by Misty Evans
Lindsey’s gaze cut over to Trace as if accusing him of being the distraction. A dramatic sigh left her lips.
It was his fault in some ways. “What’s a supersurvivor?”
Both women looked at him. Savanna shifted, crossing one of her long legs over the other. “You’ve heard of people who’ve experienced a traumatic event in their life, but instead of ending up with debilitating depression and anxiety, they’ve found a way to turn the experience around and find good out of it? Like the mother who sets up a 5k race to raise money for cancer research after she loses her young child to leukemia. Or the army vet who comes home with PTSD and missing a couple limbs from an IED but sets up a support group for other vets, giving the men back a sense of belonging. These people suffer greatly but they turn it around. They’re not just resilient, they grow from experiencing tragedy. They take the worst thing that’s happened to them and turn it into the best. It’s called post-traumatic growth or PTG. Dr. Hopland has a PhD in psychology and is running scientific experiments to prove PTG’s validity.”
“But there are naysayers,” Lindsey said. “Other psychologists say PTG is bunk. That you can’t simply overcome a traumatic event or PTSD by trying to find a bright side. So we’re investigating.”
Trace knew a thing or two about PTSD. Dr. Hopland’s study sounded like bunk to him.
Yet, here he was, trying to turn his life around in a similar way to what Savanna had described. Finding a new way to live with the past.
Or was he? If he left Savanna alone, pawned her off on another bodyguard who didn’t have his personal experience with the man stalking her, wasn’t he simply running away again? All that bullshit about helping her from a distance was just that. Bullshit. She needed someone like him, with his insider information on Linc Norman and his special skills to keep her alive.
He put his phone away as the car pulled into the studio lot. If he could take the worst thing that had happened to him and use it to save a life this time, instead of take one, he could stop a monster from killing more innocent people. He might still have a future.
Sure he could have run away once Petit broke him out of Witcher, gone to ground never to be heard from again. Instead he’d joined Shadow Force International, working as a bodyguard, and helping keep someone safe while he searched for her missing sister.
He almost laughed at how pathetic his argument sounded as he helped Savanna from the car. Post-traumatic growth sounded like a nice bedtime story, but in reality, what he was doing was not some deep psychological bullshit.
It was simply survival. With a little revenge thrown in for good measure.
Chapter Seven
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TRACE HAD SEEN chaos in war, but nothing prepared him for the chaos of a TV studio in full production mode.
Few people took notice of him as he followed on Savanna’s heels to her dressing room. Her name was on the door, and the moment he opened it to do his security check, his nose was greeted with the smells of fresh coffee, eggs, toast, and bacon.
A mini-buffet sat on a table against the far wall, silver domes of covered food being kept warm for the star. The room was done in soft ocean blues and held a couch, chair, coffee table, and large flat screen. On one wall hung photographs of Savanna with famous men and women she’d interviewed or done celebrity fundraisers with.
“You don’t have to worry about Savanna’s safety here,” Lindsey quipped from the doorway. “Everyone loves her.”
There had to be at least a hundred people milling around the studio. Yeah, they all had lanyards but it wasn’t difficult to forge an ID badge and sneak onto the lot, especially for trained operatives working for the president.
But would they take a chance and go after her in front of so many witnesses?
“Just let him do his thing,” Savanna told her assistant, even as she gave Trace a weighted stare. “I’m paying big bucks for this. I should get my money’s worth.”
There was something bold in the way she looked at him. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
He stepped into the small bathroom and cleared it, came back out. Bug check was next.
Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. Lindsey was paged. “Be back shortly,” she said to Savanna and gave Trace one last once-over before hustling off.
Savanna moved inside, removing the covers on the silver trays and snagging a piece of toast. “Help yourself to breakfast.”
He pulled out his scanning equipment and started checking for listening devices.
Sitting on the couch, she watched as she munched on her toast. “So what’s our plan for today?”
“You do your thing like usual. I’ll do mine.”
“And what exactly is your thing?”
“Keeping you safe. Investigating Parker’s disappearance.”
“I need details.”
Jesus, the woman was a ballbuster. “Afraid you’re not getting your money’s worth?”
When she didn’t reply, he looked up. She was staring at him with that same look again in her eyes.
The one that made him a little nervous and a lot turned on.
“A new security system is being installed in your apartment right now,” he told her, refusing to break eye contact. “I’m running a check on Parker’s aliases to see if any of them have been used recently and where.”
“There are strangers in my apartment right now? How did they get in?”
Seriously? “By breaking through the crappy security you currently have.”
Her face fell. She massaged the back of her neck. “Are you planning to follow me around all day? Sit with me on air? Don’t you need to shower or take a leak once in awhile?”
Normal bodyguards needed to switch out every few hours to keep fresh and relieve boredom. He wasn’t a normal bodyguard. “Do I smell?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
His detection tool flashed red as he passed it over her dressing table. He put a finger to his lips to keep her quiet for a moment, passing the wand over it again. The flashing sped up, and like a game of hot and cold, he zeroed in on one spot. Leaning down, he ran a hand underneath and in back of the mirror.
His fingers caught on a slight bump. Metal, round. Tracing the outline, he determined it wasn’t part of the mirror. Digging his fingers in around the edges, he gave a yank and…
Bingo. A round metal disc fell into his hand.
Savanna was up and by his side in an instant. One hand fell on his back, sending a shock of electricity straight up his spine, as she looked over his shoulder.
He stilled his automatic reflex to jump away, instead staying half crouched and opening his hand to show her what he’d found. The bug, high-tech and effective, sat in his palm.
“Is that what I think it is?” she whispered next to his ear.
Another electrical charge zinged through his entire body. She was so close he could smell her—the shampoo she’d used on her hair, the light floral perfume of her body lotion. If he turned his head even slightly, he’d be nose to nose with her. Close enough to lose himself in those dark blue eyes. Close enough to touch her beautiful lips.
Back away.
Her hand moved to his shoulder, her breath tickling his cheek. “A listening device?”
“Yeah, it is,” he murmured.
Before he could examine it further, Savanna snatched it from his hand, tossed it on the floor and stomped on it.
“Damn bastard,” she said through clenched teeth, grinding the heel of her shoe into the metal.
Trace grabbed her, one arm around her waist, and swung her around, away from the destroyed listening device. “What are you doing?”
“Put me down!” she said, smacking his arm.
He let her flail for a brief second, enjoying the feel of her body against his before he set her down on her feet. “I needed to look at that to see if I could identify where it ca
me from.”
She whirled to face him, hands fisted at her sides, her eyes scared and angry at the same time. “How did he get a bug in my dressing room? He never touched the mirror when he was here on Monday.”
Trace didn’t need to ask who he was. “The president has plenty of people working for him, Savanna. Could be someone on staff or someone who slipped in pretending to be a janitor.”
She digested that for a second. “So now I can’t trust anyone here at the studio?”
At that moment, Lindsey burst back into the room. The tension, thick in the air, made her pull up short and ping-pong her gaze between Trace and Savanna before landing for good on her star investigative reporter. “Why aren’t you in makeup?”
Savanna took a deep breath and regrouped, smoothing down her shirt still rumpled from Trace’s arm and running a hand over her hair. “I’ll be right there.”
Lindsey backed out, shooting Trace a help me look as she pulled the door closed.
Savanna stared at the smashed metal disk, snagging her bottom lip between her teeth and looking like he’d just stolen her security blanket.
Work was her life. He understood that. She felt safe here and in control. Had felt safe here. When the one thing you counted on to keep you sane shifted under your feet, it was hard to regain your footing.
Picking up the bug, he pocketed it. He put a hand on her shoulder, drawing her gaze to his face. “Nothing’s going to happen to you on my watch.”
“He’s the president.” Her voice was quiet, strained. “How am I going to fight him?”
Good question. Trace had fought him and look where he’d ended up.
“I’ll handle it, Savanna.”
And he would, one way or another.
AT 0500 HOURS, Savanna had left her apartment on schedule, but with a man—military bearing, hypervigilant—and entered her studio limo.
At 0505, a team of three men and one woman arrived in a dark, unmarked van, and secretly entered the empty penthouse apartment with a host of black bags.
At 0530, the listening device in Savanna’s dressing room at the news studio went dead.
At 0555, the team in the apartment packed up and left as quickly and quietly as they’d arrived. The black bags appeared lighter.
The woman on the building roof across the street continued to watch the upstairs penthouse windows through her binoculars as the sun rose. The air carried a sharp chill, her breath mingling with it and turning it white. Pigeons hovered and pecked at the asphalt around her feet.
Lowering the binoculars, she tugged her knit cap down over the tops of her cold ears. Her normal daytime hangout, so familiar and convenient, was no longer a safe house. She had been able to feel close to Savanna, and keep an eye on her, without anyone knowing.
The man with Savanna had to have been a bodyguard. Good for you, Van. But that meant the president must have escalated his threats to the point Savanna no longer felt safe. With Trace Hunter on the loose as well, Van could be in serious danger. Since she’d broken the story on him, he might be looking for revenge.
If so, Savanna would already be dead.
Not Hunter.
Had to be the president causing her problems.
A cold, hard knot that had nothing to do with the brisk morning air hardened just under the woman’s breastbone.
Someone has to stop him.
But who?
The team in the van either worked for Linc Norman or was part of the bodyguard’s backup unit.
Command & Control didn’t use teams. Individuals only. She’d already encountered one—the goofy, old doorman who was neither an idiot nor as old as he portrayed. She had a secret way into the apartment, however, that even he knew nothing about, so she’d had no problem avoiding him.
No doubt the bodyguard had found the penthouse security to be lacking, which had been beneficial to her, and had called in the team to increase certain measures. Her secret entrance might no longer work or might be booby-trapped.
She couldn’t take the chance.
Shit. She had nowhere else to go.
Except out of the country. Plenty of places lacked extradition laws and international crime took a backseat to the problems and issues the local police were forced to deal with.
Not an option. She wouldn’t leave Savanna alone. She had no choice but to complete the assignment the president had given her, or stay on the run until she could dispose of him.
Like that was going to happen. Without Trace Hunter’s help, shutting down the president would be a suicide mission.
So be it. If it meant saving Savanna and the others, she’d do whatever she had to.
Pulling up her hood and putting on her sunglasses, the woman scattered the pigeons at her feet and went to find a new safe house.
Chapter Eight
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THE MYSTERY OF women never failed to amaze him.
Friday morning, Trace watched from the shadows, keeping an eye on every person coming within a hundred feet of Savanna as the woman herself was transformed step by step into the on-air star he and millions of others had watched on The Bunk Stops Here.
Her thin, straight hair became thick and wavy. Her deep blue eyes grew even larger with the layers of shadow and liner. Her lips, though…the makeup artist left them mostly alone, only dabbing them with a pale peachy color that emphasized their natural beauty.
Three days in a row, he’d watched the metamorphosis and still found it hard to look away as Savanna went from pretty to show-stopping in under twenty minutes.
Back in her dressing room, she picked up a comb and redid her bangs. Then she used a tissue to remove some of the blush on her cheeks. The suit jacket Tiffany had picked today had the same blue of Savanna’s eyes. She slid the jacket up and over her shoulders, buttoned the top button and checked herself in the mirror. “What do you think?”
He hadn’t been asked his opinion about a woman’s appearance in so long, he nearly stumbled over his response. That, and the fact he hadn’t been so infatuated with a woman in just as long, and he was cooked. “Nice. You look nice.”
Nice? Seriously? She looked like a cover model pretending to be a news anchor.
She seemed as unimpressed with his evaluation as he was. “Your kindness is underwhelming, but I appreciate your manners. I look like a bimbo.” She picked up another tissue and began removing some of the eyeliner. “It’s impossible to be taken seriously as a news anchor when you have to convey overt sexuality in order to please viewers. Men don’t have to deal with this shit. They can be old, fat, bald, and wrinkly and it only adds to their air of trustworthiness.”
Trace nodded. Truth be told, he’d much rather get his news delivered by Savanna, all dolled up or not, than by an old, bald guy. Best to keep his opinion to himself. He had the feeling no matter what he said, it would come out wrong.
Lindsey arrived to whisk Savanna to the news desk for her nine-fifteen on-air appearance. Trace followed.
Like the past few days, the rest of the morning and early afternoon was nonstop meetings and performances. A few people had initially given him questioning looks and Savanna had introduced him to her bosses, but otherwise, the hustle and bustle of the studio seemed to be every man for himself. No one seemed at all concerned about who he was or why he was there as long as he had his badge on display. Once, as he stood by watching Savanna do her seventeenth take of a commercial spot, one of the other anchors had asked him to get him a green smoothie from the food truck out front. Trace had given the guy the stink eye and the anchor moved on until he found another lackey to do his bidding.
Savanna nailed every direction given to her during dry runs and camera takes, the directors and producers demanding she do them over and over again. Her smile never faltered, her demeanor remaining the consummate professional through everything.
At three o’clock, she was ready to leave. She had to be back by six-forty th
at evening to prep for the live episode of her show at nine.
The limo was waiting for them at the front of the studio lot. Trace motioned the driver away and held the door for her.
She’d changed back into her yoga pants and wool coat. Her face was still made up and her hair blew stiffly in the wind. One hand tucked the collar of her coat around her neck and she hustled inside the warm car. “You don’t have to do that, you know,” she said over the wind.
Sliding in across from her, he shut them in and the winter weather out. “What, open the door for you?”
“I tell Martin, the driver, not to do it either. I can open my own door.”
“No one said you can’t. It’s a courtesy. Like you making dinner for me last several nights.”
Her chin dipped in a nod. She thumbed at the studio as the limo pulled away. “Fridays are even crazier than the rest of the week, but you should see the weekends. Thank goodness I don’t work then.”
Crazy was an understatement. War was chaos and death. A news studio was chaos and drama that escalated every simple story into life and death extremes. “It’s an interesting place.”
“Interesting being a catchall term for weird.” She smiled and undid the top button of her coat. “Don’t worry. I know. They live and breathe negativity. That’s the news. Anything for ratings.”
“Do you do anything for ratings?”
Her chest lifted on an inhale. “I inform people, educate them, and unfortunately, the people and companies I investigate are usually hiding some pretty nasty stuff. I don’t need to exaggerate or walk the line of creative nonfiction. And I always do a monthly spotlight on someone or something positive. Like that Hopland PTG story. There are psychologists who dispute her findings, but my show will focus on the positive side and possibilities that post-traumatic growth is indeed a real thing.” Her gaze shot to the closed partition between them and the driver. “Anything on Parker?”
