Quiet Protector- Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  Hugo adjusts the scope of his aim when Isabelle places herself between us. With her chest balancing against his, she stares straight into his eyes. “I trust Brandon, he wouldn’t do this. He is my friend. He’s been helping me.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask, completely lost. We ate dinner together only an hour ago. Hugo was fine then, so what the fuck flipped his switch?

  “Why don’t you tell us, Blondie?” Hugo spits out my nickname as if it burned his tongue during delivery.

  When Isabelle pivots around to face me, flashing a warning look to Hugo on the way, the heat on her cheeks augments. She’s embarrassed by Hugo’s line of questioning, but her eyes are brimming with suspicion.

  I discover the reason for her confusion when she divulges, “They found a listening device in my cell phone.”

  I soundlessly scoff, unsurprised. Theresa likes to play dirty.

  I’m about to ask what Theresa’s game plan has to do with me just as the truth smacks into me. “I didn’t plant the bug. It wasn’t me. Izzy, you know me, I’ve been helping you.”

  My eyes snap to Hugo when he growls, “You’re the only one who’s been with Izzy since I removed the last bug yesterday morning.”

  Before I can deny his accusation, Isabelle pipes up. “No, he wasn’t.” When she shifts on her feet to face Hugo, her strides are unstable. “Theresa Veneto and a male agent came to my apartment yesterday afternoon. She showed me photos of Col Petretti’s right-hand man in a hospital bed. She said he was beaten the weekend Isaac and I went to Club 57. She was trying to coerce me into unwillingly incriminating Isaac.”

  My hand creeps for my revolver when a third male joins us. “That’s bullshit. For one, if Isaac had tracked him down that night, he wouldn’t have left him breathing. And two, Col would never file a police report on an assault, let alone have an FBI agent consider it. He would have swept it under the rug like he always does.” A bearded man with sleeves full of tattoos walks into my room like he owns the place. He wordlessly suggests for Hugo to lower his gun by giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze before moving to stand in front of me. When I see nothing but aggression pumping out of him, it’s the fight of my life not to smile. It doesn’t matter how many notches you have on your belt, intimidation is always the best form of flattery. “Who are you?”

  “Brandon James.” When I offer him my hand to shake, my lips curl into a smirk. Just like my boyish face and wonky grin hide my smarts, so does his bearded face and tattooed body. I’ve just met my match. This bearded stranger just doesn’t want to acknowledge it right now.

  “What’s your real name?” He folds his arms in front of his chest as the arrogance in his eyes doubles. “Because I searched Brandon James after your date with Izzy a couple of months ago, nothing came up.”

  “Just like your search on Izzy failed to yield any real results?” When shock registers on his face, a voice in my head whispers, Checkmate, motherfucker. “I buried Izzy’s private life as much as I did mine.” My eyes drift to Isabelle, who’s watching me in shocked awe. “I knew they’d be looking.” Nothing is private these days. Some men do background searches before exchanging numbers, and I’m not going to mention the lengths some women go to for a suitable match, or we’ll be here all night.

  With Isabelle’s anxiety as high as her brow, her reply comes out in a squeak. “Isaac already knows.”

  “I’m not talking about Isaac. I’m talking about the Bureau.” Realizing now is as good a time as any to update her on what I discovered earlier today, I move to the document I printed out before reading my private investigator’s email. “You’re not the only one who’s been doing some research the past few days.”

  When I hand her proof that Alex is being as unscrupulous as Isaac, hopeful it will have her paying careful attention to everyone around her, she speed-reads the article. “The Bureau paid for me to fly business class?”

  I shake my head. “Not the Bureau, Izzy. Alex signed off on it.”

  Isabelle’s growl rumbles through my chest. “That son of a bitch. Why would he do that?”

  I want to reply because that’s what all condescending, narcissistic men do, but instead, I shrug. I’m standing across from two of Isaac’s goons. Only an idiot would break cover now. Furthermore, this inches me one step closer to becoming a part of Isaac’s team. Money can’t buy this spot, but fake loyalty sure as fuck can.

  11

  Brandon

  “Have you worked with Isaac long?”

  Hunter slides open the back of his surveillance van before climbing in to gather the equipment needed to do a 3D scan of Megan’s bedroom. Other than handing over the serial numbers of the listening devices found in Isabelle’s apartment at Isaac’s request last night, he hasn’t spoken a word to me. He’s not happy I’m here, but since he does whatever Isaac tells him to do, he’s stuck with me.

  “Want me to get a head start on logistics?” When I crack open one of his many laptops, Hunter slams down the screen, yanks it out of my grasp, then jerks his head to the open front door of the Shroud’s family ranch, wordlessly telling me to fuck off. I could let him off easy, but where’s the fun in that? “What processor are you using? Those things look chunky. You could cut down weight by—”

  “They’re chunky for a reason.” I slant my head to hide my smile, stoked I forced him to talk. “Just like my foot… so it causes more damage when it’s rammed up the asses of annoying fuckfaces who can’t take the hint to fuck off when they’re not wanted.”

  “Jeez. Did someone forget to eat their Wheaties this morning?”

  He steps out of the van to meet me chest to chest. Since he’s a good three to four inches taller than me, I have to look up to see his glare when he says, “I know what you’re doing. I read your game plan from a mile out and followed the breadcrumbs you left while trying to conceal your tracks, so quit the fucking games and bow out of the fight before I tell Isabelle the real reason you changed your last name to James, Brandon McGee.” The way he overemphasizes my last name makes me hate it even more. Not even my mom goes by it anymore, that’s how bad the bile is anytime we’re forced to use it.

  Even with the horrid taste in my mouth thickening my tongue, I remember my objective. “I’m just trying to help.”

  I realize I’ve been swinging my bat the wrong way when Hunter snarls. “You’re trying to get into Izzy’s panties, which will never happen, so why not give up now and fuck off back to wherever you came from.”

  After slamming his van door shut, he makes a conscious effort to prove it’s locked before he gallops up the rickety stairwell with a tripod and 3D camera thrust under his arm.

  I take a quick breather to strategize my next move before following after him. I’ve only just gained Isaac’s trust, so bowing out now isn’t an option. I’ve got to up my game. Not just for me but Isabelle as well. She hung herself out to dry for me last night when she told Isaac she trusts me, so the least I can do is make sure she isn’t falling for a guy set out to destroy her.

  When my return to Megan’s room has me stumbling onto Isaac taking a call in the hallway, I slow my strides before yanking my cell phone out of my pocket. Hoping to catch portions of his conversation, I dial my voicemail before leaving myself a message. The worst thing an agent can do when faking a call is not to dial a number. Trust me, you’re guaranteed to get an unexpected call the instant you commence your ruse. It happened to Grayson more than twice when he was a rookie. Tobias never let him live it down.

  I take on a second approach to my ruse when thoughts of Tobias’s training processes drift into my mind. He was often accused of having an unscrupulous friendship with Henry Gottle, yet I never judged him on it, so why am I not giving Isaac the same leeway? If he believes I’m his friend, and he’s given me his trust, that has to be more beneficial than hiding in the shadows waiting for him to stumble, right?

  Right.

  This time, I dial a real number.

  Phillipa answers quickly. “Good morning.�
��

  My brow cocks. “Morning? It’s almost ten.”

  I hear her stretch in her yawn. “Cut me some slack. I had a late one, so I slept in.”

  Even with my chest swelling with smugness, I’m not taking any credit for the huskiness of her words. We talked until the wee hours of this morning, but that was more to drown out the noises I didn’t want to hear two rooms over than anything else. We behaved—for the most part.

  I can’t say the same for Isabelle and Isaac. If I had any doubt they hadn’t acted on the bristling chemistry that bounced between them last night, I don’t anymore.

  Disturbed by the waywardness of my thoughts the past week, I squish my phone closer to my ear before asking, “Can you give me the deets on Carlyle Shroud? Something fishy is still going on here, but it feels murkier than just a kidnap-for-sale arrangement.”

  “Just a kidnap-for-sale arrangement? Jesus, Brandon, you’ve been in the field too long. Time for desk duty.”

  I physically gag. “I’d rather die than work behind a desk. The months I spent at HQ between placements were bad enough.”

  Phillipa’s laugh does weird things to my cock, but since I’m trying to pretend it isn’t hardening in the middle of the day like a freak, I shift my focus elsewhere. “Did Grayson log movement sheets last night?”

  “Yeah,” Phillipa replies between keystrokes. “He also requested additional comms for the event he referenced last night.”

  “Was permission granted?”

  I smile in gratitude when she says, “It was when I pushed through his request. You’re right, BJ, sometimes flexing a bit of muscle does more good than bad.” She breathes slowly out before asking, “Got a pen?”

  I yank a notepad and pen from the breast pocket of my suit jacket before telling her to go ahead.

  Once I have Carlyle’s details jotted down, I thank Phillipa for her assistance before joining Isaac next to the only window in Megan’s room. Pretending Phillipa’s husky request for me to call her tonight wasn’t laced with hidden innuendo, I lock my eyes with Isaac and say, “Boss… umm… Isaac.”

  My ruse is played to perfection. Not only does Isaac’s chest rise so fast I’m confident I am moments away from having my eye gouged out by one of his peacock feathers, he reminds me were on an even playing field. “You can call me Isaac. I'm not your boss.” It gains him my respect. A lesser man would have tried to play on my ‘supposed’ insecurities.

  Isaac listens intently when I disclose, “I called in a favor with a girl I know. The owner of this property is Carlyle Shroud. He's fifty-eight years old and has been receiving disability checks since a workplace injury nearly two decades ago.” Even with knowing everything I’m informing him by heart, I read it off my notepad. It makes it seem as if I am as unknowledgeable in this case as his crew, which keeps the playing field even as he strived to make it only seconds ago. “His disability checks have been deposited each month, but none of his bank accounts have been utilized in months, which is surprising. Carlyle is what you might call the local drunk. More than eighty percent of his support payments are spent at the liquor store in town.”

  “Does he have any vehicles registered in his name?” Isaac asks, curious.

  Nodding, I flick through my notepad. “Yes, one. A black Dodge truck, license plate number 44W—”

  My eyes float up from my notepad when Isaac interrupts, “2285?”

  When I nod, his features flood with devastation before he yanks at the window we’re standing next to. When it fails to budge from his frantic tugs, he smashes his elbow through the glass like he’s a drug lord outrunning the DEA.

  The urgency of his panic comes to light when he shouts out the window, “Where’s Isabelle?”

  Carlyle’s only mode of transportation is parked at the front of his shed, and we’re miles from the closest town.

  That can only mean one thing.

  He’s still here.

  When Isaac shouts for Hugo to “Get Isabelle,” I follow his sprint down the warped stairs. They’re not sturdy enough to take the weight of our frantic stomps, but we take the risk, preferring to fall through the rickety wood than have Isabelle reach the barn she’s pacing toward before us.

  During our sprint across the overgrown field, I call in backup. “My name is Brandon James. I'm an FBI field agent. My number is 443567. I need an ambulance and a police unit brought to 15634 Snow Mountain Road, Parkerville.”

  My stomach gurgles when I request a first responder, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Carlyle purchased a woman on the black market. His stability has already been discredited and don’t get me started on his daughter. People only go that crazy when they’ve been subjected to unimaginable things.

  The churns of my stomach overtake the heaving of my lungs when I break through a partially cracked open barn door on Isaac’s heel. The smell vaping off the rotting corpse hanging off the second story of the barn is inconceivable. I have an iron stomach, yet even it is struggling. Think of the worst smell you’ve ever imagined. Now triple it, and you’re not even halfway there yet.

  My neck cranks to the side when a pained sob tears through my ears. The expression on Isabelle’s face when she buries her head into Hugo’s pecs has me picturing what Melody’s response would have been when she saw Joey hanging lifeless from the oak tree she climbed every week from the age of eight until almost eighteen.

  Is that why she fled that night?

  Was the image too much for her to bear?

  I almost wanted to run that night, but since Joey’s skin wasn’t lifeless and unnatural like the man hanging from the beam, I tried to save him. My attempts were woeful, but at least I tried.

  If only I could say the same thing about my relationship with Melody.

  12

  Brandon

  When Phillipa leans back in her bed, exposing more of the silk negligee she’s wearing, I pretend not to notice the way the frilled lace edging grips at the generous swell of her breasts. She’s drinking wine like she was the first time we FaceTimed, but she only just cracked open the bottle for our debrief.

  I thought yesterday was a clusterfuck, but it had nothing on today. Isabelle is distraught after seeing her first dead body. I can’t get Joey out of my head, and I’m stuck in this bumfuckville town for another night in case the agent brought in to investigate Carlyle’s death wants to ask me any questions. I gave him my cell phone number and told him to call me any time, day or night, but like some 1950s black and white old-town sheriff movie, he doesn’t like cell phones. He prefers face-to-face meetings.

  “Who was called in?” Phillipa asks before taking another generous sip of her wine.

  The bedding ripples around my backside when I scoot up the bed to rest my back on the headboard. I’ve seen the mess hotels like this one have on their sheets, so I refuse to slip between them—even when fully clothed. “Harvey Rose.”

  Phillipa’s nose screws up. “I thought he retired?” When I pull a face as if to say, he’s well past retirement age, she laughs. “I’ve heard he’s a hard-ass. How’d you go about requesting to be kept in the loop on this case?”

  Air whizzes out of my nose. “He said, I quote, ‘Kid, we’ve got no time for mollycoddling around these parts. If you need a babysitter, I suggest you go back to the academy’ unquote. But he came around… eventually.”

  Phillipa hears something in my words I didn’t mean to express. “What did you give him?”

  “Nothing.” I roll my eyes like she can’t see me. It doubles her glare. “I dropped some names that had him gasping like Marilyn Monroe was giving him head. No big deal.”

  Her mouth falls open. “You told him your father is Vincent McGee?”

  I scoff. “What? No! Don’t be ridiculous. I may have mentioned an Agent P. Russell,” I mumble out my last sentence with a yawn. I’m tired, but that isn’t the reason I yawned. I’m hoping it will have Phillipa missing my confession.

  She doesn’t—regretfully. “You used my name? Brandon! Shame
on you.”

  Spit flies out of my mouth when I blow a raspberry. “I didn’t use your name. I used your father’s name.”

  Her eye roll is more sophisticated than mine. “Same thing. I’m named after him.”

  “But mercifully, you look nothing like him.”

  We both freeze, stunned by my compliment, but Phillipa isn’t as willing to let it slide as I am. “Thank you for finally noticing, can’t-take-a-hint McGee.”

  I love her playfulness. Her nickname, not so much. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not my name. It’s my father’s name, and I hate it.”

  The jeering on her face is instantly replaced with sympathy. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Do you have five years?”

  She leans in close to the screen before replying, “I could if you need me to.”

  Before I can register the shock of her offer, a text message pops up on my screen.

  Melody: Hey BJ. Sorry for my late reply. I left my cell phone at the office. I’m okay. How are you?

  Her message is as basic as the one I sent her, but the question at the end is practically an open invitation for a conversation.

  Reading me with the knowledge not many people have, Phillipa asks, “What is it? Is it the case? Surely, they couldn’t have gotten Carlyle’s autopsy back this soon.”

  “It’s not work.” I lock my eyes with hers before adding, “It’s Melody. I texted her last night. She only just replied. Said she left her phone at work.”

  “Oh… good.” Phillipa’s tone is more pleasant than her facial expression. She honestly looks like someone just ran over her cat. “I’ll go. You should FaceTime her.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  She waves her hand through the air like she’s shooing away a fly. “No, not at all. Have fun.” She disconnects our chat before I have the chance to reply, and even quicker than that, I have my Messenger app open.