No Time for Caution

by K. T. Samois

  No Time for Caution

  #1 Triskelion Security Series

  K. T. Samois

  Copyright © 2021 by K.T. Samois

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events are purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgements

  “I can write a novel,” she said, to anyone who would pay attention. “All I need is the time.”

  To 2020, proving that the Universe not only listens to you… it has a sense of humour. -T

  Chapter One

  There’s no such thing as sleep in an airport.

  They’re liminal spaces, and harsh overhead lighting makes bored travellers look as conscious as corpses. It’s half-past three in the morning, so that probably doesn’t help.

  Ree hasn’t had a patron in about forty-five minutes, which means she’s prepped for the morning shift, swept and mopped the floors, and polished the espresso machine down to the atoms. There’s nothing left to do but wait for Chris to show up at five-thirty. She hitches herself up against the counter and settles in for a good session of people-watching.

  It’s her favourite part of the gig.

  People fall into stasis on the red-eyes. There are the ones like the guy her age, charging his phone at the wall socket like it’s an IV drip. Others, like the wizened apple of a granny ticking away on rosary beads, are too anxious to rest. Even more try to sleep, like the middle-aged man stretched out face down on an empty length of benches.

  Ree wishes he wouldn’t; his face is smushed into seats that have cupped the butts of JFK International’s sixty-three million yearly travellers. They’re fascinating phantoms she’ll never see again, so she passes her graveyard shifts imagining stories for them. The most fascinating of tonight’s menagerie is him.

  Who: is a Caucasian man in his mid-thirties, with a chiseled jaw and a streak of gunmetal-grey at his temple, dressed comfortably but well. He has a black leather cabin-sized duffel at his feet, and the sort of perfect carriage that speaks of nuns with rulers or drill sergeants handing out attitude readjustments.

  Where: is Gate C4, and from there to somewhere named Khartoum.

  What: is the man’s frosty gaze holding hers.

  What-

  It’s like tripping and crashing down onto a hardwood stage in front of an audience with all the breath knocked out of her. Then he makes matters worse. Having busted her, he grins. It adds danger to the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and warmth to his February-blue eyes.

  Oh no, her oxygen-starved brain misfires. He’s hot.

  Embarrassment prickles her cheeks like a slap, and she wishes she could light the Starbucks on fire just for an excuse to leave it. When he stands up, revealing six foot and change of the trimmest physique she’s ever seen in person, Ree’s stomach clenches. A languid stretch later, he’s collecting his effects and making his way towards her with a leonine prowl.

  She licks her bone-dry lips.

  By the time he arrives, she’s pretty sure she’s going to have a heart attack. “Do you make a habit of staring at passers-by, Miss…”

  His eyes flick down to her name-tag and back up.

  “Riona?” He asks, casual as you please. She wasn’t expecting pleasantries, but this has got her completely off-kilter, like signing up for an ice-bucket challenge and getting bath water instead. Even his voice is attractive; a measured tenor, clipped with military precision and rich with amusement. It sounds like whiskey and has the same effect on her; she feels drunk and more than a little stupid.

  “No sir. Only the attractive ones.” She blurts it out, and then cringes in mortification. Oh, my God.

  His eyebrows raise. His jaw clenches.

  “Bold little thing,” the stranger says, voice flat and featureless as snow-covered tundra.

  By the frosty expression on his face, Ree can only assume this is leading up to a truly impressive shellacking. She deserves it for getting busted staring, but she’s not above trying to save her job. The alternative is unbearable.

  “Sir, please. I am so sorry, that was so presumptuous, whatever you want — it’s on me. Just please, don’t get me fired. I need this job.”

  Her tone rings with sincerity, and she wonders if clasping her hands is overdoing it a bit. She tries anyway, because she can see the first appearance of an upturned mouth. If she can make him laugh, hopefully he won’t tell Corporate Twitter on her.

  “Bills to pay?” The man asks, gaze sharp as shards. Somehow, she knows he’ll know if she’s lying.

  “No. Well, yes. But also, worse.”

  “Worse than bills? A debt?”

  He sounds more interested now, and Ree feels a bit like a modern-day Sheherezade, story-telling for her life. “Were that I so lucky.”

  “Indentured servitude, my dear?”

  How is that the first place his brain went? Why is that the first place his brain went? Who is this dude?!

  “What?! No! My housemate, um, has an active and robust social life with a wide diversity of close intimate friends?”

  It’s by far the kindest way to explain Rebekah Eisner’s contradictions. ChemEng doctoral candidate, brilliant with plants, and one of the most genuinely kind people Ree’s ever met. She’s also got steady company from Friday night through Sunday midday, though not always the same individual…s.

  Which is totally her business and prerogative, and I would be all for it — except… she makes it so hard to sleep…

  “You’re telling me you work the graveyard shift at an airport Starbucks because your housemate has loud sex with hookups?”

  “… Well, when you put it like that!”

  He must think you’re such a child, Ree. No wonder he’s laughing.

  “I don’t mind,” she says, cheeks red. “I’m a night-owl, anyway. And if I’m going to be awake, at least it’s quiet here. It was great for studying at school, and it pays.”

  Ree’s a practical girl. She wouldn’t have a degree in actuarial sciences otherwise. She doesn’t have a deep love for crunching numbers, but everyone needs someone to determine risk for them. It isn’t sexy, like jetting off places in the dead of night, but she won’t let him make fun of her. Her chin lifts, only to meet a pacifying twitch of a smile.

  “No, it’s a tidy way to work the problem. I’m impressed.” He sounds like he means it, too, and for the first time, there’s genuine warmth in his tone. Ree thaws.

  “Oh! Well, thank you. I’m Ree.”

  She holds out a hand despite her embarrassment.

  He shakes it.

  “I know.” For only the second time in their entire conversation, his eyes drop to her chest. To her name tag. And then, as though it were nothing, he meets her gaze again.

  “I — also knew that,” she says. Then, because her father raised a lady, “And you are?”

  “Captain Hardin.”

  His spine straightens a notch as he s
ays it. He’s proud. He should be. It’s a good rank for a careerist, especially a young one.

  “Hardin. Is that a first or last name?”

  “That’s need to know.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” she chirps back at him with her brightest customer-service smile and watches as his eyes narrow in response. “It’s just…”

  She drums her fingers once along the row of cups. “For the order?”

  It’s his turn to look a bit wrong-footed, and her smile brightens up a gigawatt or two. “What can I get started for you, sir?”

  “Coffee, black.” He lies.

  Ree’s always been able to call bullshit; she credits it to being one of the youngest in a pack of pranksters. A survival adaptation to her siblings, or an innate tendency to measure micro-expressions — she doesn’t know and doesn’t care. It’s effective and accurate, and while she can’t say how she knows this Captain Hardin is lying… she knows that he is.

  But why?

  Ree’s always been a curious girl. She leans in, despite her better judgement.

  “Is that because you’re broke or because you’re a masochist?” She teases, just to watch the way his jaw clenches, hard.

  “Br — Excuse me?”

  Interesting that broke should offend him more.

  “So it’s not that you’re broke. But you don’t enjoy the taste of it.”

  Masochist it is, then.

  “I might.”

  He’s lying.

  “You don’t, though.”

  His jaw works again. He leans in, and now Ree realizes how much closer they’ve gotten. A frisson of awareness tickles over her skin. Careful, Ree. He’s no frat boy.

  “How do you know? Perhaps I am the owner of a coffee plantation, the fifth generation of my family to bleed black, and the Captain is because I own a yacht I’ve named the Bean.” He says it with a straight face — another lie, but this time, it feels different. It feels like a test.

  She studies him for a moment. “You’re fun, but you still don’t like black coffee, Captain. And I’m not a med student, but if you’re bleeding black, you should really get that checked out.”

  That’s what earns a laugh out of him, and Ree feels her spine ratchet loose a notch or two with relief.

  “You’re intriguing, Riona,” he says. “Why don’t we play a game?”

  Ree stares.

  “Like Monopoly, or like that scary movie?” It seems important to know. He’s a dangerous man who travels light; for all she knows, there’s a Ziploc with a black market kidney in his bag. He grins rakishly when she catches his reference, and she rolls her eyes at him.

  “You don’t even look embarrassed! But okay. What kind of game? And I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a customer, either.” she says. It’s a challenge.

  His gaze rakes over her, evaluating.

  “You say that I’m ordering a black coffee out of… machismo? Ego? All right. Try to guess a drink I would enjoy if nobody could see the contents of the cup. It doesn’t have to be my favourite, but I have to like it.”

  “And how will I know if you don’t?” Ree drills down into the fine print. “Maybe you do like it, and fake otherwise in order to win the bet… the stakes of which have yet to be determined, I might add.”

  “Aren’t you the clever mind. All right. You have my word, Riona; I will be candid. If I enjoy something you give me, you will know.”

  He didn’t mean it like that; she tells her libido when the thing perks up in the back of her brain stem like a little lizard. Are you sure? It replies, and Ree has to confess that no… she really isn’t.

  “And as for our little wager,” he says, voice insinuating. Ree’s cheeks flare. “If you win and guess my preference correctly, I will tell you if it’s a first or last name.”

  “And if I don’t?” She interjects, because you always have to check the caveats. He’s still an airport random, after all.

  “Then you owe me a drink.”

  Ree grins. “Ha! That’s fair. All right, go sit down. I’ll bring it to the table so you can’t peek!”

  His interest seems piqued, and his grin has widened to something that makes her very aware of how frazzled she looks.

  “Very well. If you insist.”

  Ree nods, and makes an immediate tactical retreat behind the coffee machines.

  ***

  He looked at the pain au chocolat, so he’s definitely got a sweet tooth.

  In goes a pump of chocolate syrup.

  But the pain au chocolat is a semi-sweet chocolate, so it can’t be too sugary.

  She spares a thought for her interesting new acquaintance. He’s charming, but he’s no prince. There’s an edge to him. He’d never once looked away from her. She likes that focus, especially when it’s honed on her. Her mouth waters, flooding it with the taste of cinnamon gum, and that gives her a brilliant idea.

  Dipping down, she grabs the cinnamon syrup and adds a generous splash. The scent hits her nose, and she closes her eyes for a moment to appreciate it. She’s always loved the heat of the spice and the richness of cocoa…

  Okay. I hope he likes it!

  The main drink completed, she layers it with a decadent swirl of whipped cream, a sprinkle of cinnamon powder, and a few shavings of chocolate to top the whole thing off.

  “Here you are.” she chirps when she delivers it. He looks up at her with thinly veiled amusement.

  “My poison of choice?”

  “Anyone who drinks espresso this late at night has a stomach stronger than Socrates. Will you tell me if you like it?”

  Faced with her enthusiasm, his smirk looks a fraction closer to a smile.

  “Those are the terms of our wager.” The lines at the sides of his mouth deepen into something with patina as a hint of a smile surfaces.

  Ree looks away before she embarrasses herself again.

  “I know.” she says, staring at his gloved hands. “I hope you enjoy it, is all.”

  “The joy of service?”

  Something about the familiarity with which he says it sinks behind her belly like a fish-hook and tugs. His tone is knowing, and Ree feels the familiar prickle of embarrassment again.

  “I suppose so! I enjoy making people happy, and everyone’s happier after a cup of coffee. And anything worth doing is worth doing right.”

  “An artisan.” He says, too practiced.

  “No need for flattery,” she warns him. “Anyway, what do you think?”

  His gaze flicks down to his cup for the first time. He scrutinizes it like a pistol at a gun show. Ree isn’t sure if he’s being serious or making fun, until he raises it to his nose and inhales, as though savouring a perfume.

  “Cinnamon flakes, no foam but extra whip, shaved chocolate…” he lists the ingredients as he encounters them. “Chocolate and cinnamon syrups?”

  She nods as he ticks each off. When he takes a drink, she watches out of the corner of her eye. He takes his time with it, savouring the bitterness of the espresso and the creaminess of the whole milk, enjoying the bite of the spice and the smoothness of the cocoa. When he puts the cup down, he exhales a satisfied little sigh.

  “Colour me impressed, Riona. You won our bet. I’m not sure that there’s many who could do that. You may call me Hardin, if you like.”

  If she starts, she’s not going to want to stop. Ree fishes for an excuse. “Isn’t that very casual, sir?”

  He looks unconvinced, so she commits to the argument. “I only mean — I didn’t pay loads of attention to the customer service video in training, but I’m pretty sure they were specific about being respectful.”

  He leans in, bringing him within whispering distance. She can smell his cologne, just the lightest hint, and under it the faintest trace of warm skin.

  “Our little secret, then. I won’t tell if you don’t.” He’s close enough that she can smell the cinnamon on his breath. Her pulse flops like a beached whale — helpless, heroic, and doomed.

  “Y-yes, sir.”
she says, and watches his pupils dilate at the title.

  Oh! Ree thinks. Maybe he did mean it like that.

  Summoning up her spine, she straightens herself up to proper barre posture. She’s going to do it. Ree’s going to make a move. She’s going to ask him for his number. Her mouth opens.

  “S—,” she starts, but the intercom’s squawk interrupts her.

  GOOD EVENING LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THIS IS A LAST CALL FOR ALL PASSENGERS ON SUDAIR FLIGHT 135. YOUR FLIGHT IS BOARDING AT GATE C4. FINAL CALL FOR SUDAIR FLIGHT 135.

  He puts his cup down, and Ree’s paralyzed with indecision. Mouth open, eyes wide, she can’t get the words out now.

  He doesn’t mention it.

  Instead, he unfolds to his feet and full height. He’s lean and tall, so much that Ree has to lift her chin just a little to meet his eyes. When their gaze connects, Ree feels the flutter of desire in her stomach.

  “Well,” he says. “That’s my ride. It was a pleasure, Riona.”

  “I-,” she tries, but her voice won’t work and her mind won’t fire, and—

  But he’s already gone, another body in the blur of late-night travellers. And she’s alone again.

  “Damn it!” She blurts, loud enough that the counter agent at the now-empty Gate C4 gives her a pitying look.

  ***

  Evie catches her daydreaming once and spends the rest of Sunday service drilling a hole into Ree’s skull with her eyes. She corners her the instant they’re back home, and given that Ree’s been taller than Evie since they were children, it’s like being menaced by a dachshund.

  “What’s with the smile, Thing Six?” Evie says. “I know you’re not reflecting on Father O’Flan’s sermon.”

  There’s genuine interest mingled in with the skepticism.

  “I could be.” She isn’t.

  Evie, with all the graciousness inherent to eldest siblings, immediately calls her on it. “Oh, please. You look happy, not bored.”

  Ree laughs, tasting coffee-flavoured fatigue. “I feel wired and tired.”

  “Anytime you want to work a day job in your field, Ree-” There it is. That familiar refrain, the siren’s call to go work for Evie and spend her days crunching increasingly outlandish numbers. Her eldest sister’s got the Midas touch, but all Ree’s ever wanted from her is a hug.