Hushed Guardian: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  “Hey, how’d you go?” she questions, not bothering to issue a greeting.

  I rake my fingers through my hair for the second time, amplifying how badly in need of a trim it is. “Not good but better than expected.”

  I want to ask if she knew Isabelle was living in an apartment owned by Isaac, but I don’t know if our trust circle extends that far yet. She has a file that could change my viewpoint on life in an instant, but until she places it into my hot little hands. My expectations must remain low, I’ve been burned in the past for issuing trust too quickly. I’d rather sidestep another scold.

  “Have you just landed?”

  A plane taking off almost drowns out her reply, “Yeah, I’m sliding into the back of a cab as we speak. Where do you want to meet?”

  My first thought is at HQ. However, if Phillipa bumps into Theresa, things could get mighty uncomfortable remarkably fast. “Can you come to my apartment? I have a heap of time off in lieu to take.”

  “All right.” I could be wrong, but I swear a touch of excitement is dangling off Phillipa’s vocal cords. “I should be there in around thirty. Will that work for you?”

  “Thirty works. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “See you then.”

  When she disconnects our call, I slide my phone into my pocket before entering the hub of HQ. I’m not surprised to see Isabelle is packing her desk. An unpaid suspension is the Bureau’s go-to punishment when an agent goes rogue. It’s a penalty I’ve been handed twice in my almost five-year career.

  Isabelle startles when I offer to walk her out. She was too busy returning Theresa’s glare to notice my approach. After a final snarl, she devotes her attention to me. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want you thrown under the bus with me.”

  I shoo away her worry as if it’s a fly. “I don’t care what they think. You’re my friend, Izzy, and until proven guilty, which will never happen, I’ll have your back.” There’s no doubt in my mind she’s in a physical relationship with our target, but that doesn’t mean she should be thrown in jail on false charges. The angle Theresa is working is weak at best, and I’m more than willing to show her just how pathetic it is.

  Isabelle bumps me with her hip. “Thanks, Brandon.”

  Once she slides her pistol into her satchel and her phone into the pocket of her trousers, she shadows my solemn walk out of HQ. I kind of feel bad. If I had stopped jumping between our team’s investigation and the numerous personal ones I’m undertaking, perhaps I could have avoided this. I kissed Isabelle with the hope Isaac would react. It worked, and I can’t help but wonder just how effective it was. Jealousy is as potent as attraction when it’s handed to the wrong person.

  The constant drone of tires rolling over asphalt filters into my ears when we step onto the sidewalk at the front of HQ. Isabelle squints when the midday sun breaks through the handful of high-rise buildings surrounding us before she curls her arms around my neck.

  “Thanks for your help,” she whispers into my ear, her tone forlorn.

  Understanding her struggle, I return her hug with just as much eagerness. “Fly under the radar, Izzy. Once I have any information, I’ll bring it straight to you.”

  She sighs into my neck before inching back. “I will. And thank you again.” Her lips tug into a grin before she says, “See you around?”

  I nudge her with my hip as she did to me earlier. “You’ll be back here filing before you know it.”

  My jest has the effect I’m aiming for. She doesn’t smile a full-toothed grin, but it’s pretty darn close. “Don’t forget the coffees. God forbid Alex would have to fetch his own cup.”

  She takes in my laugh for a few seconds before spinning on her heels and sauntering down the sidewalk. I keep my eyes locked on her back until she disappears around the corner, then just as quickly, I race to my car, firing off an email to Alex about how I got a stomach bug on my way.

  26

  Brandon

  With traffic shit, Phillipa is waiting for me outside of my apartment block when I pull into the loading bay fifty-five minutes later. She leaps up from the three stairs that lead into my overpriced crash pad before walking my way. “You’ll be towed within an hour if you park there.”

  “Pay a tow fee of one hundred dollars or an exorbitant parking garage fee that’s almost three times that price.” I twist my lips. “I’m willing to take a risk.”

  She laughs before rolling her eyes that are circled by dark rings. Even being on suspension hasn’t seen her catching up on sleep the past three nights. We usually talk until around two in the morning, then we’re back at it again before seven.

  “Did you rewire the sliding door’s alarm before you left?”

  Phillipa shadows me into the foyer of my building before shaking her head.

  “Why not? I don’t know how things work for you IA agents, but you’re supposed to leave things as you find them when you’re out in the field.”

  My mouth gapes when she whacks me in the gut. Melody used to do it all the time, but it seems odd coming from Phillipa. She seems too mature and anal about consequences to respond to a taunt with violence. “I didn’t need to rewire the alarm because I didn’t disarm it.”

  I gesture for her to enter the elevator car before me while asking, “Then how did you get in?”

  She waits for me to push the button for my floor before disclosing, “I put in the passcode.” When I peer at her in shocked awe, she frees me from being hooked by her awesomeness. “It’s Isabelle’s birthday.”

  “That’s not right. I tried that combination when I reset it.”

  When the elevator arrives at my floor, Phillipa exits first, smiling. “Not her actual birthday. The day she was reborn.” She pivots around to face me, her smile picking up. “The date referenced on the file that miraculously disappeared from Tobias’s records.”

  “Who said there’s a missing file?” I realize I need to up my lying game when her brow arches in suspicion.

  Grumbling, I shove my key into the lock and twist. A wolf-whistle vibrates between Phillipa’s O-formed mouth when she takes in the living area of my apartment. “Nice place. Have you lived here long?”

  I toss my keys onto the entryway table before making my way to the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t work for Ravenshoe PD?”

  She screws up her nose, my comment lost on her.

  “Did you want something to drink?”

  I hide my smile into the fridge when she replies, “Are you sure you want to walk down that path again, Agent James? You don’t have a ten-mile safety barrier between us this time around.”

  The unconcealed sexual innuendo in her tone has my eyes darting between a bottle of water and an untouched bottle of wine. My deliberation barely lasts two seconds, but it still riddles me with guilt, which in turn, sours my mood. You can’t cheat on someone if you aren’t with them because they cheated on you.

  Phillipa’s mood slips as well as mine when she spots the bottle of water in my hand. “It’s barely midday,” I say, issuing her the first excuse that pops into my head. “Have you eaten? I could order in some food?”

  “Does pretzels and a teeny tiny, practically-not-worth-swallowing glass of soda the airlines hand out during flights count as eating?”

  Her snarky tone tugs a smile onto my face. “I’ll order in. Anything in particular you want to eat?”

  “I eat anything.” She stops perusing the picture frames on my entryway table to stray her eyes to mine. “Except snails.”

  Her gag face is cute. Actually, she’s cute in general. I’ve just never truly taken the time to look at her. Her hair is almost black and hangs to her petite waist. Her eyes are wide and almond-shaped, and both her name and skin-coloring allude to a Greek origin. She’s tall for a girl, standing at approximately five-foot-nine, and she has a fit, slender frame she showcases with fitted pantsuits and shimmery blouses—a seemingly favorable outfit for female IA agents.

  When Phillipa notices my gawk of her body
, I drop my eyes to a drawer of pamphlets. If she weren’t as receptive as she is, I would have gotten away with my wandering eyes. Unfortunately, anyone would swear she was put through the same drills as Melody and I when we were kids. “How come you didn’t fight Ophelia’s charges? You clearly didn’t do what she said you did, so why didn’t you deny her claims?”

  I ruffle through the pamphlets, pretending I can’t feel my heart rate picking up. “I did fight her claims—”

  “No, you didn’t. You allowed them to be pushed down your file when she found another sucker to do her dirty work, but you didn’t have them expunged.”

  Part of Phillipa’s comment refers to a file she put together today. It’s a list of wire transfers between the Popovs and the Petrettis the past three decades. Not all of the Petrettis’ transactions were issued from the east side of the country—their home turf. Some came from the west, and they were dated right around the time of a mafia princess’s ‘death,’ and when a rookie FBI agent was assigned to a division far from her hometown.

  We don’t know if the transactions stopped because Ophelia’s new marriage got her on the straight and narrow or because the transactions were switched to her married name. That’s what we’re endeavoring to work out today.

  Ignoring Alex’s message requesting a doctor’s certificate for my absence, I bring up the Grubhub app to place an order for a plain cheese pizza and a double serving of tomato soup. While I do that, Phillipa removes two folders from her leather satchel. The first one is thick and bulging with papers, and the other one is barely the size of a few sheets of paper. Although it’s small, I have no doubt the information inside will be mammoth. It isn’t Melody’s file, per se, more the Greggs’ as a whole.

  Just like Isabelle’s record, it was coded to correspond with the date of the Greggs’ home invasion. I don’t know what’s in their file yet. I asked Phillipa not to open it until she was in my presence. It could be nothing, but my gut isn’t telling me that. It feels big, and it honestly has me twisted up in knots.

  Once the order is placed, I dump my cell phone onto the kitchen counter before joining Phillipa in my dining room. She’s using the six-seater table to sort the bank transactions into ten three-year piles. The number of transactions is impressive. It would have taken Tobias months to compile, but I can’t take my eyes off the lonely file sitting at the end of the stack.

  “Did you open it?”

  Phillipa’s eyes stray to mine before she shakes her head. She’s either a good liar or she’s telling the truth. “Although tempted, I didn’t sneak a peek.” She fights like hell to keep her expression neutral, but she loses her battle not even ten seconds later. “It’s also sealed, so I didn’t have much choice but to wait.” She peers at me like a kid begging for a piece of candy. “Can we open it now?”

  When I jerk up my chin, she snaps up the file and prepares to rip it open without a second thought like Melody did when our admissions applications were returned from Browns, but something stops her.

  I realize what when she thrusts the light-weight file into my chest. “From what I saw in the videos I watched, you deserve to open this.” I’ve never had an interest in twanging someone’s lip until now.

  After slipping my thumb under the seal, I lock my eyes with Phillipa’s. “Will this stay between us?”

  She nods without pause for thought, so I rip through the tape holding the file together. A handful of polaroid photographs slip out first. They’re all of Melody. They must have been taken not long before she moved to Saugerties as she has the same length hair and huge doll eyes she had when she galloped down the stairs of her family ranch.

  “How old is she in these?” Phillipa asks, gathering up the pictures.

  I twist my lips. “Around four or five.” I point to the one in the far left-hand side of her bunch. “Her mom had a similar photo sitting on her bedside table. She said it was from Melody’s fourth birthday.”

  Phillipa lifts her chin as her eyes raise to mine. “What else is in there?”

  I fan out the file to show her its empty.

  “That’s it? Just a bunch of polaroids?” she questions as she gathers up the final three photographs fanned across the table.

  Our eyes snap down in sync when the crinkling of paper breaks through the silence teaming between us. When I notice the width and length of the thin slip of paper, I almost have a heart attack. It’s identical in size to the one Tobias handed me moments before his death. Although it’s folded, I can see it has a handwritten sequence of numbers across it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it’s the same slip of paper.

  It can’t be, though, surely. Tobias had a morbid fascination with altering the lives of female mafia members, but the Greggs didn’t hide Melody like Tobias hid Isabelle because she was sold like Isabelle. Liam just wanted to keep her safe from the only man left living after their home invasion. He didn’t buy her. He couldn’t have. He didn’t have the money.

  Well, he did before he lost everything fighting charges of murder after his home invasion.

  A home invasion no one can find any records of.

  What if things aren’t as exactly as Melody remembers them? What if her memories were muddled by a man trained in persuasive techniques?

  The food I haven’t eaten yet creeps up my food pipe when another disturbing notion bombards me.

  What if I bedded more than one mafia princess?

  To be continued in Quiet Protector

  which releases on July 10th. Order NOW! Or continue on to sample the first two unedited chapters.

  Are dark, sexy men a thing you like, then how about a Russian mafia prince? Nikolai is a great read with a dominant, alpha male.

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  Disclaimer

  Please note, this teaser of Quiet Protector is unedited and subject to change. It is purely for entertainment purposes while you wait for the final installment of Brandon’s story. I hope you enjoy it.

  Much love,

  Shandi xx

  1

  Melody

  The mermaid tail of my dress swishes along wooden floorboards when I follow Julian through a packed ballroom. We received a last-minute invitation to the extravagance when I bumped into Mr. McGee last Thursday. He arrived at my office, somewhat unexpectedly. It isn’t unusual for government officials to do drop-in visits, but it’s usually announced to the hierarchies before it occurs to ensure they’re not left red-faced.

  Mercifully, Leo, my boss, is always on the ball. He handled the Governor’s visit without the slightest drop of sweat beading on his brow. Some would say his gall was compliments to years on the job. Others would say it’s because he classes himself as an equal of Mr. McGee’s. I say it’s because he knew I wouldn’t logout a classified file unless it was important.

  Although I’ll never have proof, I’m confident Marjorie Hawke’s file was what Mr. McGee’s visit was about. I followed the rules when Brandon requested her file. I logged its transfer into the database mainframe, doctored out anything deemed confidential, then couriered it to his branch at Ravenshoe via the private security firm our office generally uses. Protocol was followed, yet Mr. McGee believed additional scrutiny was needed.

  When I pushed him on why such an insignificant case was being treated as if it held national secrets, I received an invitation to an event instead of a reason. Don’t misconstrue my comment, I’m sure Marjorie’s death was devastating for her husband and family, but for a Governor to make a personal visit to the Chief Prosecutor’s office to demand an explanation seemed a little puerile to me.

  Although unease was the first emotion I felt upon receiving Mr. McGee’s invitation, inquisitiveness soon took
over. I’m reasonably sure his agenda was to assert his importance, hoping it would have me falling into line, but I used his invitation with the hope of expanding both personal and work contacts.

  Today’s guest list is filled with the who’s who of New York. The number of influential people in the one room has had Mr. McGee prancing around like a peacock all night. Despite all of that, for the most part, I’ve enjoyed myself. Julian is in his element. He’s in awe of every person in the room, completely unaware they’re eyeing him with an equal amount of admiration.

  Money will never be an issue for Julian. His family has enough to last them decades into the future, but Julian doesn’t see his family’s success as his own. To him, he’s just a humble audiologist. To people in this room, he’s the billionaire mogul they’re dying to sink their hooks into.

  Perhaps that’s why Mr. McGee invited us tonight? He loves showboating, so adding a recent Forbes 500 man onto his guest list seems like the smart thing to do. A politician is forever in campaign mode. I’m doubtful tonight is the first time Mr. McGee has approached a billionaire with the hope of a generous endorsement check. He’s so unscrupulous, I wouldn’t put it past him to approach the shady billionaires our office is frequently chasing for campaign funds. As long as their pockets are deep, he doesn’t care who he rubs shoulders with.

  I’m drawn from my thoughts when Julian stops in front of a beautiful raven-haired woman with kind eyes and glossy red lips. “Katarina, I thought that was you.” Julian places a kiss on Katarina’s cheek before tugging me closer to the dynamic duo. Although there is twenty or more years between their ages, they have a unique spark. “This is my fiancée I was telling you about. Melody, please meet Katarina Rouse.”