Harbinger (Guardian Security Shadow World Book 13)

Chapter 1

Two years ago:

Harbinger listenedto the sounds of the Orchestre de Paris warming up as he took his place inside the Philharmonie de Paris. The grand hall surrounding him was an architectural masterpiece. The walls curved and flowed in a beautiful design of function and mastery designed to carry each note, lifting it in perfect harmony. Wooden panels with sound baffles lined the interior. The luxurious seats curved around the orchestra, ensuring each of the nine hundred and twenty-seven attendees felt the vibrations of the performance. The house lights were subdued, with soft glows focusing the eye on the musicians and their instruments. Despite the grand scale, the overall feeling was intimate. Blending into the crowd, Harbinger focused on the task ahead, the music an enjoyable backdrop to his mission. As the orchestra”s tune shifted from practice to performance, the audience hushed in anticipation, completely unaware of Harbinger’s mission.

Harbinger sat directly behind Guillaume D’Aureville, his target. The crimes the man had committed were too many and too gruesome to list in front of any normal human. The inherited golden hue that hung over the man had kept him out of prison, and his public relations team had done their job well. He was loved for his philanthropic work and lauded as a man of honor; yet the Council knew the truth, and they had convicted him when the courts couldn’t or wouldn’t. Money and power provided a temporary shield from his heinous crimes against humanity, but there was a force for good at work in this world, and tonight, it would perform its expungement of monsters while concealed in the shadows.

Harbinger’s eye was drawn to the first chair violinist. Her long black hair was pulled to the side as she played. Her face was a study of relaxed concentration. It was an expression he knew. The skill and intensity needed to perform at her level became second nature. The expression came from the knowledge you were the best at what you did. It was the same one he wore.

Enthralled with the precision of the woman’s skill, the wait for the intermission seemed to pass in mere minutes. Harbinger rose when everyone else did. He followed D’Aureville and his procession to the lounge where the elite gathered. Harbinger waited for his opportunity, then moved. D’Aureville turned to the doors when the chimes rang, colliding with Harbinger, spilling both his and Harbinger’s drinks. Harbinger stepped back and lifted his hands, seemingly as an accident. Exaggerating a slur and stagger, Harbinger pushed D’Aureville’s hands into the wet mess. He stumbled into D’Aureville a bit more, making sure the man’s skin touched the toxin Harbinger had thrown on him.

In French, D’Aureville swore, and his hands swiped at the liquid Harbinger had spilled. “Idiot,” the man grumbled, swiping again and again at the liquid with his bare hand. One of his party offered him a handkerchief, but the man waved it away with a curt, “I’m fine.” D’Aureville removed his own handkerchief and swiped at his saturated coat.

Harbinger bowed slightly, apologized in a German accent, and removed himself from the area. D’Aureville had enough toxin on his hands to kill him, and the air would soon nullify the toxin on his clothes. Time was now the only necessary ingredient. Making his way to the bathroom, Harbinger rinsed out his glass with hot water and washed his thinly plastic-coated hands as a precaution, even though he was certain none of the drink had spilled on him. He dropped the glass in the trash and walked out into an almost empty lounge. The music from the symphony started as he walked out of the building. He wandered through the park adjacent to the concert hall. Past the first camera, he turned right and ambled behind a large shrub. From there, he made a ninety-degree turn and headed away from the camera-laced area. At the edge of the park, he walked to a motorcycle that had been prepositioned and put on his helmet. There were no cameras there. Harbinger removed his tux jacket, tucked it in the saddlebag, and put on a leather jacket and gloves before getting on the bike.

He rode aimlessly through the city, ensuring he wasn’t followed, before driving into one of the underground parking areas in the 12th Arrondissement. Harbinger parked in the only area where the cameras were out. He was sure they were out because he’d disabled them earlier. Glancing at the hanging wires before taking off his helmet to confirm some eager public servant hadn’t fixed the broken camera, Harbinger began the process of becoming himself.

He took off the curly brown wig. The wooly brown eyebrows went next, followed by the large mole that looked more like a boil he’d used to draw attention away from his chin and nose. The adhesive that held them on his face rolled off in a sheet when his gloves rubbed against it. He slipped the false teeth out of his mouth and placed them in a small box he pulled from his coat pocket. Slipping out of his shoes, he stepped onto the concrete, three inches shorter than he’d been at the symphony hall. He opened the car parked next to where he’d maneuvered the motorcycle, slipped on another pair of shoes and a different jacket, and pulled out a messenger bag. Placing the evidence of his transformation into the parked car”s trunk, he shut it and locked it. Only then did he take off his gloves and place them in his messenger bag. The plastic coating over his hands was easily removed and dropped on the concrete as he moved along the line of cars. He walked out of the parking area and headed to the Metro. Palming the phone that had remained in his messenger bag, he sent the text noting his mission had been accomplished. A response hit his phone seconds later.

>>Awaiting validation.Ambulance called to the scene three minutes ago.

Harbinger looked at his watch.A bit quicker than anticipated, but perhaps the bastard had pre-existing conditions that helped the toxin work quicker. The decision to use the poison to make the death appear to be a heart attack wasn’t his. He’d just as easily use a garrot to sever the man’s head from his body, but the powers that be were the ones who determined what message, if any, to send. Sometimes, monsters just needed to be gone without any grand warning. It was one of those times.

Harbinger entered the metro and sat down. He closed his eyes and pictured the spectacular woman seated as first chair violinist. He’d like to meet her. He smiled to himself. Why not? He loved France, classical music, and beautiful women, and he wouldn’t be called for a mission for quite some time. Perhaps it was time to delve into the finer things in life.

One year ago:

Harbinger strolledthrough the darkened streets of Paris. This section of the city was notorious for crime. Not the crime he’d just committed, of course, but small-time heists, random beatings, or a murder or two. The local gangs owned the territory because it was of no use to the Mafia. He’d just staged the body of his last target in a car about two blocks away. With no cameras or witnesses, the death looked like so many others found in the area. Robbed, killed, and left for the police force to find when the city woke in the morning.

Harbinger dumped the gloves that were covered with gunpowder residue in a dumpster a block back. In another alley where he now stood, he deposited the rest of his disguise in another dumpster. As he quietly closed the metal door, he heard the sound of a pitiful cry and then male laughter. The skin on his arms lifted in gooseflesh. Because of his past, there was no way he’d walk away from that sound. The cry didn’t sound human, but then again, humans could sound like animals, too. Heading down the alley, he walked toward the noise. Three men were huddled over something lying in the middle of the alley.

“Do it again.” One of the men slapped the other as he spoke. “Make it cry again.”

Harbinger wasn’t sure what “it” was, but he was damn sure no one would make it cry again.

He walked forward and kicked the man closest to him, launching him sideways. Glancing down, he saw the tiny kitten they’d been torturing. “Fuckers,” he growled.

The man across from him reached into his pocket as he sprung up. Harbinger didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the man’s other arm, yanked it straight, and broke the elbow over his knee. The crack of bone and the man’s scream would alert any others in the area. Not that he cared. He spun and kicked the third man’s knee hard enough to dislocate the joint and drop him to the cold, wet pavement. Whoever they were, they were amateurs.

The first man, who Harbinger had kicked out of the way, stood up with a small caliber gun in his hand. Harbinger smiled and walked directly at the bastard. The outright look of fear on the man’s face told him the asshole wouldn’t shoot, and if he did, he’d probably miss. He slapped the gun out of the fucker’s hand and slammed his face into a brick wall of the building lining the alleyway. Blood sprayed on the brick, turning it darker. The asshole wailed when his brain caught up with the fact that his nose had been pancaked into nothing but a fleshy hump. Harbinger pulled the guy up by the hair and dragged him over to the kitten. “If you ever hurt an innocent again, you’ll die. Find a life. This is your one chance. Do you understand?”

The man cried something behind his cupped hands. Harbinger took it as a yes and threw him to the side. Then he bent down and scooped the tiny animal into one hand. Rising, he stared at each of the bastards. He’d recognize them if he ever saw them again.

Harbinger took the kitten home. It barely moved as he walked several miles before using his app and arranging for a ride. The kitten lay still; although Harbinger could see it was breathing. Every now and then, a small mewl emitted from the dirty puff of fur, but the animal didn’t try to move out of his hold.

He stepped out of the ride and entered his apartment building. Ysabel would probably be asleep; although she knew he was “flying” back home from the States that night. A necessary lie to protect her and his identity as a Guardian operative. As his key hit the lock, the door opened. “I was waiting up for you,” Ysabel said before noticing the kitten. When she did, she reached for the small bundle and carefully cradled it in her hands. She looked up at him and hissed, “What happened? How did it get hurt?”

“I don’t know. I found it and couldn’t leave it.”

“No! Of course not! Let’s take the poor baby into the kitchen.” Ysabel ran to the kitchen and turned on the overhead lights.

The kitten’s eyes were almost matted shut. Together, they cleaned the animal and wrapped him in a warm hand towel. Ysabel found a bottle with a dropper, and after cleaning it thoroughly, they fed the kitten warmed milk a drop at a time. They huddled over the kitten for about ten minutes, feeding it before it fell asleep.

“He’s beautiful.” Ysabel carefully pet the golden striped fur. Harbinger had no idea what color the animal was before they carefully washed it looking for injuries. It was skinny and had scratches, but all its limbs seemed to move properly. Its stomach wasn’t bloated, so he hoped internal injuries weren’t a factor.

Harbinger leaned back and put his arm around Ysabel’s shoulder as the kitten slept on her lap. “I’ll take him to the clinic in the morning.” If it survived. That went unsaid because, damn it, he wanted the animal to survive. It had made it through those fuckers and was still alive. It deserved a chance.

“You’re the most wonderful person I know. Rescuing a kitten. Such a soft heart.” Ysabel sighed and leaned into him.

Harbinger kissed her temple and closed his eyes. If she only knew. She turned to look at him. “How did your work go?”

“Finished without incident, which is always a good thing.” There would never be an incident. He’d been trained by the best, and with his skills, he’d never be identified. “We should go to bed.”

“You’ve had a long week.” She frowned and looked back at the door. “Where’s your luggage?”

He sighed. He’d bypassed the storage facility where he’d dropped his luggage because his mission was once again in Paris. “The airline said it’s still in the U.S. I’ve given them my address. They’ll deliver it when it shows up.”

“I don’t know how you stay so calm. Another reason I love you as much as I do. You’re my hero. What are you going to name him?”

Harbinger looked down at the kitten. Its golden fur was peaked at the top of his head. He patted it down, and it sprung right back up. “How about Spike?”

Ysabel chuckled. “Spike? That’ll give him delusions of grandeur, won’t it?”

“Maybe, but he’s a cat. Don’t they think they’re better than everyone?”

Ysabel chuckled. “They don’t just think it; they act like they know it.” She stood and cradled the kitten in her arm. “Come to bed. You’re exhausted, and he’s asleep.” She glanced down at the kitten. “You better make it through the night, Spike. We need a pet.”

“We do?” Harbinger asked as he stood up beside her.

“Absolutely.” She smiled up at him. “Our first together thing.”

Harbinger dropped his arm over her shoulder and walked with her to the bedroom. “Well, not exactly our first together thing.” He lifted his eyebrows comically when she glanced questioningly at him.

She blushed and smiled. “You’re right.”

Harbinger closed the bedroom door after they walked through. “Let’s find a warm place for Spike to rest. I want to revisit that first together thing again.”

Ysabel’s soft laughter floated across the space between them. God, he loved the woman. Soon, when the time was right, he’d tell her what he could about his job, introduce her to his friends, and put a wedding ring on her finger. She was everything he needed. She filled a gaping hole inside him. He’d slowly let her into his heart. Before her it was barren, remote, and lifeless. His was a solitary life, one he volunteered for, but her presence had warmed him. The coldness that surrounded him had thawed, and his view of the world tipped on its axis. There was still good in the world; there was warmth and thoughts of a future. With her, he was complete.

Present day:

He bracedhis arms against the tile of his shower and let the hot water soak through to the cold that had gripped him since he’d watched Ice get married this morning. Or rather, yesterday morning. The flight back to Paris was mired in memories of Ysabel. Damn Ice to hell for making him go to the wedding and face the memories he’d been doing a fantastic fucking job of running from. The bastard. Harbinger lifted his head and groaned. It wasn’t Ice’s fault. He’d done it to himself. All the questions that had no answers had grown into a black hole, and that lack of resolution seemed to suck his every chance of happiness into oblivion.

Don’t be pathetic.He used the memory of Ysabel’s voice saying that to him as his incentive to leave France. He also used it to beat the fuck out of himself as he spun the same old questions over and over again.

As much as he hated to admit it, Ice was right. He needed to make peace with his past and bury the self-doubt and anger. “Easier said than done,” Harbinger told himself as he turned off the water.

He toweled off and pulled on a pair of high-end sweatpants and a t-shirt that cost more than anyone should pay for a shirt before heading to the kitchen and his wine. He opened the door to the temperature-controlled storage area, selected a stout Mourvèdre from the shelf, and shut the door behind him.

He’d need to order groceries and tell his housekeeper he was back. She was cat sitting Spike and would bring him back home, but all that would wait until he’d had a glass of wine and toasted the end of his best shot at a normal life.

Two solid whacks on his apartment door spun him from the counter as he reacted without thought. His thumb opened the weapons safe on top of the fridge, and he pulled out a forty-five caliber. Harbinger rode the slide back to ensure a bullet was in the chamber before he wrapped his fingers around the grip and deactivated the safety. Quietly and carefully, he made his way to the door.

Another knock sounded. “Heath Morris, I know you’re home.”

Harbinger’s frown scored deeper, and he glanced out the peephole to his door. Ysabel’s father? What the actual fuck?

Harbinger opened the door, sliding his gun into the back of his sweatpants. It would be his luck the fucker would blow his ass off, but he didn’t need anyone seeing the weapon. “What the fuck do you want?” To say he didn’t want to see her father was the understatement of this and the past century.

Ysabel’s father leaned against the doorjamb. His once lightly salt-and-pepper-colored hair was now almost white. The lines of his face seemed to be etched deeper, and he’d lost a considerable amount of weight. His hair, always neatly combed, flew in every direction, and his eyes were bloodshot. His suit was crumpled, and his tie askew. “You must help me.”

Harbinger held the door firmly, blocking the man’s entrance into his home, as he lifted an eyebrow. The man had refused to help Harbinger when he was trying to contact Ysabel; as a matter of fact, he’d been one of the biggest blockades in Harbinger’s way. The idea he’d help that asshat was funny. Harbinger barked out a laugh and attempted to close the door. “Go fuck yourself.”

Pierre’s palm hit the door, stopping the forward motion. “He has Ysabel, and he will kill her.”

Harbinger welcomed the bitter cold rage that filled him as he opened the door and squared up on Ysabel’s father. “Who?”

“Abrasha Molchalin.” The man said the name as if Harbinger should know who he was. A tinge of recognition flitted through his mind and then settled with knowledge—a Russian oligarch involved in the Switzerland debacle. “Please allow me to come in. I need your help.”

Harbinger’s mind raced with what he needed to do, who he needed to contact at Guardian, and what information did they have on Molchalin. All that slammed through his mind at the same time as he wondered if Ysabel was truly in danger. He didn’t trust her father. The bastard had stonewalled him when he wanted to talk to Ysabel. Still, he needed answers, so he stepped back and allowed the older man into the apartment. “What do you think I can do for you, Pierre? Go to the police. I’m an American businessman; I have no influence here.”

Pierre closed the door and leaned against it. “For once, let us be honest. You aren’t a businessman. You work for the government. Maybe not the American government, but you aren’t who you say you are.”

Harbinger turned and walked into the kitchen. His gun in full view. He put away the automatic and poured two glasses of wine, listening for Pierre to move away from the door. He didn’t. Harbinger exited the kitchen, his emotions and thoughts all over the place. He put the two glasses of wine down and took a deep breath as he sat. With the practiced expertise of hundreds of training missions and over twenty-five kills, he forced his emotions into oblivion. “Sit.” He nodded to the chair across from him.

Pierre stumbled to the chair and sat down. He grabbed the wine with a shaky hand and downed the glass in two gulps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and panted, “You aren’t a businessman. I had you followed. But you lost every investigator I hired. You were there, and then, you were gone. Your business is a shell company.”

Harbinger shrugged. “So are many of yours. Just because I don’t disclose my financial documents to you doesn’t mean I work for a government. Your investigators were chumps. Clumsy and seen immediately. Ditching them was fun. You’re grasping at straws. There’s nothing I will do for you. You ensured I couldn’t contact Ysabel, and she explicitly said she didn’t want to see me. I don’t know this man you speak of. Why would he want to harm her? Why would I get involved?”

Pierre popped off the chair and ran his hands through his hair. “She had to do it! She wanted to protect you! I couldn’t care less if this man targeted you, but she loves you. The stupid girl is just like her mother. Once they decide they’re in love, nothing will dissuade them.” The man paced back and forth and shouted at the floor as he walked. “She isn’t my daughter! She’s my niece. My sister and I were protecting her, but Léonie died. Ysabel received a letter while at practice and left for a couple of days. I didn’t know, but she went to her mother’s funeral. There, she received other documents from her mother. I don’t know how, but Abrasha found out that Ysabel was his daughter. I had to hide her to protect her.”

“Pierre, sit down. You aren’t making sense. Why would her father want to kill her?”

“Because of me.”

“You?” Harbinger frowned. “What does Abrasha want with you?”

“He wants me to help him steal billions!” The man raged from across the room. “Léonie was the only reason the bastard stayed away from me. She threatened to leave him if he approached my daughter or me.”

Harbinger leaned forward and steepled his fingers, drawing a deep breath. “Pierre, sit down. I need information, and screaming bits and pieces from across the room isn’t helpful.”

“Didn’t you hear me? He said he’ll kill her!” Pierre released a guttural cry. “I love her more than life itself. She’s my daughter in every way except for blood.”

Harbinger pointed to the chair and waited for the man to move. When he finally collapsed in the seat, tears were streaming down his face.

“Let’s start at the beginning.”

Pierre looked at him, and his exhaustion pulsed across the space in waves. “Why? You don’t work for the government. You can’t help.”

Harbinger slipped into the skin of the deadly assassin he’d been trained to become, and with the frozen crystalized determination of a man whose woman was in danger, he warned, “I didn’t say I couldn’t help; I said I wouldn’t. There’s a difference. I may change my mind, especially if this is another ploy to keep me away from her. But right now, you need to convince me you’re not hallucinating or out of your mind and explain why Ysabel is in danger. Now, tell me everything you know.”