by Diana Gardin
I don’t know.
She doesn’t try to hide her smile, which is a surprise and something I find refreshing. There’re no games with Sayward; she puts out exactly what’s going on inside her head. Her face is expressive and her smile is fucking contagious.
“I did it?” Her voice lifts with pleased surprise.
I chuckle, pushing up from the desk. “Don’t get cocky, Diaz.”
Her chin lifts with pride. “They call me Viper.” She spins and walks out of the office.
Following her back down the hallway toward the bar area, I mutter under my breath as I think about what just happened. “For good reason.”
4
Sayward
On the drive back to my apartment, I keep replaying the moments spent in the office with Bennett. I stayed for another hour to allow the buzz I had going thanks to my tequila shots fizzle out. During that time, Bennett accepted Jacob’s offer to come aboard NES on a trial basis. I also watched as he worked his magic behind the bar. As much as I tried to keep my eyes from straying toward him, I could never prevent it for long. By the time I left I could be considered an expert on all things Bennett Blacke.
He’s friendly with his customers, especially the female ones, but not in a slimy kind of way. There were several overt attempts from women, mostly college coeds but also a few who looked around my twenty-four years who tried to garner an intimate encounter with him. He funneled invitations to meet in the bar bathroom or out in the parking lot. I saw him shake his head each time, pretending he was sad he couldn’t take them up on their offers, but now and then he’d throw me a wink, just let me know he knew I was watching.
That drove me the craziest of all. Knowing that Bennett knew I couldn’t quite keep my eyes off of him was maddening. I hated the way my body reacted every time his eyes met mine, or slowly roved their way down my frame. It made me feel like I was completely naked when in reality I was more fully clothed than any other woman in here.
I pull up to my apartment, which is on the top floor of a big old duplex. Starting up the exterior stairs to my front door, the first thing I notice is that my porch light over my entrance isn’t on.
There’s never been a time I’ve left my apartment, knowing I’d be back after dark, that I haven’t left my porch light on. It’s one of the many routine tasks I do before leaving my place, something that makes me feel a little more in control of my world. So the shroud of darkness at the top of the landing has me frozen, staring in trepidation up at my darkened front door. At least my living room lamp is on inside, something else that I make sure to do before leaving in the evening.
Damn lightbulb must have burned out. Taking a deep, calming breath, I clutch my keys tight in my hand and hurry up the steps.
My apartment is located in a safe area. The beach is only six blocks away, and my neighbors are all very friendly, despite the fact that I’m not exactly the get-to-know-you type. My landlord lives on the first floor of the duplex, a nice lady in her fifties who’s kind enough not to inquire about my unconventional social graces and brings me baked goods at least twice a month. There are no lights on in her apartment, which lets me know she’s in bed for the night.
Chills skate across the back of my neck and creep down my spine as I shove my key into the lock. I pause, confused. Glancing at the key in my hand and to the lock, I frown. I know I locked the door this morning.
Everything looks the way it should, but I can’t help the distinct feeling of not-rightness that hovers over me like a thunderhead. Remembering my training from NES, I quickly walk to my bedroom, keeping my eyes wide open and watchful as I go. Walking into my roomy closet, I crouch down in front of the safe and turn the combination lock with steady fingers. I’m pulling out my small handgun when a voice behind me draws a startled yelp from my throat.
Standing, I aim my weapon at the person standing there in the shadows, because I didn’t turn on the light in my bedroom when I entered.
“Don’t move,” I say, steeling my voice with resolve I don’t feel.
I didn’t even register whatever he said to me. All I can see is a tall figure standing at the entrance to my bedroom. My stomach bottoms out, just like it would if I were on an amusement park ride. Only this isn’t even a little bit fun. Terror is turning the blood in my veins to ice.
All I want to do is drop the gun and run, but I’ve been trained better than that.
You are strong. My hands shake, a direct contrast to the thought.
I can just make out that he’s slowly raising his hands in the air, and I take that opportunity to reach just outside of the closet door and flick a wall switch. My overhead bedroom light floods the room with a sunny glow and I suck in a breath at the sight of the man before me.
A man I haven’t seen in thirteen years, but one with a face I’d recognize anywhere.
“Marcos.” I breathe, just before placing my gun carefully on the floor and lifting my hands to my chest.
He steps close enough to hug me, and even as I stiffen I allow it.
Because this is my brother.
“Jesus, hermanita.” He and holds me at arm’s length. “Qué pasa? A gun?”
Whereas I’ve been living in the States since I was eleven years old, as far as I know, Marcos has been in Colombia all that time. My accent is minimal if anyone hears it at all, but his is thick, and it immediately fills me with a sense of home so strong I almost collapse under the weight of it.
He gives me a stern glare. “I thought you were supposed to have the kind of life here where guns were not necessary. What the hell?”
He shakes my shoulders a little, and I snap back to attention. Every ounce of fear that had turned my body into an autopilot machine a few moments ago has melted away, instead leaving me with a pure sense of happiness and a slight bit of confusion.
“Marcos? What are you doing here?” Turning away from him, I retrieve my gun and place it back inside my safe.
When I turn around again, my brother is watching me with a mixture of emotions in his eyes. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, I can’t read any of them, and that realization nearly brings me to tears.
Clearing my throat, I walk past him, gesturing that he should follow me. “I’ll fix us some coffee. And then I want to hear about why you’re here.”
I retrieve my phone and my keys from the floor where I dropped them near the front door. Placing my keys on the appropriate hook, I pocket my phone and follow my usual route, the one I walk each and every day when I come home, toward the kitchen and the coffeemaker. I peek out at Marcos over the counter pass-through. He’s staring at me, a wistful smile on his face.
“What?” I shove a mug under the one-cup machine and press a little coffee cup into the slot. As I press down, the machine hums to life and prepares the hot, steaming brew.
Marcos shakes his head. He drops down onto my tan suede couch and leans back. “I’m glad you seem to have a good life here. But you’re still…you. You know, the little things you do over and over again the same way?”
I glance down at the coffeemaker. “You mean the thing that makes me a weirdo? My autism?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, I’m proud of you. It could have held you back, but it didn’t. You’re smart and you seem to have made a life here in the States that’s so much better than the one you would have had…” He trails off and a lump forms in my throat.
While he’s looking away, I pull out my phone and shoot Jacob a quick text to let him know that Marcos is here. I’m not sure why I do it; I trust Marcos. He’s my family. He would never hurt me. I know that there’s probably a lot of things he’s done in his life back in Colombia that are less than savory, but he’s my blood. My only sibling. If he’s here, maybe he needs my help.
And maybe Jacob’s help, too.
After the second cup of coffee is brewed, I grab both mugs and hand one to my brother. Kicking off my sneakers, I carefully place them inside a compartment of the bench beside
the door. Returning to the sofa, I tuck my feet beneath me while Marcos grips his mug. Sipping deeply, he eyes me and I cast my gaze downward. It doesn’t matter if he’s family. Looking someone in the eye for a prolonged period of time makes me want to jump out of my own skin, and it probably always will.
“So,” Marcos begins. “Tell me about your life here. What do you do for a living?”
“I work for Jacob Owen. He runs a private security company here in Wilmington, and I do research and investigation for them.” I don’t elaborate on exactly what NES does. The fact that the men who work there often participate in covert, black ops missions and contracts for the government isn’t something I’m at liberty to share. As far as the public knows, all the company does is private security for the rich and famous. And sometimes, that is what the guys do. They’re pros when it comes to making sure someone is safe and protected, whether it be while they’re on the move or in their own home or office.
My brother’s eyes narrow when I say Jacob’s name. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?”
Disbelief colors my tone as I shake my head. “You know what he did for our family. He is the only reason I’m able to have a life here. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
Jacob Owen goes way back with my family in Colombia. The past there is deep and dark, and not something I like to revisit. When I turned eighteen I left the foster parents I’d been placed with when Jacob brought me to the United States. I made a living as a hacker, doing all kinds of things I shouldn’t on the dark web. But Jacob got wind of that, straightened me out, and brought me into the fold at NES.
My gratitude for that man is endless.
“Sayward, I have something to talk to you about.” His tone softening, Marcos turns toward me, his hands folding in his lap.
My stomach plummets. Nothing good ever comes after those words.
Standing, I shake my head and pace the room. “You know what? I think I have some shortbread to go with the coffee.”
I dart back into my small kitchen. Cooking is something I do when nothing I’m doing technologically is clicking, or when my brain needs a break from it all. It’s so simple and fun, something no part of my life has ever been.
I read a recipe and follow it. It’s a comfort to me.
“Sayward—” Marcos starts, but I quickly manage to talk over him.
“No, I know I have something somewhere. Something sweet to go with the coffee. Just give me a minute, okay, Marcos?”
On the inside, my guts are churning, my heart is racing, and my brain is in total denial. It doesn’t matter what he wants to tell me, all I know is that it isn’t good and I’d rather distract the hell out of myself rather than face it alone.
I’ve been pretend-searching through the kitchen cabinets, making enough of a racket that Marcos doesn’t bother coming into the area to check on me, when there’s a sturdy knock on the front door.
Jacob.
All the breath leaves me and I sag against a counter in relief.
I hear the front door open as Jacob Owen lets himself in, and Marcos rises from the couch. His whole demeanor is wary, and he glances toward where I’m now standing in the kitchen doorway before zeroing in on Jacob.
“You called him?” he asks me with accusation in his voice.
Jacob closes the front door behind him and squares off with Marcos. “Marcos. It’s good to see you. What brings you into town?”
Jacob glances at me, his eyes checking me over to make sure I’m okay. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s always done. He takes care of me. And there’s nobody I’d rather have with me to ride out whatever news Marcos is about to drop.
“Marcos was just about to tell me something.” My voice barely exists as I scurry into the room with a plate full of already baked shortbread. I’d known exactly where it was the entire time, but Marcos doesn’t need to know that.
I perch on a chair in the corner, needing my own space. Jacob and Marcos sit on the couch, Marcos darting wary glances toward Jacob the entire time.
“Sayward…it’s Papa. He’s dead.”
I suck in a breath as the pain rockets unbidden through my chest.
No. No, no, no.
My father, the one person who made sure I made it safely out of Colombia all those years ago. When my life was in danger, my father made sure I made it out of Colombia into safe hands…Jacob Owen’s.
I grip my stomach as the pain lances through me, sagging. I don’t glance at either Jacob or Marcos as I ask the only question I need the answer to. My voice is nothing but a ragged whisper. “What happened?”
Marcos’s answer is blunt and honest. “Cartel.”
I suck in a deep gulp of air even as my insides threaten to collapse in on themselves.
Jacob is speaking then, asking Marcos more detailed questions about what happened to my father, but I tune them both out. All I need to know is that my father is dead. A man I loved more than life itself, the person who sacrificed everything so that I’d be safe.
Dead, gone. Dead, gone. Dead, gone.
Just like that.
But I was made to compartmentalize. I can feel the heavy, stifling hand of sadness, of devastation really, pressing down on me. But I shove it away and focus on what I can control.
On what I can handle.
I look first at Marcos, then at Jacob. “I have to go home.”
Jacob’s stance goes rigid. “Home?”
I nod, my features as calm as undisturbed waters while a storm swirls inside of me. “Yes. Home to Colombia. My family needs me.”
Along with Marcos, I have a few aunts and uncles back home in Colombia. Just because I haven’t been able to be with my family for years doesn’t mean that they’re not still just that—my family.
“No.”
Both Marcos and I glance at Jacob, Marco’s head snapping while my gaze slides over in reaction to his defiance. This, I expect.
“No?” Marcos’ voice rises with heat. He bristles with anger. “You can’t keep her from her family!”
Jacob doesn’t move. He’s like stone, standing completely still and watching us. But I can see one muscle in the hard line of his jaw ticking dangerously, and I know that Marcos should watch his step.
“There’s a reason Sayward lives here. She cannot go back to Colombia. It isn’t safe. Her security is the most important thing.” He turns his cool blue eyes on me. “Sayward, I understand why you want to go home. What your family must be going through…But they will have each other. And you will have us. The team at NES will be there for you.” His eyes are full of comfort, but nothing is going to take away the pain of this loss. Except maybe helping my family get through it.
I shake my head. “Jacob…I have to go.”
Silence stretches between us, taut with tension, before Jacob finally speaks again. He looks at Marcos. “When is the funeral?”
Marcos spits the words. “There is no body. There will be no funeral. But there will be a service to remember him in a week.”
Jacob, still stoic, approaches me. He places his hands lightly on my shoulders. I close my eyes and inhale at the touch, but I don’t flinch away. Not from Jacob. He releases me quickly, though, knowing me well. “I’ll spend this week educating the team on what we’re dealing with in Colombia. When you go, we go. Understood?”
He must note the confusion on my face, because his expression softens. “If you want to do this, I won’t let you do it alone.”
I know there’s no point in protesting this, but Marcos isn’t aware of how serious Jacob is right now. “She has me. She doesn’t need bodyguards.”
Jacob, who knows how sensitive I am to the touch of others, leans in and does something he’s never done before. He kisses my forehead gently, with the soft love of a father, and the tears I’ve been fighting against well up in my eyes.
“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow. An NES operative will be stationed outside all night. I’ll feel better if you have around-the-clock supervision from th
e Rescue Ops team until all ties from your past”—he flicks a glance at Marcos—“are gone.”
With those words he walks out my front door.
Marcos almost splutters he’s so mad. “Rescue Ops team? What the hell is he talking about?”
With a shaky breath, I pull myself together and start painstakingly making the couch for Marco to sleep on. “I told you that I work for Jacob and that he owns a private security company. The most elite team there is called Rescue Ops. And that’s all I can tell you.”
“Why does he feel like there should be someone watching you?” Marcos runs his hands through his dark, thick hair. Agitation crawls off of him in invisible waves.
My answer is simple. “Because he loves me.”
With that I escape to my room where I allow the lump of emotion fighting for purchase in my throat to be free, and my pillowcase becomes soaked with my tears.
5
Bennett
What do you think? Think you can find your way around now?” Ronin leans against the desk in the front lobby of the Night Eagle Security building.
The desk is where Jeremy’s wife, Rayne, sits busily typing information into her computer while she ignores us completely. Her swollen belly is hidden, but I know it’s there.
Running my tongue over my teeth as I try to recall everything Bennett just showed me as we toured the building, I nod. “Yeah, think so. We’re having a meeting this morning, right?”
I’d arrived a half hour earlier than the rest of the men, in order to complete the paperwork that Rayne had prepared. Then Ronin was cool enough to come in early and show me around. There were still iron-fisted nerves in my stomach, though.
I haven’t been in an environment like this for a long, long time. Even though the sight of the state-of-the-art workout facility and the conference room set up with military-grade tech gives me the drive to work, I’m still nervous as fuck.