by Jan Dockter
Table of 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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
Steph
Steph sat in the beautifully appointed waiting room of the office of Mr. Watins with her hands folded in her lap. Not that she wanted to speak to him but she was called here from her cubicle with no notice. She looked at the plain navy suit, one of three such, which didn’t rise to the level of the pricey wardrobe of Mr. Watins’ secretary. She wondered how much she was expected to impress him. Her suits were functional though not stylish, and they reflected the limited means of a first-year law associate.
“You can go in now,” said the secretary.
“Thank you,” said Steph as she stood. The secretary knocked at the door and Steph heard “come in.”
“Ms. Brooks, sir,” said the secretary.
Sitting behind a massive wood desk was the one of the named partners of her firm. He was dressed in an Italian suit obviously cut for his thin frame, and his wire-rimmed glasses nearly sat the end of his nose.
“Sit,” he said without looking at her. Mr. Watkins was a senior named partner of her new firm, Peters, Watkins and Roe. He stared at a manila file with singular interest, and before she sat her eyes hit the name tab. With a shock, she saw it was hers. Instantly her nerves went on high alert. The former Marine corporal was only a lowly associate and just passed the bar. She expected to sit in “the pit” with the rest of the first years doing drudge work and drinking bad coffee. She didn’t expect to sit before a senior partner as he studied every line in her employment folder.
Yet, his careful scrutiny of her school and work history begged the question. Why did a named partner call her to his office? If she was going to be fired, Human Resources would do it. If she was going to be given a promotion, her direct supervisor, Darcy Meara, would have told her. No. This meeting was very unusual and Steph had no idea what to expect.
Mr. Watins leaned back in his high-backed leather chair and blew out a breath. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses from his nose and rubbed his eyes lightly with his index finger and thumb. Steph used all the resources she learned in the corps to steel herself for what inscrutable fate awaited her. But in truth, she felt as if she could jump out of her skin.
Semper Gumby, Brooks, she told herself. The Marine expression reminded her to remain flexible and alert to changes.
“I think you can solve a problem for me, Ms. Brooks.”
“Sir” she said. If she were facing a commanding officer, she wouldn’t have said a word. But there were different expectations in the civilian world.
“Your skill set is unique. Marine training and the law?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Steph.
“Should I tell you ‘at ease,’ Ms. Brooks?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“So tell me why you didn’t pursue law in the Marines?”
“I hadn’t gone to college yet, Mr. Watins, so I didn’t have the education to join JAG. Besides which, I’d have to switch branches of the service to do that. The Marines are a tradition in my family.”
“Never hear the end of it at Thanksgiving, eh?”
A slight smile played on her lips. “No, sir. I wouldn’t.”
“This says you finished your undergraduate work in three years.”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t have any time to lose, and once you’ve served in the Marines, you learn to handle long days and a heavy work load.”
“I can see that. And you did Law Review, kept high honors, excelled in moot court, became editor of Law Review and was inducted in the Order of the Coif.”
“Yes, sir.” Stephanie was proud of her achievements that came from hard work and discipline. Scoring membership in the Order of the Coif, the honor society of the top ten percent of law students was a moment she’d never forget.
“And did you make your marksman badge in the Marines?”
“Yes, sir. I’m qualified on the M-4, M-16 rifles and M-9 Beretta pistol.”
“That’s good to know, but I’m only satisfying my curiosity. You won’t need weapons on this assignment. What I need is someone who is used to handling difficult situations and can keep his or her head. Can I count on you for that?”
“Yes, sir. But may I ask what the assignment is?” Again, normally she wouldn’t ask a superior, just follow orders. But in the civilian word such questions were expected.
“Have you heard of Kaur Industries?”
“Yes, Mr. Watins. They are a major defense contractor for the United States.”
“That’s right. They are also our clients. We bill out to them on retainer alone seven million dollars a year. That’s a chunk of change we don’t want to lose. So we do everything we can to keep the Kaurs happy.”
“Sir?”
“You’ve heard of their son, Ryan?”
Steph almost snorted in disgust. Ryan Kaur was a spoiled pretty boy whose antics often filled the gossip news outlets. There wasn’t a celebrity he hadn’t gone to bed with, or a high-end party he didn’t attend, or a sports car he didn’t crash. Ryan Kaur was a hot mess who caused his parents untold embarrassment.
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, call me Mr. Watins. I don’t think I can handle this much politeness.”
“Yes, s—Mr. Watins.”
The Kaurs are up for large defense contracts to build weapons for use against the dragons. Thank goodness no such nonsense has hit our shores yet, but the Prime Minister of the UK, Abalon, has declared war on all dragons, especially after his estate and the soldiers defending it was torched by that dragon—what was his name?
“Templeton Rawlins,” Steph supplied.
“That’s the name. I see you keep up on current events too?”
“Yes, Mr. Watins.” Steph devoured all the dragon news. Ever since the Reveal, when a journalist exposed the existence of dragons, Steph had an unhealthy interest in the formerly mythical beasts. It was a compulsion, one she told herself was silly and useless. But any story about dragons drew her immediate attention.
“Anyway, the market for dragon ordinance is exploding, if you pardon the pun. But the Kaurs could miss out on this contract if they can’t convince the Senate committee that Ryan isn’t a security risk. It will be your job to make sure he isn’t.”
“Sir?” said Steph. Now she was shocked. What did they expect her to do against a petulant playboy who didn’t know the meaning of discretion?
“Your bags are packed for you and a company car will take you to the Kaur Estate.”
“Am I to be a bodyguard, sir? I mean, I want to practice law. That’s what I trained to do.”
“And you will. But part of being a lawyer is customer service. But no, you won’t be a bodyguard. More like a babysitter. I expect you to use those persuasive skills you applied in moot court to appeal to Mr. Kaur’s better nature. And I realize that is a difficult thing to do. But if you are successful, there will be a nice bonus for you. The Kaurs have agreed to pay off your student loans, and that will put you ahead of your contemporaries.”
Steph had to admit that was a big enticement to take on a nearly impossible task. While the GI bill paid most of her undergraduate degree, they didn’t pay anything on law school. Getting out from under her student loans would be a big relief.
&
nbsp; “Yes, s-Mr. Watins. It would.”
“Good. The car is waiting for you downstairs.” He wrote something on a business card and handed it to you. “If you need anything, call my personal assistant, Jared, at any time of day or night.”
Steph took the proffered card though she felt she was biting off more than she could chew.
“Can I ask you a question, sir?”
“Of course.”
“What happens if Mr. Ryan can’t be convinced to keep his parent’s best interests at heart?”
“That would be unfortunate,” said Mr. Watins. “We have no tolerance for failure at Peters, Watins and Roe. I’m afraid the Kaurs would insist on your resignation.”
Steph let the Marine mask fall even as her stomach lurched.
“Of course, sir,” she said.
“Then good luck to you, Ms. Brooks.
Stephanie walked to her cubicle shell-shocked. This was one hell of an assignment to take on. Moreover, she wasn’t given a choice as to whether she would take it or not. Apparently, her options were to take it or get fired and succeed at it or get fired. Since fifty percent of the equation was getting fired, she didn’t like the odds, especially with an undisciplined playboy as the subject of her work.
Improvise, adapt and overcome. Marines were expected to do more with less than any other branch of the service, and these three words were woven through every mission a Marine took on. She’d have to find the resources to accomplish this job, even if they were only a faith in her own abilities.
“Stephanie?”
She turned to see her supervisor, Darcy come out of her office toward her.
“I was given to believe you’d be on assignment from here on out.”
“Yes, Darcy. I just got done speaking with Mr. Watins.”
“I see. Well, your desk is cleared out, because I need it for an associate who is going to be here.” Darcy sounded put out that she had to suffer the inconvenience of breaking in a new associate. “I sent your things by messenger to your apartment and sent your purse and backpack down to the car. I’ve also made sure that your paycheck is deposited automatically in your account as well.”
Steph didn’t know what to say. This was terribly efficient and also disorienting. Adapting to civilian life hadn’t been easy on her, and in many ways she still hadn’t. But this shuttling her off without so much as a “do you want to” was too much like working for Uncle Sam.
“I shouldn’t be gone that long,” said Steph.
“Even if you return, you won’t be working for me anymore,” said Darcy derisively. “I don’t know what Mr. Watins sees in you, but once he taps someone for his special assignments, they go to a different department altogether. You better get moving. That car is waiting on you.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ryan
Ryan stared at the lackluster poker hand he held in the backroom of a low rent bar on the Jersey Shore. Harry told him there was money to be made here but so far, the stakes were far smaller than if he played a casino room. Still the criminal ambience of the place was an interesting change of pace. But he was distinctly out of place wearing an Armani suit and a vintage Rolex watch. Still the dealer had converted his cash to chips without an arch of an eyebrow and Ryan got into the game.
This hand was less than impressive and doubts as to the integrity of the dealer formed in Ryan’s mind. Two pair was better than one pair but not much else. The only thing working in his favor was that the probability any of these jokers he played against held a better combination was extremely small. So now the game hinged on how well Ryan could read his opponents. Fortunately, he did this very well.
To his right was Pretend-Pro-Player. PPP wore sunglasses to hide his eyes, but his cheek twitched whenever he had a shit hand. The guy’s cheek twitched now. One down. To his right was Above-Average-Amateur who took a few pots, but who tended to fold when he wasn’t confident about his cards. This guy was harder to read, but Ryan caught what he could only describe as fear wafting off him. Maybe he had a similar hand but wasn’t sure how his two pair would stack up. No, the only guy who was a real threat was the one who sat directly opposite him. His expression never changed, and Ryan didn’t detect any noticeable tells.
“Well, Kaur,” rumbled his opponent. “Your call.”
Ryan hadn’t telegraphed his name when he entered but he wasn’t surprised that the man, who Ryan called Mr. Bluff in his mind, knew his name. Ryan’s face was splayed on one too many celebrity magazines and newspaper society pages for him to be anonymous.
The man sounded supremely confident as if he knew he had a winning hand, but Ryan folded previous hands on this information only to find he was bluffing.
Was he bluffing now?”
Ryan smiled his most charming grin.
“I tell you what, let’s make this really interesting,” said Ryan. He pushed his considerable stack of chips to the center of the table.
“You sure you want to do that?” said Mr. Bluff with an ominous tone in his voice.
The hairs on the back of Ryan’s neck rose at the warning in the man’s voice. Ryan became hyper; aware that this back-room game room was not a place he was supposed to be, and that the surrounding men weren’t the law-abiding types. But Ryan made a habit of not backing away from a challenge.
“There’s no take backs in poker,” said Ryan. “My bet’s on the table. Anti-up or fold.”
Mr. Bluff pushed his chips to the table and then drew out two banded stacks that marked the bundles as worth a thousand dollars each.
“I see your bet and raise it by two grand.”
The other two players threw down their cards in disgust. Mr. Bluff just tuned up the game by trying to buy the pot. He suspected Ryan didn’t have much of a hand and thought he could scare Ryan away.
He didn’t know Ryan.
“You know what? I don’t have that much cash on me. But what about my Rolex?” He pulled his grandfather’s watch from his wrist and put it on the table. A pinch of regret nipped at him. It was gold, of which Ryan was especially fond, and it was his grandfather’s watch.
“How do I know it is real?” said Mr. Bluff.
“When does a Kaur wear knock-offs? That watch is a vintage 1956 Rolex Datejust 6605 YG 18 karat President Bracelet. It’s worth is over seventeen thousand dollars. You can look it up online if you want. I’ll wait.”
Mr. Bluff gave him the nastiest look Ryan ever saw from a poker player. Ryan stared at the man, noted his tobacco-stained teeth, his whiskey-soaked breath and the red in his eyes. It was at that moment he knew that Bluff didn’t have the goods to match the bet. Bluff just lost about three thousand in this hand, plus the rest of the pot. But it was Bluff that drew out hidden money and put in on the table which was against the rules in any poker game. At that point, Ryan had every right to toss in his watch.
The first rule of poker was to size up the assets of the people you played. Bluff failed to do this. And Ryan saw the man’s face twist into anger as Bluff realized his fatal error.
All of a sudden Bluff stood and with a shout launched himself over to grab Ryan. Bluff bunched the lapels of Ryan’s gray Armani suit in his hands, scattering both the cash and the chips. Ryan stared at the man. If Bluff thought that Ryan would be intimidated by this show of force, he was wrong.
“You’ve just made my day,” said Ryan with a smile. Ryan had a wiry physique, but he was stronger than he looked. Ryan slid his hands under the man’s armpits and slung him sideways into the right-hand wall.
“Get him!” called Bluff.
Ryan sized up the toughs watched the game closely and thought he was going to have a difficult time getting out of this one. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.
“Police!” called a voice from behind the door that led to the bar. “Get on the floor and put your hands over your heads.”
***
Several hours later Ryan found himself in his father’s study where he waited for the elder Kaur. Ivan Kaur was a stern taskmaster at
any time, but never more so when it came to Ryan. If the younger Kaur stepped on the boundaries of Ivan’s sense of proprieties, Ryan was due for a stern lecture and some sort of punishment. In the past those proved to be a restriction in his allowance, or some extra work at the family business, or in the most extreme cases, not allowing Ryan to use any of the family cars. Ryan worked out what form his punishment would be this time, though he had to admit that being hauled out of an organized crime stronghold was the furthest he gone outside his father’s rule book. He couldn’t count on what would happen to him now.
The doors to the library swung open and Ivan Kaur entered. Even for a man in his late fifties he was imposing and impressive. On this day, however, his face was drawn up in fury. He didn’t waste any time in preliminaries.
“What the hell were you thinking?” shouted his father.
Ryan sat in one of the leather high backed chairs in his father’s study and stared at his hands. He knew better than to answer his father’s rhetorical questions.
“That game was in a bar owned by organized crime! Mobsters, Ryan! How do you think that will look when it hits the papers that Ryan Kaur was hanging out with mobsters?”
Ryan agreed in retrospect it wasn’t his wisest move, but he wasn’t about to tell his father that.
“And you bet your grandfather’s watch? Ryan, my father’s watch? He gave you that watch to show you the legacy you would inherit. What were you thinking?”
His father had a point there. Ryan only thought about winning, not the priceless sentimental value of that Rolex.
It’s bad enough that you crash every car we give you, or that you make a spectacle of yourself at your friends’ parties. But we had an agreement after that incident with that reality star—”
“Jenna, her name was Jenna.”
“Whatever. Thank God the paternity test came back that you weren’t the father. The point is,” and now his father was shaking his finger at him. “You agreed to clean up your act. This, this,” he said as his face became a frightening shade of red, “is beyond the pale. It is time you grew up.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ryan. He was almost contrite, but right now he just wanted his father to stop screaming.
