by A. G. Henley
Double Black Diamond
A Nicole Rossi Thriller
A.G. Henley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by A.G. Henley
Cover design by Steven Novak Illustrations
All rights reserved by A.G. Henley.
Visit me at aghenley.com
Contents
Hey, readers!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
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Acknowledgments
Also by A.G. Henley
About the Author
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One
I couldn’t see the shooter by the single eye of light glaring from the upper corner of the vast warehouse, but she was there. Protected by the dark bulk of a concrete wall, I hunched over my client and waited, listening.
My blouse was soaked under my suit coat, and my legs trembled. The door to safety was at least twenty yards away. Should I sit tight and see what the shooter would do? Or make my move and get my client out of here? He crouched beside me, waiting for my instruction. Decide, Nic, I said to myself.
I motioned to him to go. He nodded, his hairline glistening. A hand on his back, I crept behind him through the darkness. At least he wasn’t fighting me. I’d heard stories.
Ahead, an open window loomed black in the wall. I pulled my client back and slid past him to peek through a corner of the window first. Nothing. Nothing I could see, anyway.
I breathed in his ear. “Duck under.”
He squatted and shuffled below the opening. I followed—and just in time.
Ping. A bullet zested the top of my head. I muffled a curse. At least now I knew where the shooter was: too close.
I scuttled forward to my client and spoke, struggling to keep my voice calm, professional, and quiet. “We need to make a run for the door. Now.”
We sprinted toward the exit. The shooter followed, her footsteps behind and to the left. I positioned myself between her and my client. My back muscles contracted. If I were hit, it would be in the back.
A new noise came from behind and to the right—a second set of running feet. Alarms clanged in my head. Two shooters? That changed the scenario. I grabbed my client’s Kevlar vest and, with effort, dragged him down between the perimeter wall of the room and the metal shell of a broken-down vehicle. We’d closed about half the distance to the door.
“You okay?” I asked him.
“Yeah.” He panted. “What now?”
I clenched my teeth with frustration. If only I had a firearm instead of a baton, I’d find a position behind the assailants and reverse this game of cat and mouse. But that wasn’t the goal. I had to get my client safely through that door—period.
The bulk of the vehicle protected our backs, and the thick walls of the room loomed a few feet in front of us. We were okay for now, but the exit was fully exposed. I knew I should wait; see what happened. Except sitting there—vulnerable—while the assailants snuck up on us made my body go ice cold. I’d rather die running.
“Let’s go,” I said.
As my client stood, a metallic clash rang out to my left. At the same time, a thud came from my right. I pressed my client flat against the vehicle, spread my body across him, and raised my baton to my shoulder. Out of the darkness, the shooter appeared, covering us with her firearm. From the right, a man roughly the size of a side of beef lunged at my client.
I swept my baton down, hammering the male assailant’s hand into the side of the vehicle. He dropped his weapon with a grunt of pain. I heeled the gun under the chassis, then pivoted and side-kicked him in the ribs to create some space. I pushed my client to the ground, and he folded up without resistance.
“Protect your head!” I shouted to him.
As the female shooter sprang at me, I swung at her outstretched arm. She skipped away from my blow and came back at me, quick as a viper. Her front kick connected with my gut, but before she could bring her weapon back up, I darted forward, tackling her.
I rolled away as soon as we hit the ground and staggered to my feet, only partially side-stepping a jab by the side of beef. My head snapped back with his punch. As he lurched at me, I used his momentum to push his body toward his partner. He stumbled towards her, and she scrambled out of his way, which gave me a half-second head start. My client was already on his feet.
“Run!” I yelled.
I pushed him in front of me toward the exit. We sprinted, but it didn’t feel fast enough. He threw the door open and I followed close behind, keeping myself between him and the assailants. My client was a solid guy; it took him a second to barrel through, causing me to slow. That second was all the bad guys needed.
Ping, ping. Two bullets slammed into the space between my shoulder blades. A kill shot. I fell half in and half out of the doorway.
The overhead lights flooded on, blinding me. Ignoring the throbbing in my back, I scrambled to my feet inside the doorway of the locker room.
“You okay, sir?” I yanked off my safety mask, catching it on the thick bun at the back of my head.
My client, also known as Instructor Bradley, Juno Academy’s hand-to-hand combat instructor, nodded. “You did good, Rossi.”
I stretched my back and winced. Rubber bullets still hurt—a lot. “I got shot.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t.” Grinning, he grabbed a hand towel and wiped his streaming face. It was hot in the arena.
I turned to the shooter, Instructor Ramirez, who walked in behind us.
“Who was that guy, ma’am? There was only supposed to be one of you.” Behind her, the mystery assailant disappeared out of a door on the other side of the arena, rubbing his arm.
She raised a perfectly manicured black eyebrow. “What do we always say to you students?”
“Expect the unexpected.”
“Si.” She pulled her gloves off and opened a locker to secure her firearm. As a weapons expert, she was meticulous about safety and expected us to be, too. “Get cleaned up, Nicole. You’ll hear from Xene before long.”
My instructors walked out of the locker room together, leaving me alone to shed my pads, secure my baton, and stress. Returning to the warehouse I’d just shepherded my client through, I squinted at the observation room where Xene and several other instructors had been watching—and grading—my final test. The glass was almost opaque, but I could just make out the silhouettes of a group of people in there.
With the lights on, the warehouse resembled what it basically was—an Airsoft arena. Filled with the shells of old vehicles, freestanding concrete walls, and empty metal barrels, the training arena provided Juno Academy students a place to practice the skills we learned. Here, women like me trained to be close protection operatives, or CPOs. Bodyguards.
Xene always had her reasons for what she di
d, but at this moment I wished I could read her mind. Why had she changed my CPO certification test at the last minute? And what did she think of my performance? I’d saved my client, but I’d been shot. Did I pass? I bit my already tattered thumbnail.
The door to the hallway opened, and Ramirez popped her head through. “Xene wants you in her office. Ahora.”
My breath caught in my throat, and my mouth went dry. What was this? The staff hadn’t had enough time to make a decision about my test yet.
I passed several instructors in the hallway. Juno’s small staff was mostly men, aged thirty to fifty, fit, with short hair and the occasional tattoo. They looked like what they were: ex-military, ex-law enforcement, ex-security.
Me? I was ex-high school.
The director of training nodded to me. I couldn’t read his expression.
“Can you tell me how I did, sir?” I asked.
“Your principal survived. That was the objective. But you took some unnecessary risks, Rossi. You moved when you should have waited.”
Again, he didn’t need to say.
My instructors had repeatedly pinged me for not being more cautious. It can get you killed, Nicole, Xene had chided, or worse, your client. In the heat of the moment, I often lost my head, jumped the gun.
Heart pounding, I moved on to Xene’s office.
I’d endured Juno’s grueling training in weapons handling, combat techniques, defensive driving, and intense classroom work on threat assessment and planning. I’d learned ten-minute medicine—how to keep a principal alive until they could receive professional medical care. I’d studied, worked my ass off at part-time jobs to help my mother with the rent, pushed through injuries, and sacrificed the college degree Mom desperately wanted for me for the chance to be a CPO.
And I couldn’t afford to take the course a second time. Which meant this could be it for my dream—the dream that had grabbed hold of me that black day four years ago when my world had turned upside down. A desperate, sick feeling swamped me.
Shoving the dark memories aside, because the bastards never really went away, I paused at a window to the parking lot and automatically took stock of any changes since I came in earlier. The red Ford F-150 was gone, and a gunmetal gray Chevy Malibu had taken its place. That white service van idling over there was new. The driver held a can of Red Bull and talked on his cellphone.
In a side lot, a sleek, black Mercedes sedan now crouched, and a few feet away from the Mercedes, the side of beef from my test stood, sweating in the Las Vegas sun. From his watchful stance, I’d swear he was on the job—a security professional. But who was he protecting? No one else was in sight.
Distracted, I smoothed my rumpled suit, knocked on Xene’s door, and when she answered, opened it. The office was a windowless box with a simple desk sporting a computer and piles of folders and papers, two cabinets full of books against the wall, and an oval conference table and chairs. No pictures or other personal items, other than one on the desk of Xene shaking the hand of a former U.S. president.
Xene stood as I came in, poised in her signature black pantsuit and white collared shirt. Her olive skin was flawless, and her dark hair waved to her shoulders. Low heeled boots poked out from under her pants legs. She never wore actual heels, she’d told us. Terrible for running.
The rare female CPO of her generation, Xene had taken protective assignments all over the world for decades, famously saving the life of a European princess from an assassination attempt. After she’d gotten too old for the CPO circuit, she built Juno Academy to exclusively train female CPOs. I nodded to her as I entered.
A well-dressed Indian couple and a Black man sat at the table across from Xene. She extended her hand toward them and spoke, her Greek accent spicing her voice.
“Nicole Rossi, meet Mr. and Ms. Venkatesan.”
I circled the table to shake their hands. They both had firm grips. Ms. Venkatesan’s ebony hair was elegantly knotted. A delicate diamond earring pierced her nostril, and a golden scarf shot through with bright fuchsia and aqua thread lay over the back of her chair. Her husband wore a tailored suit with no tie, and his straight hair was clipped short. Diamonds winked off his watch.
“And this is D’Andre Brown.” Xene indicated the other man. “Mr. Brown is a team lead with Spencer Security Associates.”
I blinked, and my pulse picked up. I’d applied to SSA a few weeks ago, pending passing my final test. Could . . . could this be about a job? Probably some dull advanced security detail, but whatever. It was experience. I looked to Xene for clues and didn’t notice Brown had his hand out for me to shake. I muttered a flustered apology.
He looked to be in his early forties with a shaved head and smooth skin. He wore a sharp suit, too. No jewels on his watch, but the tip of a tattoo peeked out from his right cuff.
We all took seats at the table, me next to Xene, the others across from us.
“We observed your test,” Mr. Venkatesan said. “Very impressive. That was our own CPO you faced. He’s outside nursing his arm as we speak.” He smiled, and I returned it cautiously.
“He took me by surprise. I was expecting one assailant.” I threw a glance at Xene.
“Yes, I changed your test at the last moment. It was an evaluation in more ways than one,” she said. “D’Andre, would you like to explain?”
Brown twisted his chair a little to face me. “Are you aware the winter Olympic Games are next month in Switzerland?”
“Yes?” That’s how it came out, unfortunately. Like a question. The Olympics weren’t exactly on my radar.
“Do you know much about winter sports? Snowboarding?”
I shook my head. He sighed and looked pointedly at Xene. My mentor’s face was expressionless. What was going on?
Ms. Venkatesan took over, her voice kind. “Our daughter, Veena, attends a boarding school for ski racers and snowboarders in Vail, Colorado. She is sixteen, a sophomore.”
“She’s also called VV.” Mr. Venkatesan said it like a question. They all watched me. Was I supposed to know who she was?
I licked my lips, frantically searching my memory. That nickname did ring a bell. The cover of a People magazine that Mom snagged from the dentist’s office where she worked. A smiling girl with blue streaks in her onyx hair, decked out in a white winter coat with wavy red and blue stripes across it. She cradled a snowboard in the crook of one arm and held up two fingers of her other hand. A peace sign or a V. I wasn’t sure. The magazine subtitle said she was America’s winter Olympic sweetheart or something like that.
“The snowboarder?” I guessed. Brown looked a tiny bit happier.
“She will compete in the Olympics in February.” Pride flitted over Mr. Venkatesan’s thin face. “Her school educates many members of the U.S. Ski and Snowboard Team and some international competitors while also providing high level coaching.”
I nodded. Interesting, but I still wasn’t sure what this had to do with me.
Brown said, “Miss Rossi, what we’re about to tell you is confidential.”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Venkatesan’s company has been working on an important piece of nanotechnology with scientific and military applications. Someone, as yet unidentified, has demanded the prototype and plans for it, and threatened his family if he doesn’t comply. So far, the threats have been vague, but the Venkatesans are concerned for Veena’s safety leading up to the Olympics. SSA is sending a security team to her school.”
Nanotechnology? I only had a vague idea what that was—little stuff—but I nodded anyway.
Mr. Venkatesan swept invisible dust off his sleeves. His wife worried an elaborate gold necklace at her throat. Deep wrinkles settled between their eyes. As I watched them, the situation clarified. The Venkatesans were wealthy business owners. They had something someone wanted. Their daughter was high profile in her own right, and she was being threatened. I frowned.
Brown shifted in his seat and straightened his tie. His expression soured ever so s
lightly. “As I said, SSA put together a group to protect Veena, but there’s been a hitch.”
I leaned forward onto my elbows. “What kind of hitch?”
The Venkatesans glanced at each other. Mr. Venkatesan answered, his words precise. “Veena is . . . headstrong. She refused to accept Mr. Brown’s choice of CPO, a man with ten years of experience. She wants a female, someone young, who will blend in with her classmates at school.”
Brown took over again. “As such, SSA is looking for a young, female CPO. We were hoping to find someone with some level of experience, but . . . ”
Something wild and wingy hatched in my chest. A full-fledged CPO in the field? That was the job they were here about? A couple of minutes ago, I wasn’t even sure I’d passed my test. Now, I might have a real CPO job?
I swallowed and took a deep breath to combat the urge to jump on the table and pump my fist. “Tell me about the assignment.”
Brown sat back. “You’ll enroll at Vail Mountain Academy posing as a student and Veena’s roommate. You’ll take the same classes, participate in her extracurricular activities, and attend social events with her. As far as most of the staff and student body will know, you will be a student, but your job is to protect Miss Venkatesan.”
Unbelievable. No one got a CPO gig their first race out of the stable. I could kiss Veena, whoever she was, for being stubborn. But I tapped a nervous fingernail on the table.
“Sir, I don’t ski or snowboard. And I’m a little older than your average high school sophomore. Won’t I still stand out?” For that and about a half-dozen other things.