Into the Shadows, Page 2

  My house wasn't much, but I liked it. I had to; it was paid off. My place was hemmed in pretty close by bigger houses on either side, which made it look smaller - less of a crime target. Not that I'd had any problems; my street was actually quiet. It was a simple two-bedroom A-frame with a nice front porch and a small yard. I kept it looking good, too - paint job, landscape pavers, you get it. Otherwise, I think Miss Loretta, the sweet, middle-aged, 400 lb. black lady next door would have ripped me a new one.

  The familiar scents of Pledge and gun oil met me as I walked in. Ah, home. Nothing I owned was too fancy or high-end, although I did have my necessary vices. I had to budget for ammunition for the firing range, dojo fees, a supply of Jack Daniels, and frequent barber trips (high and tight, a military habit that never died). My barber talked me into growing a goatee to draw attention away from my scars; I didn't know if it worked, but I liked the look. Miss Loretta did too, and that was enough validation for me.

  I mentioned the aromas of Pledge and gun oil before. The reason for the latter should be obvious. One of my courses for force recon was scout sniper training. I kept up with it after I got out, so I splurged on a scoped Remington 700. For home defense, I have another Remington: an 870 Super Shorty 12-gauge. Damn, that thing is fun. For my private security gigs, I wore a Glock-19 in a shoulder holster. And then I always carry a little Ruger LCP in my pocket. I keep each of 'em in good condition. I wasn't a fanatic or a survivalist; I just never wanted to be unprepared.

  As for the Pledge . . . it triggered good emotions. Besides, I like the smell of it; is there anyone who doesn't? I also liked having polished tables. That doesn't mean I was a clean freak - far from it. Being messy was one of the freedoms of bachelorhood. Mostly, though, the aroma of Pledge reminded me of my mom. Weird thing - she cleaned when she was happy. Mom wasn't allowed that luxury very often, so it was always a welcome fragrance.

  I fixed myself a drink, pulled the Ruger out of my pocket, sat back on the couch and inspected my wallet one more time. Everything was there, even the money. I couldn't figure that hot girl out, but a fair guess was that she was a bored college student high on something and out for a thrill. She'd gotten those three morons all worked up, probably on purpose. There was more to the story than just untouched drinks, but it was over and I didn't care. If those three weren't clumsy and half-drunk, I could have had a real problem. Luck favors the militarily trained, I guess.

  I set my wallet aside and settled into the comfort of my living room. Half of the décor - throw rugs, coffee table, and wall art - was claimed from my mom after she passed away. A framed photo of my older brother Alexander (I called him Al) hung near the front door; he died when I was eleven. There were also a few mementos from my time overseas, and a glass case that displayed my medals and mission ribbons. I'd surrounded myself with things from my past, items with both good and bad memories. You might use the word 'bittersweet'. You might also be gay.

  In the yellow glow of the lamp I always left on, I noticed there were missed calls and messages on my phone. I hardly ever brought it with me to the bar, and normally left it plugged in on the end table. The first was from my friend Hector; he and his family lived across the street. Hector and his wife Anna left a message inviting me to a dinner at their house. I couldn't really refuse the nice offer, but Anna's cooking always turned my ass into a volcano.

  The other message was a text from Gwen Solomon, my coordinating contact at Silas Security. She'd arranged all my simple security training and licensing tests when I first got on, and, platonically speaking, we got along great from the start. I always thought there was something a little odd about Gwen, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it was her dark sense of humor, which sometimes went over the line into morbid. One day, as we were finishing a chat on the phone, she said, "Don't hurt anybody out there, Leo. But if you do, tell me all about it."

  Gwen's note warned me that there might be some short-notice, short-term client contracts I might have to deal with. Since I had training or commendations in various methods of keeping myself and my unit alive, plus ways to make any opposition pretty much the opposite of that, I was preferred for some contracts. Short-term jobs sucked. Short-notice sucked donkey balls.

  I sighed and slouched back into my couch. I was thinking about getting some sort of regular job when I dozed off. I had a dream of sitting in a cramped cubicle, doing the same paperwork over and over; God, what a nightmare.

  BITCH

  I had my regular Saturday night shift at Keegan's. Everything went fine; no assholes, no weird hotties. After we locked up, Keeg had me tell Deb about the alley fight the night before. Not that I wanted to, but there were free drinks involved.

  Sunday afternoon was spent over at Hector and Anna's. I brought drinks for everyone. Their three little kids were well-behaved like always, and they hardly stared at my scars - they were used to them. The enchiladas were good but hot as hell. After thanking them for a nice night, I went home and chugged a half gallon of milk.

  Mid-morning Monday, I got an official call from Gwen about a client who wanted executive protection (EP), starting in the afternoon. There's normally more advanced warning for that, but rich clients tend to not give a shit. Gwen waited patiently while I got all the cussing out of my system. Oh, and the client used the term 'bodyguard', which we frown upon - it makes pros sound like those fat thugs that famous Hollywood jackasses hired. With the feeling that it was going to be a crappy assignment, I went to the office and signed off on the client contract and an unmarked company sedan.

  Gwen told me about the client while I looked through the file. Emily Baxter was a rich housewife who was divorcing her husband. She came from money, and married it too. Her lawyers were better than her husband's; she was getting more than her share and he wasn't happy about it. Mrs. Baxter had been worried about her soon-to-be ex's security goons threatening her, hurting her, or worse, but she got tired of hiding in her big house. At least for one day, she wanted out.

  There was a child from the marriage, but she was in college out on the east coast. Okay, one less thing to worry about. The problem was, Mrs. Baxter was going to spend the day and evening with two friends; they planned on going to a spa, then dinner, and possibly some cocktails at a classy club afterwards. She'd given the names of those places, but I had very little time to scope them out beforehand. Not to mention that the client was including two unknown people into her plans. A lot of shit could go wrong.

  I got moving and glanced at a few details while I drove. Gwen noted the specifications 'business casual' and 'no interaction'. That meant Emily Baxter wanted me to blend in and not be obvious security, and that I was to remain near but not part of her group. That type of detail is tough to pull off most of the time; with short notice, even more so. It also meant she was more than likely a real bitch.

  Each of the places that the client listed had some security risks, but nothing that couldn't be managed if she followed my suggestions. I went home and put on slacks, dress shirt, and a blazer. As usual, my Glock and little Ruger came along with me, plus an extra magazine for each. Gwen had already made a map for the best routes to each location, so I studied it while I got ready. Just before I drove over to the Baxter residence, I filled my pocket flask with straight Jack; it was probably going to be a long day.

  Emily Baxter was a snobbish woman in her early forties. I bet she was pretty a decade or two ago. She'd been emailed a brief dossier on me, but had some questions that I doubt she really cared about the answers to. Ol' Emily just keeping her bitch skills strong, I guess.

  After a few minutes of worthless Q and A, she looked up at me from her seated position in a Victorian high-back chair. "What is your highest level of education, Mr. Beck?"

  She'd never invited me to sit with her, so I stood away at a respectful distance. "I received an associate's degree while in the corps, ma'am."

  Even from her seated position, Mrs. Baxter managed to look down her nose at my answer. "I see," she said in a
condescending tone. "And what rank did you reach?"

  "I earned the rank of Sergeant, ma'am; E5."

  Mrs. Baxter wouldn't have cared about the answer unless I was a highly ranked officer. By the time I gave my reply, she was looking at my scars. Gesturing with a flick of her finger at the left side of my head, she asked, "What happened there?"

  "Afghanistan happened, ma'am." A woman like Emily Baxter had done nothing to earn even part of that story. She didn't deserve to know about the IED that one of my men tripped. And I doubt she'd care to know that besides it ripping me up, it took out two men on my team - two of the best men I knew.

  Then it was my turn to ask questions. Did she know what her husband's 'goons' looked like? Did she know what kind of car they drove? As for the places listed that she and her friends were going to, did she go to them often? If so, did her husband know that? Who were these friends of hers? Did she or they expect to meet anyone while out and about? Any plans besides those three locations? A few other questions were asked as well, but by then she'd gotten irritable and told me to work with the given information. When Mrs. Baxter went upstairs to change outfits, I called Gwen to give her an update.

  I drove the client to pick up her two friends. The sedan was wide enough that the three of them were able to sit in the back comfortably. They both found it thrilling that their friend Emily had a personal security guard, but neither would have deigned to sit up front with me. The late afternoon at the spa was boring as hell. The really sad news was that, for the time and money spent, none of them looked any better than before. At the fancy restaurant, Mrs. Baxter grudgingly agreed to take a table near the bar, where I had to sit to remain inconspicuous. It was like she was doing me a favor, the arrogant bitch.

  ANGER

  It was at the ritzy, tasteful nightclub where the situation got a little dicey. After a number of older, desperate guys kept hitting on the trio, Mrs. Baxter asked me to join them at their table. With me being there, it deterred most of the interested men from approaching. Then a young pretty boy douche came over and asked one of Emily's friends for a dance. The friend, Belinda, was attractive, but she was also about twenty years older than him. The guy evidently had oedipal issues.

  The song wasn't half over when Belinda was looking increasingly distressed at being held too closely to the young guy. I pointed it out to Emily, who asked me to cut in. That was technically not part of my contract, but it was my duty to keep the client happy as well as safe. Belinda looked relieved to see me when I tapped on pretty boy's shoulder. By the look on his face, he was pissed as hell. With other people around us, though, he didn't do anything but walk off, glaring at me the whole time. What a dick.

  I led Belinda back to her table, where the ladies resumed their happy chit-chat over martinis. I acted like I was enjoying the conversation, but I kept an eye on pretty boy. He sat at a table with another GQ jerk on the other side of the dance floor. He was still staring at me. A little while later, pretty boy got up and moved closer to us, in a position where hardly anyone else but me could see what he was doing. He stealthily pulled a six-inch blade from his jacket, made sure I saw it, and then put it back - one hell of an overt threat. All that hostility over of Belinda; there was a lot better eye candy in the place.

  I made sure I had pretty boy's attention when I subtly opened my blazer enough for him to see the butt of my gun. I added a wink, just in spite, and then acted like I was ignoring him. A few seconds later, just when pretty boy looked pissed enough to come over to our table, his buddy grabbed him up and pulled him back to their table. That kid sure knew how to hold a grudge.

  Five minutes later I lost sight of the pretty pair, so I assumed they left. I was relieved. A few minutes after that, though, just as another round of drinks was being set on our table, I saw pretty boy out of the corner of my eye. He stood back in a corner, near the hallway that led to the restrooms. His knife was in his hand, and he was literally shaking with rage. I had no idea what his problem was, but the situation wasn't going to end well.

  I tensed when pretty boy started coming at our table, and fast. I was surprised when some big dude stepped out of the hallway, grabbed him by the neck, threw him back into the hallway and out of sight. It all happened so quick that I just stared. One second, pretty boy was coming at me, and then, in the blink of an eye, some tall silhouette in a long coat yanked him into the hallway. One of the bouncers saw it too, and ran over to investigate. I would have gone as well, but I had an oblivious client to protect.

  I told the ladies that there was some trouble and we needed to leave. As they were knocking back their drinks, I saw the bouncer come back out of the hallway with a baffled expression. He scanned the crowd, and then looked back toward the restrooms. I don't know how he could have missed the pair or how they slipped away - especially the big dude - but I didn't care enough to find out.

  I dropped the friends off first and then took Mrs. Baxter home. As a precaution, I checked her motion lights, cameras, and security system before I verified with her that my duties were complete.

  Gwen called me the next morning to tell me that the client noted my services as 'acceptable'. Not pleased, not appreciative - acceptable. What a bitch. Gwen then asked about the 'friction' at the nightclub. Other than me cutting in to save Belinda, I didn't think Mrs. Baxter noticed anything else that happened. "What did the client tell you she saw?" I asked.

  "Nothing really; I just heard something about it from a different source," Gwen answered cryptically.

  "Yeah, well, nothing to worry about. There was the possibility of an issue, one that I highly doubt was connected to the estranged husband, but the threat was removed for me."

  "Aw, that's too bad," she said without a hint of humor in her voice. Did I mention that Gwen is odd?

  PLANNING

  John Crane, my boss at Silas Security, called later that day. Whenever Crane called, it usually meant that there was a client who was paying top dollar, or that a team was needed for a contract. Either way, it was big revenue for the company, and Crane handled those arrangements personally. He told me to come in to the office to coordinate with the other employees I'd be working with. I had no problem with that, as long as Jenkins wasn't involved. Ted Jenkins was an older employee; he was a blowhard who sported his beer gut like a trophy. I didn't trust Jenkins enough to guard an empty parking lot.

  I got to the office a little early to find out what Gwen knew about the contract. It wasn't that Crane wasn't thorough with the necessary info - he was, but Gwen usually had some juicy tidbits about most clients. I didn't know how she got some of her information, and she was never forthcoming. With at least half of my contracts, though, that inside info gave me a better perspective on the client.

  Stanley Everett was the owner of a regional bank chain. He'd hired EP's from the company before, mainly when he got death threats from anti-corporate radicals. Everett wanted a security detail for a dinner party at his home. Wait, not just a home - a mansion, sitting on three acres in the wealthiest neighborhood in the city. There were some money laundering implications swirling around Everett, but the cops and feds couldn't pin anything on him. A few of his managers and their wives were invited over for unknown reasons. It was set for that Thursday; 48 hours wasn't much time to scout, coordinate, and work out details, but not so bad with only a five-man detail.

  The other guys got to the conference room about the same time as I did. Dan, Craig, Diego, and Cordell; all good guys, and I'd worked with them before. Dan spent 12 years in the army, and was tough as nails. Craig was an electronics specialist with a dry sense of humor. Diego was a former cop; sarcastic, a crack shot, and had eyes like a hawk. Cordell was a former Marine M.P.; he was huge, mostly muscle, and had no sense of humor whatsoever. It sounded like a weird mix, but we all got along.

  We studied overhead google shots of the property, plus blueprints of the mansion itself. There was an enclosed security room on the main floor; that's where Craig would scan monitors and control
both team and external communications. Dan would act as the valet for the guests, and then keep an eye on the serving staff. Cordell would be the EP for Everett. Diego and I would patrol the grounds, starting on opposite sides. It was a standard formation, with all radio contact on a single channel. It was probably going to be another long night there; I made a mental note to refill my flask.

  On Wednesday, the other guys and I met up at the Everett estate. It was a block off a main boulevard, with side roads to one side and rear of the property. The grounds were mainly level, shaded by mature trees, shrubs along the perimeter for privacy, and had seven-foot iron rod fencing all the way around. Diego, Cordell and I interviewed the serving staff while Craig and Dan inspected every room. We checked out the security cameras, added a few more, and then checked them again. We only had a few questions for Everett himself; he was a smiling, upbeat older guy. If I was rich, I'd be happy, too.

  DRINKING

  That evening, I had time to hit the dojo. I tried to get there at least once a week and find a sparring partner. I didn't go there to upgrade my martial belt or learn any fancy moves that would be fucking useless in a real fight. I went with the Marine 'one mind, any weapon' philosophy; to keep limber, work on my reaction speed, and practice techniques. I wasn't out to dazzle an opponent; neutralizing them quickly was the objective. Okay, that, and defense training so I didn't get my ass handed to me in case that 'neutralizing' idea went to shit.

  I remembered to call off work at Keegan's for Thursday ahead of time, and planned on getting plenty of sleep. A good workout at the dojo and a few Jack and Cokes afterwards put me out like a baby.