She knows I’m not a guest but she seems to think she can taunt me and get away with it.
I lean forward, watching her lips part as her eyes dilate.
“I’ll tell you what I am … not interested.”
I step back and see surprise and understanding turn to fury. I doubt she gets turned down often. But I’ve had enough ice cold bitches to last me a lifetime.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she calls after me.
I feel like yelling back, Get a life. And some clothes.
But I don’t.
A second later, I almost trip over the boss. He’s sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs by the pool. His chest is bare, criss-crossed with new red welts that turn my stomach, but at least he’s put his pants back on.
He glances up at me, probably having overheard the whole exchange.
“What is your assessment, Trainer?”
I shoot him a hard look.
“The place is wide open. I’m amazed you’ve only had one person blackmailed so far. Because the rest … it’s going to happen.”
He nods, his gaze shadowed in the moonlight.
“Do what you need to do.”
I DON’T EVEN consider sleeping. The place has me on edge and I have the same feeling that I used to get before an op: brain on high alert, body tense.
I message Mason’s team to send over the equipment I need asap or sooner: wifi jammer, night vision goggles and some fucking backup to keep an eye on the perimeters.
They arrive within an hour from the waterside in a small RIB, and I brief the men quickly, then I continue to lurk inside the house, unseen.
The orgy goes on until the early hours. I don’t get it. I seriously don’t get it. All the other people there enjoy swinging, sometimes literally, for the audience. The boss isn’t like that. When he wanted to get it on, he went to a guest bedroom. Why does he let Van Sant continue to call the shots at the Farm? He’s obviously indifferent to Van Sant’s crush, so what the hell?
At dawn, Mason’s guys fade into the half-light, and then I take a moment to check out the spy-guy goodies they left with me. I look over the merchandise, pleased with what I’ve got to make a start on some real security.
I think everyone else has gone to bed so I check out the four sin-gym rooms, because, let’s face it, with a senior judge on the mailing list, any images or footage would be worth a politician’s ransom.
When I search a room, I look for anything that seems out of place: pictures on the walls in illogical locations, lampshades that don’t look normal; smoke detectors and loud speakers are always good places to hide recording devices, too. I also look for wires that appear to go nowhere, but in this box of delights, everything looks weird, so that’s pretty much a non-starter.
I listen carefully as I enter the room because small, motion-sensitive cameras will make an almost inaudible buzz or click when they start operating.
And just in case I’m dealing with amateurs, I turn off the lights and stand in the dark, checking for any small red or green LED lights—a pro would deactivate these, but it’s worth checking. So far, zilch.
I use the flashlight on my phone to test the mirrors—bingo. One in each room has a spyhole camera behind it. Although as Anderson encourages voyeurs, I’ll have to check whether or not these are legit.
Finally, I use a top military RF spectrum analyzer that Mason just happened to have on hand. Listening devices use multiple radio frequencies in a spread spectrum that a basic RF scanner won’t pick up.
This one picks up feeds in every room. Now I know for sure that someone is watching, listening, and probably recording.
I wonder why the fuck Anderson hasn’t had these rooms properly swept before. Why hasn’t Van Sant? I can’t check the guest bedrooms as they’re all occupied, so I jog across to the boss’s office and am not at all surprised to find him awake.
I give him the good news.
He listens but doesn’t speak, then nods slowly like I’m just confirming what he’s suspected.
“Can you tell where the feed is going to?”
“Could be anywhere, sir. But I’m guessing there’s a relay device somewhere on the property.”
We’re probably both thinking of Van Sant’s cottage.
“Sir, I can sweep for bugs and I can set up an RF shield that will block the signal, but that can only do so much.”
It’s a version of the safe sex talk we had in middle school—abstinence is the only 100% safe method.
“I need to inform Mason.”
He sighs.
“Fine. Do it.”
I head back to my room to make the call. Mason answers on the first ring.
“Trainer, what is it?”
“Mason, this job is protecting Gilligan’s Island for the very rich and very twisted.”
My voice is indignant which makes the bastard laugh.
“I know. How’s it going?”
“You gonna give me the full sit-rep this time? No more need-to-fucking-know?”
“Anderson didn’t want me involved with the Farm, for reasons that are still unclear. I’ve been keeping an eye out, unofficially, of course. But a previous bodyguard was hired by Van Sant and joined in. He was planning on posting the footage on the internet.”
“The fuck?! When was this?”
“Three months ago?”
“And you’re telling me now? Does Anderson know?”
“Yes. It was after that that he brought us on board at Wolf Point and DMA Tower.”
“And no one thought that was information I should have had?” I’m pissed. “So why hasn’t he had the Farm secured?”
“He said that his manager would take care of it.”
“Van Sant. Shit! You buy that?”
Mason gives a cynical laugh.
“Hell, no. I warned Anderson, but he told me to stay out. Like I said, it makes no sense.
“So how come I got the short straw and landed this gig?”
“I knew that you wouldn’t be affected by … anything that you saw.”
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
“Bullshit! You don’t have feelings, everyone knows that.”
It’s true.
I tell him what I’ve found.
“I need RF shields to block the signals, and a mobile one to use with the boss’s car. Ditto wifi connections. I’ll tell his data security people to increase the scrambling level on all of Anderson’s personal devices.”
By the time I’ve organized all of the above, a cleaning crew has taken care of the rec rooms, poolside and living area, the husband and wife team that provide the breakfast buffet are cleaning up in the kitchen, and the guests are starting to leave. Their limos arrive with precision timing. For some reason it makes me angry. Nothing ruffles their serene pool of wealth and power; nothing penetrates their bubble of self-importance. They don’t care that the hired help—that would be me—has seen them in abandoned fucking with strangers. They don’t notice the people who make their beds or shine their shoes.
My brothers-in-arms died to protect these assholes in their pristine lives. And this is what they choose to do.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m usually a chilled, laidback kind of guy, but this weekend has rubbed me the wrong way.
Wow, that sounds bad. Touched a nerve—yeah, that’s it.
On the journey back to Manhattan, Anderson senses my irritation but ignores it. All he cares about is that it’s business as usual.
Rachel seems tense when I arrive back, but she pastes on a smile.
“How was your weekend, Justin?”
“Eye-opening, Rachel. But definitely not my scene.”
And I stand by what I said before I went. There’s only one woman that I’m interested in.
This time her smile is genuine.
“Oh, some mail arrived for you. I left it on the counter in our kitchen.”
I like the sound of that: ‘our kitchen’ not the staff kitchen.
My
light feeling disappears when I open the envelope. It’s from my lawyer. It’s a letter informing me that our divorce has been finalized. I gave the ex pretty much everything she asked for, hoping that she’d play nice on visitation rights to see Lilly. Yeah, well, I didn’t say I was smart.
But I’m officially a free man.
Chapter 8
Dead Calm
SOME NIGHTS I don’t sleep so well. Bad memories, bad dreams. It’s the same for a lot of ex-servicemen and women. But it’s nothing compared to how I feel at the thought of an afternoon on a small yacht with Miss Abigail Anderson.
I’ve been working at Wolf Point for a while now, and have had to avoid her five more times. I heard Anderson ask her why she keeps coming around. She said I was ‘more fun’ than college guys.
She’s his little sister and I’m an employee trying to hold onto my well-paid job without pissing anyone off. It’s a tightrope act and not always easy.
And this day is turning out to be pure torture.
For a start, I’m not a great sailor. Yeah, I know, former Marine, ought to have seawater in his veins, but there’s a helluva difference between being transported on a 40,000 ton Naval destroyer and being trapped in a fucking fifty-three foot canoe with a nineteen year-old whose hormones are more rampant than an armored tank division, and whose come-to-bed eyes are going to get me very fucking fired.
“Hi, Trainer! How are you?”
“Fine, thank you, ma’am.”
“It’s going to be so fun to go sailing, isn’t it? Do you like sailing? I love sailing. It’s one of my favorite things in the whole world. Devon loves sailing, too, don’t you, Dev?”
Anderson doesn’t bother to reply.
This is the first time I’ll be meeting Anderson Senior. The family knows not to come to Wolf Point or the Farm on weekends. I wonder what they think he’s doing? Working?
Each Friday night, ravishing Rachel leaves, and Anderson goes to his meditation room to beat the shit out of himself.
I guess it works though, because nothing seems to shake that intense focus Anderson has the other 167 hours a week. Guess that’s why he’s a twenty-nine year-old billionaire, with a swanky mansion in Manhattan’s ritziest zip code.
And now I’m fending off Abigail Anderson and contemplating a family day of forced enjoyment. Which is not my idea of fun. Well, not since I’ve been emancipated from my marriage, but the Andersons seem to get along well enough. In fact it’s kinda weird to see my boss unwind to such an extent. I swear I actually saw him smile today, although it could have been gas.
I did a quick check of the family sailboat moored at Orienta Yacht Club just to make sure there was nothing obviously awry and it all looked shipshape. But Anderson figured out that I wasn’t a-okay with the whole set-up.
“Problem, Trainer?”
“I think I’d better stay with the vehicles on land, sir,” I say, nervously flicking my eyes towards Miss Anderson, who blows me a kiss while my boss is watching, for fuck’s sake!
His eyes narrow, and I think he’s got every right to fire my sorry ass, but instead he says,
“Good point, Trainer. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Abigail pouts at him, actually pouts, and I can see her mother having words with her. If I was her father, I’d buy a ball and chain and a shotgun, then hire a 24/7 bodyguard. A female, ex-Soviet, shot-putter bodyguard might do it. Just.
Anderson Senior comes over to chat with me. I don’t do chatting. But I’m polite and answer his clever-assed questions in a neutral way. I don’t care if you are my client’s father, I’m still not telling you jack-shit. Oddly, he seems pleased by my taciturn responses, and I sense I’ve passed some sort of test with him.
He obviously cares about his son, but I sense a wariness, a feeling that they walk on eggshells around him.
Although Miss Anderson seems to follow a different set of rules. No surprise there. She hugged the boss hard enough to take down a linebacker, but he just shook his head and almost smiled again.
Anderson Senior is an interesting character. There’s no file on him, but Mason filled me in on the basic details. He’s a successful stockbroker, but he also has personal investments in businesses to do with green energy. He’s into all that environmental shit, solar panels and carbon-neutral homes. Probably where the boss gets his interest from.
Married for thirty-seven years and no extra-marital interests, but before he married, his weakness was women—lots of them. There’s also an old rumor—one that Mason couldn’t substantiate—that he may have shared his son’s taste in sexual variety, orgy-style.
I used to be like him, dipping my wick wherever I could. But being married to a cold-hearted sister of Satan did a number on my desire to bed potential bunny boilers. The ones who look normal are the ones you have to watch out for. Except for Rachel.
Anyway, these days, I’d rather get to know a woman first.
I wonder what Rachel is doing right now.
But it’s his father’s quiet greeting to the boss that nearly has me passing out from shock.
“Hello, son. I saw Freddie a couple of days ago—he says he hasn’t seen you in a while. He, um, he thought you might have met someone. Your mother would love to hear if you’ve met a nice girl at last … or a young man…”
What?
“No comment, father,” says Anderson, only mildly irritated.
“Devon … son … you’ve never even had a date. Your mother worries about you. We both do. People just aren’t designed to live alone.”
I can’t help staring at my client as it becomes obvious that his family has no fucking clue about his lifestyle. His own father thinks he’s a virgin, and from the sound of it, not entirely sure if he’s gay or straight either.
Wow, this is taking secrecy to a whole new level. How has he managed to hide the fact that he has a dungeon in his Manhattan mansion and holds orgies at his vacation home? I can’t believe little Miss Anderson hasn’t been over either place like a wrecking ball through a wet paper bag. But I guess not. It’s an eye-opener.
From my peripheral vision, I can see that Anderson is watching me but my face is still at the neutral setting: no siree, I ain’t giving nothin’ away.
He lets his father talk to him about dating one day. I don’t get that at all. He just screwed several fuck-buddies for an entire 12 hours straight, no pun intended, and he doesn’t have one word to say to his father who thinks he’s a virgin?
It doesn’t add up. No one just starts out having S&M relationships, do they? But for all I know, private colleges have S&M frat clubs. Didn’t he ever date? Obviously not, or his family would have known. There’s something weird here. I mean more weird. It’s obvious he cares about his family, and I can see that they love him, but you couldn’t say they were close—they don’t know anything about him. Hell, I’ve known him for nine stinking weeks and I already know him better than they do. Not that it’s any of my business, except how it affects the way I do my job.
Once the yacht slips the moorings and sails from the jetty, I wander down through the small marina looking at the sailboats and gin-palace motor cruisers, then I sit out on the Yacht Club’s deck with a coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other, and a clear view of the whole marina. The coffee isn’t bad, but not as good as Rachel’s. I wonder what she’s doing this weekend. I wonder if she’s with her husband.
The thought sours my mood, so I scan the sports pages and wish I’d brought a book to read. I like John Grisham and Tom Clancy, but when I was a kid, I read all of Rider Haggard’s novels. It’s sort of why I joined the Marines—looking for more adventure than I could find in small town Idaho.
The happy family return a couple of hours later, and Anderson effortlessly arranges it so I’m not left alone with his sister. I wonder if he’s going to chew me out about her in the car as we drive back to Manhattan, but he doesn’t say anything. He seems preoccupied, lost in thought.
When we get back to Wolf Point, he gives
me the rest of the day off. I assume he’s going to the dungeon, sorry meditation room, but instead he heads for his office. It’s like he’s addicted to work. Boxing and beating the shit out of himself seem to be the only ways he has to let off steam. He doesn’t drink much—a single glass of wine with his evening meal, he doesn’t smoke, and I know his stance on drugs. All his employees have a one-strike-and-you’re-out clause in their contracts, including me. I don’t need drugs, I’m just high on life.
As I’m not needed, I decide to head out and grab a beer, catch a few games at a sports bar I spotted in the Village, do normal-Joe stuff.
I’m so happy to be out of here for the next few hours. When I return, the place is quiet. I check the CCTV out of habit, but there’s nothing to see, nothing to notice—although I wouldn’t say nothing to worry about.
Sunday passes uneventfully, although Anderson is in a foul mood, but that’s nothing new. He takes it out on his spreadsheets and some poor sap I hear him yelling at over the phone. Seems like a pap got a photo of his family having dinner at the club house after we’d already gone—probably someone at the marina spilled the beans. Whoever it was used a long lens—those fuckers are hard to spot.
I’ve worked for a lot of wealthy people and the number one cardinal sin is talking about them. You don’t get second chances for blabbing.
But even with all of that happening around me, the day drags.
So I sit in my office going glassy-eyed over more DMA Tower personnel files until the CCTV shows me that Rachel is back home. It irritates me that I’m so damn pleased to see her. For all I know, she’s someone else who’s been playing happy family this weekend. But I can’t help myself, so I casually stroll out to the foyer to meet her coming up in the elevator.
She’s surprised to see me, but beams a huge smile and I’m instantly smiling back.
“Hello, Justin! How nice of you to meet me. Did you have a good weekend?”
I know she’s just being polite, but her voice is so warm, it feels personal. Then I remember that she’s asked me a question.
“It passed, Rachel. It passed.”
She smiles sympathetically.
“Well, I bet you’re ready for a change from cold cuts, aren’t you? How about risotto with chorizo for supper?”
Guarding the Billionaire Page 9