Protection

by Jay S. Wilder

  Even though he’d done what he’d been paid to do—as he always did—there was never a sense of victory in taking a life. As an Army vet with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, as well as a few unmentionable secret op assignments that weren’t on his official Army records, he understood the necessity of combat, war, and conflict, but it didn’t mean he liked it. It was a bitch and a half, in fact, but it was what humanity did best, and now, he used those transferable skills to make as much money as he could now so he could one day escape it all for good.

  He shook off the thoughts of his near future and settled into the seat of the crotch rocket. He steered the bike out onto the street and took off, making his way by the ruckus one more time before making tracks. As he drew closer, he could see the fire still raging and the lights from the police cars and fire trucks flashing all around, creating convenient shadows, and oddly beautiful dancing colors.

  Nick was good at blending in. Residing in the shadows was his thing. So, he nodded once more at his handiwork and leaned into the handlebars as he gunned the bike to get out of there.

  As soon as he was far enough away, Nick found a parking deck and drove up to the top to watch the final outcome. There was something about knowing that it was all done. Besides, he’d use the extra time to report his successful completion of the assignment.

  He pulled the burner phone from his pocket and punched in the code to bring it to life. His fingers moved over the screen to message the code Y1 to his handler.

  The reply that came up on the screen was a simple: 10-4.

  Boom! Kaboom!

  The immense explosion rocked the sky a moment after he received the text. Flames shot upward in a swirling, billowing manner, making a nuclear explosion of old almost look like child’s play. A large cloud rose from the fire, hanging low overhead and making it seem as if the sun had come out already. Nick actually cringed a bit when the sound reverberation made it all the way to his watching position.

  “Damn, that was good,” he said, praising his work.

  6

  Nick

  Another message came in, interrupting his self-satisfaction.

  It read, N1SFO10800.

  He pursed his lips and frowned as he deciphered the code. SFO was the code for the San Francisco International Airport. The company wanted him there immediately.

  Instead of fucking with figuring out the encoding, he punched a couple of numbers into the burner phone and connected with his handler.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked tersely.

  “You know the drill. New assignment,” the man on the other end said.

  “Goddammit, I literally just finished this one. It’ll take, at least, fifteen hours to get to San Fran from here,” Nick said. “That is, if I’m lucky enough to have no layover anywhere.”

  “Your flight is taken care of, but you’ll have to change planes in Los Angeles.”

  “Big plane?”

  “Jesus, Taylor. I’m not AAA. It’s Air China, a Boeing 777. They don’t get much bigger than that.”

  “It better be business or first class,” Nick said. “I’ve worked my ass off too hard these past three days to fold my six-foot body up in what feels like four inches of economy.”

  “Fine. Upgrade. We’ll cover it.”

  Nick fully intended to take every advantage of the accommodations, complimentary booze, and the fully reclining sleep pod so he could rest up for whatever The Company had in store for him in California. “So?”

  The man continued. “You’ll arrive in San Francisco at Gate G93 in the international terminal. Go into the Coach store nearby and say you’re picking up a gift under the name ‘Sterling.’ Further instructions will be within the bag.”

  Nick bit his bottom lip at starting all over again with a new target. “Can I have some 411 in the meantime? Just to prepare mentally?” Would he need explosives? His handgun? Other operatives to assist? What?

  “The order is still coming in. All I know is the target is a female, 24, brunette, 5’6”, resides in San Francisco.”

  Fuck me.

  He’d never had to kill a woman before and swallowed hard at the instant knot in his throat over the prospect of it. He couldn’t imagine any female being as diabolical as the ass-wipe still barbecuing in the warehouse. His heart rate picked up, nearly deafening him. “A woman you say?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sergeant Major. You’re to perform intel and intel only. No elimination. Repeat. No elimination.”

  Remarkably, those words set Nick’s mind at ease. He didn’t dread this assignment as much now.

  “For once,” he muttered. “Understood,” he said into the phone. Fine. He’d hop on a plane, sleep for fifteen hours, and then follow around—hopefully—a sexy chick and report to the upper crust of The Company. That was, unless the package awaiting Mr. Sterling at Coach said differently. “10-4,” he added.

  Allowing himself a quick moment, Nick thought about the last time he’d held a woman in his arms. A real woman. Classy and charming and not some easy lay he’d picked up out of desperation and stress relief. Like the flight attendant who sucked him off in the elevator at the Four Seasons. Talk about a layover. Hell, he didn’t even know her name, only that her tongue and lips did things to him he should have had to pay to get. That was as far as it went, though. He hadn’t permitted himself to really get involved with anyone in his twenty-eight years. When one volunteers for the armed services, you become married to Lady Liberty with her dad, Uncle Sam, breathing down your throat at every turn. The military demanded everything and eighteen-year-old Nick was more than happy to make a pledge to it. After basic and three years of service, with his sight, agility, test scores, brains, and brawn, he easily moved into the role of Special Forces. The ultimate kick ass warrior among warriors. He was a fucking Green Beret bad-ass—one of the best ever. That was how he got recruited by The Company.

  He’d left active duty a little over a year ago to take this job, intrigued by the opportunities, the travel, the lack of uniform and strict structure, but most of all the shit-ton of money. He’d do what he could a few years and then… disappear into the world he wanted where everything was beautiful, peaceful, and serene. Where he didn’t have to be bad-ass or carry a gun or watch over his shoulder constantly or… have to kill a woman.

  Unless she cried out in rapt pleasure underneath him because she was dying from the intense orgasm he’d given her over and over.

  When the dial tone buzzed out in his ear, Nick realized the handler didn’t even give him a polite goodbye.

  The fucker did that a lot.

  But then again, this wasn’t some charm school. This was life or death shit. Assholes who’d usually done something underhanded or treasonous, and needed to be put in their place. They paid the price for that.

  Of course, what did some twenty-four-year-old woman do that cause her to be—

  Boom! Boom!

  Another larger explosion ripped through the warehouse and up into the night sky, again illuminating it for all the heaven’s to see. It shook the ground so violently that Nick actually felt it where he stood. He saw the dusting twinkle of glass shattering in the sparks knowing he’d taken out all the windows. Car alarms underneath him in the garage went off from the earthquake-like impact. The resulting fireball of the warehouse area in the distant grew as bright as the sun for a moment, lighting up the city like daybreak. As the light faded, he knew the debris fell as far as a quarter mile from the source, well within the half-mile perimeter that had been erected to keep civilian lives safe.

  It was a pretty drastic measure for merely one casualty, but The Company took no chances with high-value targets. There was no room for remaining evidence in this business. The mafia had nothing on The Company. Nick snickered because this job included making people vanish off the face of the earth as though they never existed—not just skin and bones, but paperwork, birth certificates, bank and business records. Poof. Nothing but a memory. The Port of W
eihai officials would be sorting the mess out for days. Nick was positive about one thing: they’d never find what caused the fire and ensuing explosion or why it had been started.

  Anything inside that fire was long gone.

  Nick started up the bike again and spun a drift to turn around and exit the parking deck. Once again, he snapped the tinted visor over his face and concentrated on where he was headed. It would take him a while, but he’d get to the Weihai Dashuibo International Airport. Time to get his nuts off on this slick crotch rocket that felt like flying at a low altitude.

  He sped through streets, passing bewildered locals, many Korean travelers here for business, and the fresh fish market that thrived in supplying this town with food and commerce. Maybe he could enjoy the beauty and bounty of the culture another time. Not now. He had to get back to his hotel, get his gear, and get going. There was a new assignment waiting for him in San Francisco.

  As he walked into the hotel, he noticed an older Chinese teenager serving as a bellhop. Nick strode up to him and handed him the keys to his Yamaha and said to him in Mandarin, “The black FZ-09 out front is yours. Take good care of her.”

  The guy’s mouth fell open as his eyes shifted to see the shiny, expensive bike. Nick swore he also saw the kid involuntarily drool. What the fuck, right? The Company had billions, and this poor schmuck carried luggage and opened doors for pricks with money who barely looked twice at him. He deserved something nice.

  “Holy crap, mister,” the kid said to him in English. “Why me?”

  Nick pat him on the shoulder and smiled. “Why not?”

  He continued through the lobby up to his room, proud to have done a good deed despite everything else that had gone down in the past twelve hours.

  Showering as quickly as he could and dressing in fresh jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a black jacket, he ran his fingers through his dark brown hair, pushing the longish strands from his eyes. It was the only thing about him that dispelled the idea he was military. No buzz cuts anymore. Those days had come and gone.

  With a glance toward the down soft king-sized bed he’d barely occupied, he shook his head at the idea of trying to grab a five-minute nap. If he even remotely closed his eyes, he might need medical attention to wake him back up.

  He stepped to the window and glanced out over to the port for a moment. The massive fire still danced and stretched its blistering fingers into the air, declaring its power over them all.

  Nick shook his head and smiled. Grabbing his bag, he tossed it over his shoulder and then locked the door behind him.

  Fuck it. I’ll sleep the whole way to the States.

  With a back-to-back assignment, something had to be up.

  7

  Nicole

  San Francisco, California

  “Thank you, Matio. That is all,” the African-American man next to Doyle said to Mr. Fence Post. Matio sounded like a Samoan name to Nicole. She’d certainly never seen him before and was relieved to see him take his leave.

  Nicole waited to be invited to sit. She had no idea what was about to happen. There was no way to prepare for either situation of fight or flight, so she did her best to steady herself and wait them out.

  Finally, the man moved his eyes back and forth between his open laptop and a file folder that sat open beside it. She assumed it was her personnel file. Or not. She had no idea. He still made no gesture to have her sit. She felt like a disobedient child being called to the principal’s office.

  “Nicole Hunt, am I correct?” he asked without looking up.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good morning, Nicole,” Doyle said, standing up and finally pointing to a chair across from them.

  “Mr. McDonough,” she said, tightening her fists into balls next to her to keep from shaking.

  “Now, now, Nicole, you can call me Doyle.”

  That was a bullshit response, and she knew it, but she smiled all the same. “Okay, then.” Nicole sat down and kept her feet on the floor, not easing back and crossing her legs. Be cool… be cool. “Is there something wrong? Did I do something wrong? Mess something up with my work?”

  Bob took the open seat next to her and cleared his throat again, phlegmy and unsettling. “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.”

  Doyle’s assistant entered and set three cups of coffee, a small bowl of sweeteners, and some creamers down on the coffee table. Doyle came around his desk and began fixing his coffee.

  “Please, Nicole… help yourself,” he instructed.

  “No, thank you, Mr. —err… Doyle. I’m good. Can you tell me why I’m here?”

  Bob sat up and snagged a cup of coffee—black—and tossed half of it back in one gulp. “Come on, let’s get to it.”

  Doyle waved him off and leaned his trim body against the front edge of his large mahogany desk. He was probably in his late forties. The nearly white-blond hair and silver-rimmed glasses gave him a look of credibility. She supposed he was younger than he appeared, although he went for that “man in charge” look.

  “Thank you, Bob.” Doyle stirred his coffee slowly and then took a sip. Every second that dragged on, Nicole felt as if her heart would explode in her chest from the frenetic beating. She had to calm herself and stay chill. She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing.

  Doyle gestured his head to the large African-American man sitting next to him. “All yours.”

  The man acknowledged his full power in the room with a cold stare into Nicole’s eyes. “Ms. Hunt, do you know who I am?”

  “No, sir. I don’t,” she admitted.

  “I am Anthony Bernhardt.”

  Ohhhh. Crap.

  The big kahuna.

  She forced herself to hold in her surprise and opted for a polite nod. “I know who you are, Mr. Bernhardt,” she began confidently. “I’ve just never had the pleasure of meeting you one-on-one like this.”

  Her answer pleased him, it appeared. At least that’s what she took from the momentary softening of his face. He wasn’t one of the men she saw last night talking with the three foreigners, but his name was on every document and sign off related to her team’s project. Anthony Bernhardt was the official project sponsor and executive representative of the TDE-5X project. On paper anyway.

  “So, I take it, Ms. Hunt, you’re aware that among other roles I perform here, I’m the VP of Stakeholder Relations for the TDE-5X project?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m one of the lead developers for the project, and it’s been an honor to be a part of such a groundbreaking advance in technology.”

  “We’re glad you’re on board. From what I’ve heard, you’ve helped us make strides in software development, programming, and testing of the prototypes.” He folded his hands in front of him. “We hope you know how much we appreciate your dedication. It won’t go unnoticed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Fucking right, they’d better appreciate her. But still, if they knew who she was, what the hell was this dog and pony show about? They’d just escorted her through the place like a street thug, and brought her into this conference room as if they planned to put her in handcuffs for doing something on their naughty list. And now she was having a chat with the project’s big boss? It made no sense. In fact, the whole thing was downright suspicious. If this meeting was only taking place because of what she saw in the wee hours of the night, then this company was all sorts of fucked up. The possibility caused a shadow of anger to rise close to the surface. The thing was, losing her shit at a time like this would get her nowhere. She had to keep her cool and retain at least the appearance of professionalism to find out where the fuck this meeting was going.

  Mr. Bernhardt rifled through some papers next to him. “I’ll get to the point, Ms. Hunt. Do you mind answering a few questions about your work on TDE-5X?”

  “Not at all.”

  He frowned, seeming to labor with the question. “Were you ever asked or instructed to work late on this project, Ms. Hunt?”

  “Yes, sir.”


  “Of course, you work late,” Doyle interrupted. “We see from the security logs that you worked extremely late on Friday night. Into Saturday morning, in fact.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, and swallowed hard to bite back her defensive tone. “I’ve been doing that quite a lot lately with all the extra work on the TDE-5X project.” If she were playing below the belt, she's throwing Ryan under the bus and let them know she was picking up the slack for his sorry ass. But that would muddy the waters. Priority number one was to find out exactly what was going on here.

  Doyle nodded and scooted his eyes over to Bob and back to her. “We appreciate all the extra effort, Nicole. It’s so good to have dedicated employees such as yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Bernhardt took over again. “So, you received approval from your supervisor for all the extra hours you’ve worked on this project?”

  “No, I’ve not—” she started to explain herself, but he cut her off.

  “Are you saying you’ve been here in the office at times where you were not authorized to work on the project.”

  Now, it was her turn to scowl. “No, not quite.”

  “Then, how?” Bernhardt pressed.

  Nicole didn’t like the direction he was taking with this line of questioning. This was the kind of bullshit that got her guard up and had her wanting to act in ways that wouldn’t be beneficial to her career. She wished one of them had the balls to ask a direct question. Fuck, it was clear as day that they wanted to know what she saw or heard on Friday night. They were beating around the fucking bush. This kind of crap made her blood boil. She didn’t need this shit. She’d quit jobs for much less than this before. The only reason she held her tongue was because she really liked the challenge of this project. That, and the fact that they were less than eight weeks away from wrapping up with project completion and delivery. And the truth was they needed her, not the other way around.