Guarding His Desires (Passionate Security Book 2)

by Jaylen Florian

  Nathaniel stands and bangs his fist against the television monitor, silencing the broadcast. He kneels over Aleksey and pokes his index finger just inches away from his face.

  "He will forgive me," Nathaniel boasts, "even if I demolish you."

  "Maybe so," Aleksey responds. "Or maybe the price of being associated with you is too high. Much too high."

  "That is not your choice. You are just a guard. Hired help."

  "Zachary is not like you. He never will be. At his core, there is not malicious guile, hate, or a win-at-all-costs mentality. There is kindness. No matter how many times you punch or kick me, that is the ultimate truth."

  Nathaniel returns to the edge of the bed, putting a distance of eight feet between them.

  "How did you catch on?" Nathaniel asks.

  "Does it matter now?" Aleksey replies.

  "I want to know."

  "Since Sausalito, something has always been wrong."

  "That is a shit answer."

  "It is impossible to answer precisely, Nathaniel. You want me to say the bikers on the ferry who followed us? The fighting league co-owner in the lounge, but not attuned to an operation just a few floors below her? The haphazard Vegas incident in the office building, yet the apparent omniscience about our movements in Laughlin?"

  "Is that all?" Nathaniel asks.

  "No," Aleksey answers. "Only two guards manhandling a former world champion mixed martial arts fighter, whether supposedly drugged or not and with one leg in a cast? A man capable of killing them with one punch or kick? It's so damn ludicrous. Did you strike your own face before taking that picture with me? I sure as hell doubt you let either of them lay a finger on you."

  "Anything else?"

  "Sure. It all suggests a hidden hand, so to speak. Plus, there is your guy out there in the Mexican mask. Just on the other side of the door. Very sloppy, Nathaniel. He is the same guy who attached your indulgent sculpture to the helicopter wires at Belvedere Lagoon. One way or another, this is your operation or you never could have planted him in such a sensitive role with Cobra de Capello."

  "It is impossible for you to guess or speculate whether that is true."

  "No, I have a knack for faces," Aleksey says. "The rest speaks for itself. I imagine it is some type of despicable scheme to snare Zachary into servitude—exclusivity in the Cobra de Capello league—to pay off your debt or promise. Honestly, you believe he won't eventually figure this out and get his revenge?"

  Nathaniel stomps his foot onto the floor with abounding force. The masked guard briefly opens the door before Nathaniel waves him away. Nathaniel leans toward Aleksey and smirks.

  "There's more to you than I thought," Nathaniel trumpets. "Besides being intensely loyal, fairly strong, handsome and alert, you have a pretty good brain. I never expected you to end up on my payroll, Aleksey, but you have proved impressive. Now, I am thinking about fitting you onto my team."

  "Does it not occur to you that would be yet another betrayal of your best friend?" Aleksey asks.

  "Zachary knows I always have plans and schemes in the works. It is what I do. He and others benefit from my success too. As you just said, the results speak for themselves."

  "They sure do. You brag because you think only of the world championship. The other reality is you have unnecessarily and recklessly put Zachary in grave danger."

  "Wrong," Nathaniel counters. "It was necessary. It was a result of the deal that got us out from under the breach of contract lawsuits with Cobra De Capello. And it is not reckless either. My grand plan spares Zachary from getting hurt. Remember, I am always a few steps ahead of the rest of you."

  "So, what's your big plan?"

  "Remember to duck when the bullets start flying."

  37

  Choice

  Zachary shifts his body deeper into the wingback chair and glances around the formal sitting room. Shifting only his eyes, he notes the homeowner's attempt at Southwestern decor. The Navajo-style area rug. The rustic paintings of horses in distressed wooden frames. The collection of mismatched pottery on the coffee table.

  "I won't decide anything until I see both of them," Zachary states, while grimacing at the antlers layered around the room's chandelier. "What are you waiting for?"

  A slight motion of Wanda Barrone's hand sends three of her thugs out of the room. She shares half of a smile with Zachary, unimpressed with his self-assurance and hint of bravado.

  "We have been waiting for you, of course," Wanda seethes. "It is quite silly to pretend this is a negotiation. Perhaps doing so is amusing to you. Frankly, I am bored though. They will bring the men. However, there will be no further requests granted."

  Seated on each side of Wanda Barrone are two men who Zachary faintly recognizes from the past. One is a retired fighting coordinator who amassed some level of wealth scheduling professional fights in the early years of the sport's rocket-fast surge in popularity. The other is also a septuagenarian. Zachary seems to recall the man had been at the deposition for the Cobra De Capello lawsuit. Based on the proximity of his seating close to Wanda's side, he guesses the man is Wanda's husband or partner. Scattered throughout the room are four more armed goons.

  Nathaniel limps to the living room entrance, escorted by two guards. Aleksey is just behind him, off to one side. Both men are bound and arrive with closed eyes and taped mouths. Nathaniel's head droops toward his shoulder and his mouth is slightly parted. Aleksey hangs his head, repeating the same gesture he expressed when their photograph was taken outside for Zachary against the stucco wall. Zachary spends a few seconds studying each man.

  "Take them away," Zachary orders. "Both of them."

  The henchmen wait for Wanda's instructions. With a nod of her head, Nathaniel and Aleksey are led away.

  "So now you are going to pretend that you are uninterested in helping these men?" Wanda asks.

  "Neither are worth saving," Zachary replies, "at such a phenomenally high price."

  "Yet here you are. Surrendering to us in this secluded home and too cocky for your own good. And signing the exclusivity fighting agreement, in conjunction with some other measures that ensure your participation, is all it takes for everyone to walk out of here with all of their body parts intact."

  "I did come with the intention of helping them. But I just changed my mind."

  "What a pity that you flirt with this dull ruse," Wanda frowns. "It is pathetic. You have no leverage and, to be exact, your voluntary cooperation is only an option, not a requirement."

  "You relied on Nate too much," Zachary charges. "He led you astray. Oh yes, I am certain of his complicity. Best friend or not, it is what it is. If Nate had been honest with you, he would have relayed that I value freedom above all else. Over an employee. Over a duplicitous friend. Even over my career."

  "You are guessing. This is a bluff. Do you see us falling for it?"

  The retired fighting coordinator bends to her ear and whispers for several seconds. Wanda twists her gold bracelet and folds her hands together.

  "Play difficult and don't underestimate our willingness to taste revenge," she says. "Your opportunity for voluntary cooperation is fading. Quite quickly, I must add. Financially, sure, of course there are reasons we want you on board voluntarily. But you are terribly naive if you lack the cognizance to imagine our euphoria and glee watching you suffer if you need more incentives."

  "Thank you, Wanda," Zachary replies. "Your vile truth eases my conscience. I struggled with how, and whether, I should warn you. You just reminded me that you will always remain poison, so you deserve whatever Nate has in store for you today."

  Wanda rolls her eyes and glances at the man closest to her. She shakes her head and he elicits no response. Wanda flicks her finger with a disgusted snap, motioning for her henchmen to close in on Zachary.

  38

  Burst

  Disguised in matching sun visor caps, sports sunglasses, and powder blue t-shirts, Gustavo and Makena Keahi hold hands as they walk King Tut up
hill along the rugged River Mountain Trail. It formed decades ago, looping between Boulder City and Henderson, Nevada, on former rail-beds, natural desert flood washes, and walking paths used by explorers. Its frequent steep inclines result in the full trail only being accessible by those who are especially fit. On this late afternoon, under a still bright blue and cloudless sky, there are a few others enjoying the trail and they work to blend among them by acting and looking like hikers.

  They near a sharp bend, hundreds of feet downhill from the grand stucco home where Zachary is supposed to surrender to the captors of Aleksey and Nathaniel. Gustavo discretely hands his visor and sunglasses to Makena, then sets out alone, crawling low to the ground at a constant pace. Makena is careful not to watch him. Instead, she kneels on one knee and pours a small bowl of water for King Tut. Once he has consumed every drop, she rises to her feet and continues the journey upward, toward the trail parking lot adjacent to the Great Basin Highway.

  The desert terrain offers Gustavo few natural barriers, but due to the swiftness of his inspired climb, he quickly reaches the cluster of palm trees and thick bushes encircling the house's retaining wall. He hides in the shadowed pocket of a hedge, amidst Japanese privet and golden bamboo shrubs. Gustavo can hear and glimpse the guards on the periphery. At least one is on a terrace overlooking Lake Mead and at least two are near the front of the house. Gustavo scurries in quick, short bursts, trying to remain camouflaged between the greenery and the retaining wall.

  BACK IN THE ROOM, NATHANIEL bursts out of his imitation binds again, rips away the tape over his mouth, and tosses the broken pieces against the wall opposite from Aleksey. The guard in the lucha libre mask cracks the door open and gives Nathaniel a handgun with an attached silencer, which he tucks in his waistband under his shirt. The guard noiselessly closes the door, making only the slimmest ting sound when re-locking it.

  "Get away from the glass," Nathaniel commands Aleksey with vitriol. "Hurry up!"

  Aleksey scoots away from the window. Still bound, by hand and foot, his movements are jerking and erratic. He maneuvers to Nathaniel's side so Nathaniel can remove the binds and the tape over his mouth.

  "Scram," Nathaniel says, cavalierly knocking Aleksey backwards with a sidearm jab. Aleksey falls to the floor, straining his neck upward to try and thwart or minimize the impact of his head striking the floor. "I decided I don't want a smart-ass on my team after all."

  Nathaniel sends a flurry of bullets through the window. A hail of shards rain down onto the floor and terrace. Nathaniel kicks out the remaining jagged edges with his boots. Outside the door, there is a cacophony of running steps, slammed doors, and the zipping sounds of silenced gunfire hitting walls and furniture. Nathaniel ignores everything but his task at hand. A piece at a time, he rams the mattress, box spring, and bedding through the window onto the terrace below.

  The gunfire in the hallway intensifies. Aleksey rolls to the edge of the broken window, cutting his skin on the glass fragments, to heave himself out of the window just behind Nathaniel.

  "No, Aleksey," Nathaniel says, aiming the handgun at Aleksey's forehead. "For you, it ends here. "You should have kept your mouth shut."

  Aleksey strikes Nathaniel with a vertical kick impacting his cast, upper thigh, and groin. Simultaneously, Nathaniel pulls the trigger. The bullet pelts into the carpeting only an inch from Aleksey's left ear lobe. With lightning-fast and cobra-like lashes, Aleksey repeatedly pummels Nathaniel with follow-up kicks. Nathaniel pulls the trigger again, sending another bullet into the carpet.

  Aleksey pulls his knees to his chest, then unleashes raging force. His vertical kick to Nathaniel's cast and hip thrusts Nathaniel out of the window. Nathaniel splatters onto the concrete terrace with a sickening crash, landing on his head two feet away from any of the thrown pieces of the bed.

  Aleksey peers over the edge at the mangled twist of Nathaniel's neck and hears his dying groans.

  The burly guard in the lucha libre mask bursts into the room, bleeding from gunshot wounds to his arms. He yanks off his mask as he races to Aleksey, rips the tape from Aleksey's mouth, and begins removing the binds.

  UPON THE TRIGGER OF hearing glass shattering in an upstairs room, the living room erupts in a storm of bullets from handguns with silencers. Wanda Barrone, struck in the back of the head, is executed first. As she slumps forward, a guard standing near Zachary shoots and kills the two septuagenarians beside her.

  Zachary drops to the floor on his hands and knees. He crawls behind the wingback chair to escape the gunfire being exchanged by the guards and goons. As he hides, he hears more men enter the room and engage in the melee. Several of them are massacred, including the guard closest to him, who collapses on the floor. Zachary snatches his gun and slinks out of the room.

  Searching for the stairway to find Aleksey, Zachary looks out of the sliding glass doors at the back of the house and spots Nathaniel's lifeless body on the terrace surrounded by glass shards. Shocked, he moves closer and to an angle where he can see Nathaniel's face. The dead eyes are open—not sad, angry, or surprised—and revealing no remorse.

  Zachary suddenly feels the barrel of a gun against the back of his neck. He gradually lifts his arms with his fingers splayed open. Surrendering.

  PEEKING UP ONTO THE terrace level, Gustavo notices Zachary inside the house near the sliding glass door. Zachary is standing stock still. A man behind him is pointing a gun to his head and confiscating a handgun from Zachary's waistband.

  Gustavo scrambles along the wall to the front of the house, sneaks inside, and steps over the dead body of a guard in the foyer. He steals the man's handgun and creeps toward the back of the house. He hears bullets pelting objects in the living room.

  Gustavo discovers the sliding glass door open. Zachary, with his hands clasped behind his head, obeys the thug's gunpoint demands and kneels beside Nathaniel's dead body.

  "Drop it now!" Gustavo demands, emerging onto the terrace with his gun aimed at the center of the thug's back.

  The thug snaps his head backward. Zachary rolls away from Nathaniel's body and springs to his feet. Dismissing Gustavo's directive, the thug aims at Zachary.

  Gustavo pulls the trigger. His bullet rips into the thug's leg. The thug swings his arm around to slaughter Gustavo. But a bullet, slicing down from the second story room just above them, shatters the thug's skull. He crumples onto the concrete.

  Gustavo and Zachary look up and see Aleksey leaping out of the room. Aleksey lands on the mattress pad. Constrained with no bindings, he jumps to them and grabs their arms.

  "Run as fast as you can!" Aleksey cries out.

  Aleksey reflexively urges them toward the side of the house to reach the street, but Gustavo instead guides them downhill to the trail. They continue sprinting through the desert until they reach the trail parking lot. Aleksey bounds into the driver's seat of Makena's waiting car and Gustavo takes the front passenger seat beside him. King Tut, in the backseat, vigorously barks as he watches Zachary jump onto the motorcycle behind his mom, Makena.

  "Hallelujah, you made it out in one piece!" Gustavo exclaims, as they pull onto the highway behind the motorcycle.

  "Barely," Aleksey, "by just a shred of good fortune."

  "You came through for Zachary and me in the nick of time."

  "By causing the delay, you saved Zachary. But, Gustavo, don't shoot a gunman in the leg when he is ready to pull the trigger. That is no time for kindness."

  "I didn't aim for his leg."

  "Where were you aiming?" Aleksey asks, chuckling and winking at Gustavo.

  "The dead center of his back," Gustavo admits, shrugging.

  39

  Tunnel

  Gustavo finishes the negotiations with the two members of the board of regents of the Smithsonian Institute. They are on the top floor of the Federal Bureau of Investigations complex in Las Vegas in a small board room attached to the director's office. She is present, along with the Bureau's foremost arts and artifacts specialist. Z
achary and Aleksey sit at Gustavo's side.

  "You are certain about your terms?" the senior regent asks. She is a retired congresswoman with exquisite posture, a sharp nose, and genial personality. "You request no public credit, attribution, or reimbursements whatsoever in exchange for the transfer and donation?"

  "Correct," Gustavo answers. "Complete anonymity for myself and my friends. The Clairvoyant Cobra just needs to complete the journey to The National Mall in Washington, D.C., some ninety years later than its previous owners intended. As I explained to you, I recommend that you consider displaying it in the National Museum of Natural History, with similar security and monitoring as that afforded to the Hope Diamond, so that the wand is never stolen and missing again."

  "Its rediscovery will result in international commotion. Would it not benefit your art career and your public profile to be recognized as a role model and the wand's hero?"

  "That is not how I think of this. It was never mine. My career will have to rise, or fail, on its own. I don't know who is hunting me for these jewels, but I have come to some peace with the understanding that I will forever live in hiding. Even though The Clairvoyant Cobra will no longer be in my possession, I must assume that the man—or men—will seek revenge for me removing it from their scheduled rendezvous by the Griffith Park Observatory. This type of life will be hard enough. The last thing I want to do is have our identities splattered on the news so that we get entangled in lawsuits by every conman who claims it also belongs to him."

  "And, apart from the short-term privileges agreed to, including help with a passport and new identity, you are certain that you request no further assistance or long-term aid from the Smithsonian or FBI for your well-being?"

  "That's right. I would always worry that my FBI or other government file had been compromised somehow, making me a helpless target."