interfering.
"If I had left when you sped off, your hockey season would be over. If you knew that, I apologize, and I'll leave immediately." I smiled, hardly able to contain a laugh.
His face went from flushed-anger to open-mouth confusion to open-eyed realization to a closed-eyed sigh of resignation.
"… You're right. It was thoughtless. A night with the boys isn't worth it."
"I don't mind spending a night with the boys. Let's go."
Wickman smiled, and he and his agent began walking back to their car in quiet conversation.
Harkin stared at me for several minutes, and then nodded. "Why not. I'll go get the beamer." He proceeded back to the garage and returned driving the BMW. He stopped and I hopped in the back, behind him. He went around the Mercedes and onto Dynamite drive. After that it was hard to see the street signs because the sun had set and it was too dark. I thought traffic was light considering Phoenix is a large city. About a half hour later he pulled into a parking lot and got out with me following. He wasn't talking, so I think he planned to pretend I wasn't tagging along.
He showed the man at the door something, and we were admitted. Once inside, I saw that the place was larger than it looked from the outside, with its the small modest entrance. The crowd inside looked to be in their mid-twenties to early thirties. There were several rooms: a lounge, a dance floor, and a karaoke room. Harkin headed for the lounge, where a tall young man stood waving at him from a table with five others.
A young girl was sort of dancing on a small raised stage as she stripped. She didn't appear to be the prime-time attraction, more like background entertainment.
"Hi, Doug, wasn't sure if you were going to make it," Sean said, noddi
ng toward me.
"Leave it to you to get a good-looking woman for a bodyguard, Doug. Hi, I'm Rick," a man said while giving me a head-to-toe inspection. Rick and the other two men were in their mid to late twenties and looked like athletes, although obviously not on the Arizona Coyotes team—as I had seen them all. Rick was a few inches shorter than Harkin but wider and all muscle. He was all smiles, but his eyes said he could be nasty. "That's Leone and Jerry. The girls are Lynda and …"
"Sandy," the blonde said cheerfully with a wave. Leone and Jerry were both tall and muscular judging by their biceps and wide chests—football if I had to guess.
"Doug, what do you want to drink? And what about you, sweet thing?" Rick asked as he motioned toward the three empty chairs next to where he sat.
"Heineken," Harkin said to the waitress who magically appeared as he sat. He looked to me. I scanned the room and decided the bar gave me the best view and shook my head, then headed for a stool at the end of the bar.
"Not very sociable, is she?" Rick said.
Their voices faded into the background noise as I approached the bar. When I sat, a trim thirty-something brunette approached and wiped the area in front of me before she put down a coaster.
"What will you have, hon."
"Anything nonalcoholic," I said, laying a twenty on the bar before she could protest. "That yours for the inconvenience."
She smiled, grabbed the twenty, and waltzed off. A few minutes later, she returned with a martini glass full of clear liquid to the rim with an olive on a stick in it. I took a sip—water.
"Perfect. You can get me another one every half hour." I said, knowing that would keep her and management happy.
"I'm Alice." She nodded and walked away smiling.
I hadn't been there ten minutes when a good-looking middle-aged man sat down on the stool next to me.
"Hi, I'm Bert. Can I buy you a drink?" he said, holding out his hand. The lady behind the bar watched while pretending to be cleaning the bar where no one had been sitting.