1
Finn
The call comes in at 2:17 AM, and I know it's going to change everything before I even answer.
Ten years in the CIA teaches a man to trust his instincts, and mine are screaming that whatever's on the other end of this line is either going to make me very rich or very dead. Maybe both.
"McKenna." My voice comes out rough with sleep and the whiskey I had before bed.
"Finn, it's Frank." Frank Chen, my former handler and current freelance broker for the kind of security jobs that don't make it into the newspapers. "I've got a situation."
I'm already sitting up, reaching for the jeans I left on the chair. Two years of retirement in Grizzly Ridge, and my body still goes to full alert the second Frank's voice hits my ear.
"What kind of situation?"
"The kind that pays seven figures and comes with more complications than a Russian spy novel." There's a pause, and I can practically hear him calculating how much he can tell me over an unsecured line. "Celebrity client. High profile stalker threat. Needs immediate extraction and long term protection."
"How long term?"
"Unknown. Could be weeks, could be months. Depends how long it takes the FBI to catch this bastard."
I'm already pulling on my shirt, my mind shifting into operational mode. Seven figures is serious money. Serious money means serious danger. And serious danger means the kind of adrenaline rush I've been missing since I hung up my government credentials.
"Where?"
"Los Angeles. Client's been getting escalating threats for six months. Letters, photos, break in attempts. Last night someone got past her security and left a message written in blood on her bedroom mirror."
"Jesus. What did it say?"
"'Soon.' That's it. Just 'Soon.'"
The single word sends ice through my veins. I've seen enough psychopaths to know that the quiet ones, the patient ones, are the most dangerous. The ones who plan, wait and savor the anticipation are the ones who don't just want to hurt their victims. They want to own them.
"Local police?"
"Useless. Too many false alarms, too many celebrity stalker cases that turn out to be publicity stunts. They've got two uniforms doing drive bys and a detective who thinks this is all for attention."
"But you don't believe that’s the case."
"I've seen the photos, Finn. This isn't some lovesick fan with boundary issues. This is a predator who's been studying her for months, learning her routines, her weaknesses. He's escalating because he's ready to make his move."
I'm fully dressed now, checking my go bag that's been sitting packed by the door for two years. Old habits die hard, and the habit of being ready to disappear at a moment's notice dies hardest of all.
"What's the client's name?"
"Nova Wilde."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut.Nova Wilde. Even living in the middle of nowhere Montana, I know that name. Everyone knows that name.
Singer. Actress. The kind of beautiful that makes grown men forget their own names. The kind of famous that means paparazzi follow her to the grocery store and tabloids dissect every outfit she wears.
The kind of woman I've spent my entire career avoiding.
"The pop star?" I keep my voice neutral, professional, but my mind is already calculating complications. Celebrity clients are a nightmare. They're used to being the center of attention, used to having their every whim catered to, used to thinking rules don't apply to them.
They're also walking targets with stalkers, obsessed fans, and more enemies than they can count.
"The very one. And Finn, she specifically asked for you."
