by Dana Volney
Just as he glanced, for the umpteenth time, in his rearview mirror, he heard a thud and his car leapt forward. Both hands grasped the steering wheel as he fought to stay on his side of the yellow line. He glanced ahead—no cars—then behind, but there wasn’t a car there now, either.
What the…
Crunch. The asshole was on the left side, ramming his car, about the size of Eliam’s, right into the driver’s side. Metal colliding and the sound of his side mirror being torn off wore loudly in his ears. The Challenger was forced right, and he swerved left hard to correct the path without flipping his car or going off the road into a building, fence, or any number of hard objects by the road.
Is this really happening?
Thunk. Another metal-to-metal hit, and it made his entire body cringe. Adrenaline filled his ears and sank into his gut, tightening every muscle and tendon. This time Eliam missed a sturdy streetlight by mere inches. Game on. He turned his steering wheel left sharply, nailing the bastard on the passenger side. Hard. The black car overcorrected, and screeching noises pierced through his car. He turned in his seat in time to see the bastard’s car not stop, but accelerate to catch up to him in no time.
They were neck and neck, and he didn’t know his next move. How did car chases and assaults usually end in the movies? Cars flipping over, people dying. Hell no. He was not dying tonight. Just as the car was even with him, he lightly braked and rammed his no-longer-cherry car into the other. The slam wasn’t as hard as he would’ve liked, barely knocking the other car off its route. He couldn’t keep this up much longer—his nerves and his car weren’t in great shape.
Trying to keep one eye on the street and one on the asshole trying to drive him off of it, Eliam snuck a look at his speed. They were going sixty miles an hour on a road with a limit of thirty. Eliam slammed on his brakes—there was a curve just ahead that wouldn’t fair well for either one of them at this speed, and since he clearly wasn’t the experienced driver in this situation, his chances weren’t ideal.
The gun in his nightstand drawer would look pretty good right now. How far was this going? He was just about to push the Call button on the dashboard screen for 911 when the black car’s taillights disappeared around the corner. Eliam came to a full stop, barely breathing. Were there more of them? He swiveled his neck in every direction. No one was around. Should he wait here and call the cops? Nope. He was getting the hell out of the area.
He checked the streets around him and turned right, not a direct route to his building but it would do. He wasn’t going to chance the mysterious car waiting for him up ahead. Continuously checking his rearview mirror, not using his blinker, and driving thirty over the limit, the otherwise ten-minute drive took only four, but it still felt like an eternity.
When he pulled up to the Breeland Building, Jordan, his favorite valet, raised his pierced brow.
“Call the body shop. It’s going to need some work,” Eliam said in his best authoritative voice, an attempt to get ahold of himself in the familiar surroundings.
“Yes, sir.” Jordan shook his teenaged head, and wispy brown hair fell into his eyes. “You okay?”
Dark green eyes met his and he looked down at his hands holding out the keys. To his absolute horror, he was trembling—not a good look on a man of his build and position.
“Yes. Just a little issue on the road tonight.” He dropped the keys into Jordan’s outstretched hand. He started to say he needed the police to be called, then snapped his mouth shut. He barely had a description of the car to give them. He needed a company that would protect him. He needed a bodyguard.
CHAPTER TWO
“This is Winter,” she answered her phone on the first ring.
“Is this Wyn Security?” a smooth male voice asked.
“Yep.” Two years of owning a business and she still forgot to answer it with the business name. “How may I help you?” She kicked off her black cargo boots in the entryway to her charming fixer-upper in the Queen Anne District, which sat on the outskirts north of downtown.
“I was given your card by my head of security, Louis. He thinks I temporarily need extra personal security.”
She checked her watch. Calls for her services came at all hours. The distinctly male voice on the other end of her phone had no trace of anxiety, yet suspicion made her pause on her wood flooring and lean against her newly painted light blue-gray wall. Something had made a man who reportedly didn’t want to talk to her call at a late hour.
“And what do you think?” she asked.
“About?” His irritation was palpable.
“Security? I prefer to provide my services to people who want them.” Yes. She was testing his patience, baiting him, if you will. But what the hell? It was after midnight; he could’ve woken her up for all he knew.
“If you count being attacked on my way home tonight want, then yes. I’m in want.”
“Attacked?” Okay, now she was on high alert, standing straight up and looking around for her blasted boots in the mess that was her entryway. What the hell, Louis? He hadn’t said Eliam was under a rapid threat. Didn’t all this crap go down just today? Coordinated attacks usually took longer to plan than a couple of hours. “Are you injured?”
“No. I was on my way home and a car tried to run me off the road. Multiple times.” And that’s when the smoothness of his voice gave way to pure frustration. People who called for her services, especially for themselves, usually had clear emotion in their voice—anger, fear, and sometimes she could even hear sweat through the phone. Eliam was, indeed, a client.
“Did you get a look at the driver or any other description?”
“No, it was dark and I was focused on staying alive.”
“Where do you live?” She braced her cell phone between her shoulder and cheek and hopped on one foot while slipping on her mid-calf lace-up boots that she had styled to slip on and off quickly.
“Excuse me?”
She grabbed her black leather jacket from the green antique coatrack by her front door. “You don’t want security now?”
“I thought…”
“Nope. Around the clock.” And on the hook to Louis. She couldn’t let anything happen to this guy now; she’d never be able to bear letting Louis down.
“We can set up a time tomorrow.” The Prince’s tone was back in place.
Macho men. She rolled her eyes. They were the worst. He’d decided to call but wanted to show he didn’t need immediate attention because he, no doubt, could “handle” it.
“Let me ask you this, do you value your life?”
“Of course.”
“Well, someone out there doesn’t. We can meet now or wait until tomorrow and hope they need sleep tonight.”
A quick pocket of air, like he was breathing right into her ear, told her she’d won.
“Where do you live?” She grabbed her bag and an extra clip from the drawer in the rustic table in her entryway, caught a quick glimpse of herself in the circle mirror that hung above the table, fluffed her short, messy, springy black curls, and then was back out the door she’d come in only moments ago. So much for a good night’s sleep. It was convenient her skin was dark enough to cover the circles she was sure were forming under her eyes.
“Breeland Building. Penthouse. I’ll phone downstairs and let them know to let you up.”
“Be there in fifteen. Don’t let anyone else in until I get there.”
It was a good thing she kept a bag with overnight supplies and more things than she could remember in the back of her Durango. One of these days she should really clean out and catalog the gear, clothes, and miscellaneous items in her rolling office. There were no office hours for her line of work and no set necessities, therefore she needed everything. Some days she wondered why she bothered to own a big house. She certainly didn’t have the time to fully appreciate it.
Her phone rang, and the screen read UNKNOWN.
“Wyn Security.” Yes, that was how she needed to answer her phone,
even if it was still too early for the ass crack of dawn.
“Winter Wyn.”
Icy prickles stabbed at the hand holding her cell phone and she gripped it tightly. She took a deep, quiet breath. There was a small chance he had a decent reason for calling.
“Holland. Long time no talk.” Or see. Thank God.
“I have a proposition for you.”
And the verdict: indecent. She’d been way too optimistic to think Holland had called just to say hi to an acquaintance from long ago. Maybe it was fortuitous; she was going to have to call him tomorrow anyway, according to Louis.
“This should be good.” She bit into her lower lip.
Holland, only known by his first name, had been a contact whom Louis’s team, Company A, used overseas when they needed information only someone who dealt in intel and secrets could acquire. While he’d proved to be useful, that didn’t make up for his ample slime factor.
“Oh, it is. I have a fresh order that needs to be filled within thirty-six hours.”
Her night was just filling up with talk of conspiracies to kill people. Wariness silenced her, and Holland took the cue to keep going.
“New CEO. Should be an easy target.”
New? She licked her lips and rubbed them together. She happened to be driving to a new CEO’s home at the moment. She closed her eyes briefly and felt paranoia suck the air out of her SUV.
“Doesn’t have to look like an accident; the boss doesn’t care.”
Boss, heh. Holland really meant the person who’d ordered the hit. Holland was an intermediary, and one without a conscience.
“What type of CEO are we talking?” She mentally crossed her fingers for any answer but “shipping.”
“He moves goods.”
“Why would you think I’d be interested?” Seriously, did she honestly seem like the cold-blooded killer type? Maybe this guy didn’t have as good a read on people as she’d originally assessed.
“You have a new business. How’s that going, by the way?” The smile in his voice was clear. And she knew from experience his was a nice, perfectly straight, and white smile. Shady people didn’t always look like the bad guys—a fact that both impressed her and terrified her.
“Good. We keep busy.”
“And you have a big business bank loan, I see.”
She gritted her teeth. Of course he’d checked up on her before he’d called. Holland didn’t leave anything to chance.
“Our type of equipment isn’t cheap.” She entered downtown and headed to the waterfront.
“Exactly. This is top-dollar. You could take care of all of your loan problems and then some.”
Okay, so he wasn’t totally off in his assessment—the money would be nice—but she protected people, not killed them. He’d have to do a lot better to entice her into killing someone in cold blood. Her early army days were behind her; she wasn’t that person anymore—the one who only took orders and used her rifle to enforce the goal of her commanding officer. Master Sergeant Rob Buckley’s orders were long behind her.
She could always call in an anonymous tip to the Seattle Police Department to satisfy her conscience if it wasn’t Eliam.
She let out an exaggerated sigh so as to seem like she wasn’t anxious to hear the name. Holland was perceptive as hell.
“I don’t have loan problems. But, yeah, this doesn’t sound like a tough job. I could probably squeeze it in.”
“As heartless as ever.”
Like you know me. “Yup. What’s this guy’s name?”
She was actually torn. If it was Eliam, she had a serious problem on her hands. Holland wouldn’t be happy with a double-cross and that put her in danger, as well.
“Prince. Eliam Prince.”
Her hands went cold, her stomach twisted, and her jaw clamped down. Eliam was the worst name he could’ve said after all.
“Am I the first person you called?” The timeline of tonight’s events weren’t adding up. Hadn’t Eliam said he’d already been attacked?
“No. But you’re the first one available. My other contacts were otherwise engaged.”
“Text me the details.” She had to get off of the phone with him before he caught on to her panic. “If the price is right, we have a deal.” Money was a mere detail—she was taking the contract to buy her new client more time—but if she didn’t ask for the specifics, he might get suspicious.
“Will do. You have thirty-six hours for the full commission. Then I start sending in others every twelve till the job is done. It would be a shame if you lost out on all of this money.”
It will be a shame if I end up on your hit list myself. Stone-cold fear rattled around in her head and zigzagged its way down to the very tips of her lavender-painted toes. What in the fuck did I just do?
She was trained to assess situations for the best outcome, the safest solution for all involved, and to carry out the plan. Was that what just happened? Did her subconscious have a strategy she wasn’t privy to yet? Holy shit, she sure hoped so, because if not, she’d just signed two death warrants with one phone call.
CHAPTER THREE
Winter pulled her SUV into the underground parking at Eliam’s building. A lanky kid in a red vest stepped out from an office of windows by a bank of elevators.
“Good evening.” He bobbed his head and his brown hair swayed by way of greeting.
“I’m here for Mr. Prince.” She gave him her valet key.
“Are you his new driver?” He looked at her tinted windows, then lingered on her black cargo boots. “His car got pretty banged up tonight.”
“Is it still here?” The damage could indicate what she was dealing with—either it was serious or Eliam had blown it out of proportion. Either way it would be nice to see where Eliam was coming from when she met with him upstairs.
And since when was she someone’s driver in this getup? Next thing this kid would be calling her ma’am and then she’d have to give him a pistol-whipping demonstration.
“Yeah.” He pointed behind her to a Dodge Challenger.
Eliam wasn’t kidding. Someone had been trying to do some significant damage—there were dents and paint-peeling scratches running the length of his sporty car.
After she made her way up to the lobby of Eliam’s building, she showed her ID to the night watchman, who handed her a special card to access the top floor from the left elevator. The building was decorated in rich greens and shades of black and, more importantly, was secure. Eliam wasn’t her first client in the Breeland Building, although he was her first on the top floor.
Shiny doors opened into a small foyer with cream French doors adorned with glass designs. There was a doorbell to the right of the grand entrance. If someone could get up here without the special key, did he then think a doorbell was some last barrier of protection? Probably had a puppy standing guard, too. Before she could reach for the round light, the doors swung open.
A man in dark jeans, black socks, and a black pullover with a zipper that ran five inches down his chest leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “Ms. Wyn. Welcome.”
He didn’t look like the man she’d seen in the news stories. They hadn’t been great pictures, but the man standing in front of her was handsome, of Israeli descent, and at least six foot three. He welcomed her in and closed the doors behind her. She fell in step beside him as he led her to the wide expanse of his living room.
“You’re not going to ask for ID? How did you know who I was?” She set down her black bag of randomness in a nook between the entry and hallway.
“You said fifteen minutes. You’re right on time.”
“Mr. Prince.” Always better to start out formal. Even though she’d been a little shit on the phone earlier, he was still a client. “You need to be more careful.”
“Eliam, please. But I don’t remember telling you my name on the phone.”
“I’m good at my job. Let’s talk a bit more about why I’m here.”
His home was stunning wi
th its dark wood floors that complemented the pure white couch, red chair, and pops of color from the abstract expressionism artwork on the wall—very expensive, very original-looking artwork. The wall of windows provided a 180-degree view of Puget Sound and parts of downtown on either side of the living room.
He carried himself with his head high over to the bar set up on the left side of the apartment, produced two short glasses, palmed a bottle of whiskey, and poured.
“One minute I’m driving home, the next I’m nearly run off the road by a black car. That’s all I know.”
His wide strides brought him back to her side in a blink of an eye, and he handed her a glass with liquor and ice in the shape of spheres. She sipped as he invited her to sit across from him—she on the oversized, red armchair and he on the couch.
She sat close to the edge, so as to not sink completely into the luscious fabric. “Do you have any idea who the assailants might be?”
“No. Too dark to see anything. They handled themselves well. I rammed them back a couple of times and they kept control.”
“You rammed them back?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice, off her face, nor stop a smile from forming. Ballsy. I like it.
“I had no other choice.”
The calm and collected demeanor he maintained flagged her internal alarms. Or maybe she was sensitive only because she’d already spoken to Louis and knew about the stepfather. After a life-or-death altercation, people could have numerous reactions. The fact that Eliam appeared to be just getting back from a dinner with friends was something she’d keep in mind while on his detail.
“Technically, you had many choices. You just chose the one that said you weren’t going to sit there and take it.”
He stared over his glass at her with light brown eyes. Hard eyes. Eyes that didn’t mess around with things that were beneath him, like people trying to kill him. Louis may have been off on his estimation of Eliam’s attitude—he was taking this seriously. And personally.
“I approve, by the way,” she continued because he clearly had nothing more to say on the subject of his reaction.
