CHAPTER 3
JAKE
We won’t have to stay here long,” I tell Izzy as the elevator opens onto the floor where I work.
We only use one floor of the Pinnacle Building, but we own the entire building and keep the rest of the floors empty for storage and servers, and also because the kind of work we do means guys come to the office who don’t want to be seen or don’t want questions asked if they’re armed.
Ghost Security is busy, with everyone is in the office for the weekly meeting. The office hums with a controlled energy that’s reminiscent of Ranger mission briefings. Multiple screens display surveillance feeds, and a dangerous level of testosterone and Type A personalities mingle in close proximity.
I settle Izzy in Conference Room B with a cup of coffee and the stack of magazines she insisted on picking up on the way here, and which look out of place among the tactical equipment lining one of the walls. She perches on the edge of a leather chair, her eyes wary as she looks around. She’s been quiet all morning, but she seems more comfortable with me as her bodyguard, though Istill don’t have a solid read on her—yet—to tell if she’s scared or if she’s just quiet sometimes.
“I’ll be right next door,” I tell her, gesturing toward the adjoining room where the team is already gathering. “This glass is soundproof, so you’ll have privacy and won’t have to listen to all of us. I’ve told the guys not to bother you.”
Her fingers wrap around the coffee mug, and she nods. “How long will this take?”
“Not long. Just need to brief the team and get everyone up to speed.”
What I don’t tell her is that I’m putting everything else on hold for this. Every other case, every other client—none of it matters right now. I know the other guys are going to give me shit over this, but I don’t care. I’ll call in some favors, and then owe some favors later on.
I push through the door into our main conference room, whereOwen Blake sits hunched over his laptop, with two cups from the new coffee shop next to him. He looks like he hasn’t left the office in twenty-four hours.This man makes workaholics look like slouches.
“When was the last time you went home?” I ask, noting the stubble and wrinkled shirt. “And what’s with the coffee cups? I thought all you drank was energy drinks?”
Blake glances up at me, but his eyes are unreadable. “I thought some variety would be good.”
I do a doubletake at Blake. More than anyone else here, he’s a man of routine and precision. The coffee shop is new.
“Home is where the servers are,” Blake replies without looking up. “What are you working on? I heard you offloaded some work.”
“Personal protection detail,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the job. “High priority. I’m taking point on this one personally.”
Blakefinally looks up, his dark eyes sharp despite the evidence of his caffeine-fueled all-nighter. “Since when do you do personal protection? That’s usually Hawk’s thing.”
Before I can answer, Zane Blackwoodstrolls in and drops into a chair with his feet up on the conference table, somehow managing to make even that casual gesture look calculated. His dirty blonde hair is messy, and his grin suggests he’s about to regale us with sordid tales of his latest conquest.The man treats life like it’s one big party, but he has the sharpest tactical mind of anyone I’ve worked with.The man is also an unrepentant horndog.
“Personal protection, huh?” Zane’s eyes drift toward Izzy, and I resist the urge to step between him and Izzy’s line of sight. “Please tell me it’s the gorgeous blonde in Conference Room B because those curves make me wanna—”
“You don’t want to finish that sentence,” I warn.
My tone makes Zane’s eyebrows shoot up. His expression shifts, becoming serious for once. “Sorry, man. What can I say? She’s a looker.”
“That’s Hayden Dawson’s sister,” I continue, my voice carrying enough edge to make my position clear. “Look elsewhere.”
Hawk Sterling enters the room and closes the door. The guy’s a ghost when he wants to be—a former Special Forces sniperwho can read a room better than most people read books.Hawk whistles and turns to stare at Izzy. “Thatis Dawson’s sister? No wonder he never showed us her picture.”
The guys all laugh, and I force myself to keep my mouth closed. An unfamiliar sensation of possessiveness rushes through me. The idea of any of these men fantasizing about Izzy makes me want to do some rounds with a punching bag.
“Hayden?”Blakestraightens in his chair, suddenly more alert. “How’s he doing? Haven’t heard from him since he got back stateside.”
“He’s still at the VA hospital, healing and doing physical therapy. His leg is still fucked up, but he’s slowly getting better.” I pull up a chair and lean forward, elbows on the table. “But his sister’s got a stalker, and she came here to try and shake the guy.”
Zane’s feet hit the floor, and his entire demeanor shifts from playboy to professional. “What do we know so far?”
“Not enough. Started as fan mail, escalated to personal details, and now he’s tracking her movements before she posts them on social media.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by how little concrete information I have. “She’s a musician. Isabelle Dawson. Performs under the name Bella. Based in LA, but here now.”
Blakeis already typing, his fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of precision that makes him invaluable. “I’ll run her social media accounts, see what patterns I can find. Cross-reference with public appearances, tagged locations.”
“Also need background on anyone with access to her schedule,” I add. “Management, venues, crew members.”
