Code Name: Sentinel

by Sawyer Bennett

  We make one loop around the park before Barrett starts the backward route to her townhome.

  I follow along—keeping my eyes firmly off her ass—and constantly scan our surroundings as we chew up the blocks back to her place.

  It’s why I note the silver van as it approaches from our right at the intersection up ahead. It eases to a full stop, then turns right, now traveling in the same direction we are but about twenty yards ahead. The side of the van says “Stanley Movers”.

  After pulling into a parallel parking spot, the passenger gets out. He’s wearing a cream-colored jumpsuit, the type of uniform movers might wear. Hurrying to the rear double doors, he opens them and reaches inside. He pulls out one of those quilted moving blankets that protects furniture, then starts to unfold it. I pick up my pace only slightly, not convinced this is anything but a couch being moved.

  Barrett speeds up a bit now since we’re only five or so blocks from her home. She likes to kick it at the end, and I adjust accordingly.

  Just as she approaches the van, the man at the rear does something strange. His dips his head and turns so he can rub his chin on his shoulder, but I’m alarmed when I realize it’s a ruse to look at Barrett as she approaches. His eyes are hard, determined, and locked onto her. When he straightens and pivots to face her, I note he’s holding a wooden bat in his hand.

  This lets me know he’s not stupid. He’s going for the quick knock out rather than using something slow acting like chloroform. Despite what’s portrayed in the movies, chloroform shouldn’t be the first choice to render someone unconscious.

  Of interest, the man doesn’t seem to notice me running just a few yards behind her and off to the side a bit. It tells me his research isn’t any good, and he has no clue I’ve been assigned to protect her.

  Barrett has no idea of the danger now a mere few feet away. The man takes a step toward the curb, the driver of the van watching in the rearview mirror briefly catches my attention. I reach my right hand across my stomach, snake it quickly under my t-shirt, and pull out my Ruger 9mm from my canvas chest holster.

  It will do no good to warn Barrett. Her music is blaring, and she won’t hear me.

  I don’t feel magnanimous enough to give the man warning. Besides, I don’t want him bolting away. I merely stop in my tracks, take a deep breath, and aim at his left thigh. When I slowly squeeze the trigger, I feel the gun jump. The man crumbles to the sidewalk, falling right in Barrett’s path.

  The wounded man flopping right at her feet would be comical if it weren’t so fucking dangerous. She screams, scuttles sideways, and actually careens into the concrete railing of the porch steps to a house. The driver of the van puts it in gear and guns it, tires spinning wildly and throwing smoke before it peels out, leaving his fallen comrade behind.

  I don’t waste any time, sprinting to the man now writhing on the sidewalk as he holds both hands to the bloody hole in his leg. My gun stays trained on him, but I spare a fleeting glance at Barrett. Wide-eyed, she gapes, taking it all in.

  She pulls her wireless earbuds out, and they fall to the ground as she takes a tentative step toward us. I shake my head at her. “Call Kynan.”

  Barrett pulls her phone out of her arm band. I’d programmed Kynan’s number as well as Bebe’s and Dozer’s in it.

  “Not 9-1-1?” she asks hesitantly.

  “No,” I reply calmly as I keep my eyes locked on the perp. They’ve probably already been called by an alarmed neighbor who heard the gunshot. “Kynan.”

  She doesn’t question me, but immediately starts dialing. I’m vaguely aware of people coming out of their brownstones to huddle in robes on their front porch. But I don’t pay any attention since the man on the ground is screaming, “You fucking shot me, you asshole. Why?”

  “Because I don’t take kindly to kidnappings,” I say calmly.

  “Kidnappings?” the man screeches. “I’m here to move a bedroom set.”

  “Oh yeah,” I reply sharply. “Then where did your partner go?”

  “Probably got the fuck out of dodge once you started shooting,” he yells.

  I’m not buying it. The wooden bat is laying in the street. I’d bet my life he’d been making a move for Barrett. No regrets on my decision to shoot first and ask questions later, but time is of the essence. The police aren’t going to take kindly to what I did.

  “Kynan wants to talk to you,” Barrett says. She shuffles sideways toward me, making a wide berth around the man on the ground.

  Clearly understanding I need to keep my gun trained on the man as I have no clue if he’s armed, she holds the phone up to my ear. I keep it short and simple. “It was an attempted kidnapping. I shot one in the leg. We need to take him into our custody so we can question him. Make it happen.”

  “Got it,” Kynan replies without any hesitation, completely accepting my take on the situation.

  When I nod at Barrett to pull the phone away, she scuttles backward to a safer distance. At that moment, the two Jameson staff in charge of the exterior of her house come running up. I assume they heard the gunshot.

  I give them quick orders to search the man. Within moments, his hands are zip-tied behind his back. A kindly neighbor hands one of my men a kitchen towel, and it’s pressed to the perp’s wound, which appears to be non-lethal—thank fuck. I don’t want the asshole dying from blood loss before we can question him.

  The next half hour is a cluster fuck. The Metro police arrive first. Clearly, they only see me—with a gun—and a wounded man on the ground. With slow movements, I quickly give up my weapon while explaining the situation. It doesn’t stop me from getting handcuffed, though, while the cops attend to the man’s wound. Barrett is escorted back to her house by my Jameson men with strict orders to stay inside with weapons drawn until I can get there.

  I’m nervous when an ambulance shows up next, worried the perp’s going to be whisked away, but right behind it is a dark, unmarked car. Two Secret Service agents emerge from it. I don’t recognize either, but they have a short conversation with the EMT workers before heading toward the cops.

  Their conversation is remarkably brief, and the police turn astonished eyes toward me.

  Next, the handcuffs are removed and I’m meeting SS Agent Mike Hamricher. We shake hands, and he tells me, “I was sent here on orders of the president. The ambulance will take that guy wherever you want.”

  Said guy is being loaded into the back of the vehicle. I ask Hamricher, “Will he survive a trip to Pittsburgh?”

  Shrugging, he gestures to the EMTs “Let’s find out.”

  Turns out, the bullet went clean through the muscle of his thigh, although I certainly wasn’t trying for that. Just wanted to bring him down without using a kill shot. I leave Hamricher in charge of the final details of what will go in the police report and directing the transport of the suspect to the Jameson offices in Pittsburgh. If Hamricher thinks any of this is strange or intriguing, he doesn’t show it. I have no clue what President Alexander ordered him to do, but I’m grateful for Kynan’s quick work getting this organized.

  After retrieving my pistol from the police, I give a final handshake to Hamricher and head to Barrett’s brownstone.

  One thing is for sure—she’s not safe here anymore.

  CHAPTER 7

  Barrett

  Sitting at my desk in my living room office, I stare at my folded hands. One of the Jameson guys is at the front door, peering out the side window with his gun drawn. The other is somewhere at the back of the house.

  For the first time in what seems to be forever, I’m not even thinking about work. No interest in my formulas or dreaming about energy.

  Nope. All I can think about is the crack of a gunshot that drowned out the music in my ears and a man falling helplessly to my feet with a hole in his leg. When I’d looked over my shoulder at Cruce, I’d been terrified by the expression on his face.

  Cold, hard, vindictive.

  He shot that man.

  Deep down, I
know he did it to protect me, and there is comfort in that. But the fact I am in serious danger comes crashing down on me. I don’t think I actually believed it until now.

  I focus on my fingers, which are tightly laced. When I loosen them, my hands immediately start shaking, so I clasp them hard together once again.

  The front door opens, the Jameson man steps backward, and Cruce enters. I can’t even appreciate how great he looks in a gray t-shirt and loose shorts with his strong, tanned legs. When he sweeps his gaze around, it finally lands on me.

  He jerks his head, indicating I should come to him. “We need to get packed up.”

  I slowly rise from my desk, my legs feeling rubbery. “Packed up?”

  “You can’t stay here,” he says, impatiently striding toward me. He grabs my arm, then leads me from the room and up the staircase while my head spins with the implications.

  “But I can’t leave,” I mutter as I blindly follow. “My work.”

  “You can work from your laptop,” he snaps, steering me right into my bedroom. He releases his hold on me, rifles through my closet, and pulls out a suitcase, which he tosses on my bed. When he sees I’m not moving, he barks, “Let’s go, Barrett. Get whatever shit you need from the bathroom.”

  I feel like I’m in a dream, things swirling slowly through my fogged brain. I’m having a tough time comprehending the situation. I watch as Cruce goes to my drawers and starts pulling clothes out, tossing them in the suitcase.

  He snaps his head up, eyebrows furrowed, and growls. “Barrett… let’s go. Move.”

  “Don’t bark at me like I’m a soldier in your army,” I finally manage to say, although my feet start moving toward the bathroom.

  He doesn’t reply, and I let it go. I have no clue what the rush is, but what I do know is Cruce just most likely saved my life, so if he’s feeling an urgency to leave, I need to respect that.

  I bend over to grab my makeup case from under the cabinet. Suddenly, pain slices across my left rib cage.

  “Damn,” I hiss as I straighten, pulling my tank up so I can see what in the blazes caused it.

  The entire left side of my ribs is scraped with mottled bruising underneath. It all comes back in a rush—when Cruce shot the man and he fell into my path, I’d careened out of control and ran into a cement porch railing. I’m not sure I felt it then, but I can clearly see—and feel—the results of the impact now.

  “Jesus,” Cruce says from the doorway, his eyes pinned on my ribs. He rushes toward me, pulling my tank up even higher so he can examine it. The bottoms of my breasts are exposed, covered in a sweaty bra, but I don’t care.

  I’m beyond caring about petty stuff right now.

  “You ran into the porch railing,” he murmurs, apparently having seen me do that. Amazing, given he was all busy with shooting and keeping his attention on the man who tried to kill me.

  Cruce lets out a heavy sigh as he gently pulls my tank down. His hands go to my shoulders, and he gently squeezes. “I’m going to go get some ice for that. Why don’t you jump in the shower and clean up the scrapes?”

  I nod, unable to speak. I prefer the hardened, all-business Cruce. This softer version makes me feel like crying for some reason.

  Another squeeze to my shoulder and he starts to turn away.

  “This is real, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice quavering slightly.

  He nods. “Very real. And the fact whoever wants you was willing to try to snatch you off a public street means they are not operating with subtlety. They want you at any risk, and I expect they’re going to come back sooner rather than later.”

  “Where will we go?” I ask.

  “Pittsburgh for now,” he replies. “We’ll figure it out from there.”

  An idea strikes me. “I have stuff at my office I need to get.”

  “Tell me exactly what it is, and I’ll send men over now to get it,” he replies.

  After I give him the details, he leaves me in my bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror for just a moment before I spring into action. My ribs feel okay as long as I don’t bend in the hurt side’s direction. I take a shower as Cruce ordered, soaping up the scrapes and gently drying them after. When I’m done, I run a brush through my wet hair, but otherwise ignore it.

  Since we’re traveling, I dress in a pair of black leggings and a loose, off-the-shoulder t-shirt along with my trusty, yet squeaky Chucks. They give me slight comfort as I’m getting ready to head off into the unknown, terrified my life is now in danger. My safety has now become more important to me than my work.

  A soft knock at my door announces Cruce. He has an ice pack, and he hands it to me. I put it up against my ribs, thankful for the t-shirt in between to ward off the cold.

  “You ready to go?” he asks.

  I nod, pointing to the small tote I’d filled with my toiletries. I have to trust Cruce packed appropriate clothing for me, since my large suitcase was filled and zipped tight when I got out of the shower.

  He moves for the door, but I reach out and grab his arm. Curiously, he meets my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I tell him softly. “For saving me out there.”

  “Just doing my job, Barrett,” he replies gruffly, then starts to turn away from me.

  Holding tightly to him, I force his attention back to me. I squeeze his forearm for affect. “In polite circles, when someone thanks you, you really should say ‘You’re welcome’.”

  Cruce’s lips curve upward, and I’m shocked when he moves into my space. His hand goes behind my neck, and his face dips close to mine. Tilting his head slightly, he replies ever so softly, “You’re welcome.”

  I smile, knowing this is more than a job to him. Just as with my uncle, Cruce cares about his work to such a degree that failure is never going to be an option. He goes above and beyond. In this moment, I realize I’ll always be safe with him.

  ♦

  Something is shaking me, and I hear Cruce’s voice pierce the fog of sleep. “Wake up, Barrett. We’re here.”

  I blink slowly, sit up straight, and bring my hand to the seat belt to release it. I don’t remember falling asleep, but we’re now in a dark, basement-type parking lot. There’s not much ambient light, but enough to see the walls are covered with graffiti and garbage is strewn over the cement floor.

  “Where are we?” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.

  “Jameson headquarters,” he replies before exiting the vehicle.

  I wrinkle my nose, not all that impressed with what I’m seeing.

  I get out and follow, wondering what kind of business is located in a dump like this. And for that matter, I wonder if Uncle Jon has ever been here. All my confidence in Cruce starts to ebb seeing as how he’s led me into some seedy underbelly of Pittsburgh.

  At a massive steel door, Cruce opens a panel, hits a button, and then steps in close. I’m stunned when a green laser shoots outward to scan his eyes. There’s a clicking sound, and Cruce opens the door.

  From that amazing bit of technology, I expect to enter into a technologically advanced fortress. Instead, we enter into what looks like an old abandoned warehouse. Dirty concrete flooring, garbage all over, and even more graffiti over the red bricked interior. The arched windows, while lovely, are covered in dirt so thick barely any light shines through.

  I follow Cruce across the floor to the opposite side of the building where there’s a freight elevator. Another eye scan has the scrolled gate unlocking, and we step inside. It creaks and groans its way up one floor. As it comes into view, I’m absolutely astounded by what I’m now seeing.

  Sleek hardwood floors, refurbished red brick walls, and high-end furniture. I get a glimpse of desks and computers before we continue up. There’s not much to see on the third floor except more gleaming hardwood floors and a long hallway that has several closed doors.

  We go up one more floor, which by my account is the 4th if you count the parking garage as a basement level. The elevator comes to a shuddering stop. The grate opens, and we step int
o what looks like a huge living room.

  Large couches, plush recliners, and a huge wall-mounted TV make up a cozy sitting area. To the right is a massive industrial kitchen. Beyond that, a short hallway ends in a T-intersection.

  “There you are,” a woman’s voice says, and I turn in that direction.

  My jaw drops as I take in the blonde walking my way, her arms outstretched and an empathetic expression on her face.

  Before she reaches me, I mutter to Cruce, “Holy shit… that’s Joslyn Meyers.”

  I may mostly lock myself away in a world of energy and physics, but one of my pleasures is music and Joslyn Meyers is a favorite of mine. She’s an A-lister who can both act and sing, and I have every one of her albums.

  The petite woman wraps me in a big bear hug, then she pulls away to scan me with almost motherly concern.

  “Clearly, you know Joslyn,” Cruce says dryly. “She’s Kynan’s fiancée and the mother hen of the group.”

  That’s right. I remember seeing something online about her taking a break from show business, but I never would have thought she’d be camped out in Pittsburgh as the den mother for Jameson Force Security.

  “Kynan’s waiting for you downstairs in the large conference room,” Joslyn tells Cruce as she wraps her arm around my waist. “I was just starting dinner, so maybe Barrett can stay up here with me and help.”

  Cruce nods gratefully, which means he doesn’t want me involved in whatever conversation they might have. Somehow, I think it might have to do with the man they took prisoner. I imagine they think it might be too much for my delicate sensibilities, and I’m pretty sure I agree.

  “I’ll have her luggage sent up,” Cruce tells Joslyn. “She’ll be staying in my apartment.”

  Joslyn blinks at this news, as do I. He lives here?

  Cruce turns to me. Once again, he steps in and puts his hand behind my neck. I take that as his signal he wants my full and undivided attention. My eyes lock onto his blue ones.