The B-Team (Benson Security)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Why are you here?” the angry pixie demanded.

Ryan Granger considered his best friend, Elle Roberts-Knight, and decided she’d be more intimidating if she didn’t look like the pastel-colored poster girl for Disney’s candy store.

“Do you mean philosophically? Because it’s too early in the morning for that discussion.” His brain didn’t work properly until he’d had his second breakfast, which he’d only just started—after beating everyone else to the buffet.

“No. I mean at this conference.”

“I told you; this is research.”

Ryan sat perched on a table at the back of the cavernous training room that made up a huge chunk of the basement beneath Benson Security’s London office, his gaze on his former work colleagues as they filed into the room. He nodded hello to a couple of guys from the Scottish office.

Elle folded her arms over a bright pink T-shirt emblazoned with an image of her hero, Princess Leia, and the words: Leia would kick the patriarchy’s ass . She’d brushed her blue hair and looked slightly more awake than when he’d found her staring into his fridge earlier that morning, searching for the milk that was right in front of her face. There were a lot of good things about living in adjoining houses with his best friend and her husband—their attic gaming room, for instance—but having his fridge raided wasn’t on the list. A man’s fridge was sacrosanct.

She snorted. “A boring three-day conference is research? I don’t think so. You’re up to something.” She eyed the plate beside him, loaded with an assortment of Danish pastries and one banana. “Or you’re here for the food. What’s going on? Did Sarah cut off your sugar again?”

Ryan smiled at the thought of his pregnant wife, all snug at home in bed. “Nope. She won’t repeat that mistake in a hurry. The lack of sugar made me even hungrier, and I ate everything I could find—even that jar of olives at the back of the cupboard. The ones that look like eyeballs.”

“Ew, Rachel gave those to you years ago.” Elle looked a little green at the thought.

“I’m pretty sure that if it’s in a jar, that means it’s preserved forever.” He scratched his chin and shrugged. “They tasted weird, but I figured that was because they were stuffed. Why would you even stuff an olive? A turkey, I get. But olives are so tiny and hardly worth the effort.”

“Yeah, that’s one of life’s mysteries for sure.” She rolled her eyes and gestured to his plate. “I have to ask, what’s with the banana?”

“I promised Sarah I’d eat healthier.” He picked up another Danish and set about demolishing it.

“I can see that’s going well,” she said. “But seriously, why are you really here? You don’t need to be. It’s not like you work for Benson Security anymore. You could have stayed at home and waited for the Cliff Notes instead of sitting through all the boring talks.”

There was no point in ignoring or trying to distract her. This was Elle’s superpower—wearing people down until she got the answer she wanted.

“Fine.” Ryan sighed. “I’ve finished the first draft of my book, and I’m letting it percolate for a bit before I edit. Meanwhile, I thought I’d hunt for an idea for book two.”

Her face lit up with a smile so wide it had to be painful. “Ryan! Why didn’t you say so? That’s amazing!” She took a deep breath, and before he could slap a hand over her mouth, she shouted, “Ryan’s written a book!”

He loved Elle like a sister, but she had no discretion. There was a loud cheer. And some amusement.

One of the Scottish guys piped up, “And we thought the only writing he did was to update his Tinder profile.”

Ryan shook his head. “I’m married now, asshole. But I’ll write your Tinder profile if you want. You could use the help of a dating professional.”

That prompted some good-natured laughter.

“Thanks very much, Elle,” Ryan said drolly as the noise died down.

“You’re welcome.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Come on, Ryan. How many other people here have written a book? This is a big deal.”

“Not if the publishers think it’s crap and make me pay back their advance. They wanted a non-fiction crime story about Sarah and me being kidnapped and dumped in the Paris Catacombs, but instead, they’re getting crime fiction based on real events. Not sure they’ll like that.”

“I don’t remember you being this pessimistic before you were shot in the head.” She batted her eyelashes in an attempt to appear non-threatening. Like that would work. “You know, I could always read your draft and tell you if it’s any good. I like crime fiction. I read it all the time, which means I’m practically an expert.”

“No.” Ryan pointed a pastry at her. “Don’t even try to find it either. There are no printed copies, and you can’t hack my computer to get it. I’m writing on a laptop that isn’t connected to the internet, and I’m not letting it out of my sight.” He patted the messenger bag beside him. “I’m not dumb. I know your tricks. Keep your sticky fingers off my book.”

Elle held up her hands in surrender. “Has anybody told you that you’re touchier since you came out of your coma?”

“Nope. But some people say I remind them of Bono.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. They weren’t reading glasses. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight. The yellow-tinted lenses were designed to ward off migraines, and Ryan was convinced he’d had fewer sudden-onset headaches since buying them.

“Not for your singing, surely,” Elle said.

“Last time we did karaoke, you told me my singing was great.”

“I was drunk.” A commotion at the bottom of the basement stairs caught her attention, and she grinned. “The triplets have arrived. You know”—she cocked her head to one side—“they look a little like you.”

Now, that was just offensive. “They look nothing like me. I don’t have ginger hair.”

“The build, attitude, jawline…” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she turned to him. “They’ve even got your swagger. You guys could be related.”

Ryan studied the three young men who worked for Benson Security’s new American office. They were in their early twenties, all around six feet tall with rust-colored hair and broad shoulders, and they had thick Glaswegian accents.

“We’re nothing alike,” he said. “They’re gingernuts from Scotland, whereas I have brown hair and was born and bred right here.”

As he watched, the brothers argued over the breakfast buffet set up against the wall near the stairs.

“Where’s all the pastries?” one of them demanded, his voice rising above the noise in the room.

Ryan scoffed. “Amateurs. Should have come in early if they wanted the good stuff.”

“Oh yeah,” Elle mused, her eyes still on the brothers. “I see definite similarities.”

One of the triplets spotted Elle and whooped loudly. Unlike his more fashionable brothers, this one was dressed in something a Brazilian parrot might puke up after eating its way through a ton of Mardi Gras debris. He barreled across the room like a toddler who’d just learned to walk, bouncing off people and tables until he stopped in front of Elle.

He bowed low. “Queen of the Hackers, I offer my allegiance.”

“So,” Ryan drawled. “I’m guessing this is the hacker triplet.”

“Evan!” Elle gave the younger man a warm hug. “This is Ryan Granger.”

“Dude.” Evan’s eyes went wide. “You survived the Valentine Killer.”

“And a bullet to the head, but I’m not one to boast.”

The other two brothers sauntered up to join them. Unlike Evan, they didn’t trip over everyone in the room to get there.

“Harris MacDonald.” The one who looked like he’d just stepped from the pages of GQ held out his hand. “And this is my brother Logan.” Dressed from top to toe in black, Logan looked like a carrot-topped cat burglar.

Ryan wiped powdered sugar off his palm onto his jeans before shaking hands.

Logan cocked an eyebrow. “Everybody keeps saying that we remind them of you.” He seemed unimpressed by the comparison. Then he spotted the pastries and frowned. “Didn’t your mother teach you to share?”

“She taught me that if you aren’t fast, you’re last.” Ryan helped himself to another Danish and took a massive bite.

Evan’s stomach rumbled loudly, and he practically drooled as he watched Ryan chew.

Elle laughed. “This is hilarious. The American team has their very own Ryans. Look”—she elbowed him—“there’s three of you!”

“Figures that it would take three of them to replace one of me. I am that awesome.”

Three identical frowning faces glared at him.

As he flashed them a smug smile, a sharp whistle sounded from the front of the room. Heads turned to see Callum McKay, boss of the London team and one of Benson Security’s owning partners, scowling at everyone. He, too, had ginger hair, but it wasn’t as bright as the triplets’. Vaguely, Ryan wondered if orange hair became less luminous as you aged. He foresaw a deep dive into Callum’s childhood photos in his future to see how orange the younger version of him had been.

“Settle down,” Callum bellowed in his rough Scottish accent. “It’s time to get started. The sooner we begin, the sooner this will be over for all of us.”

“Nothing like a warm welcome to get you in the mood for a day of learning,” Harris muttered as the triplets left to find seats.

“They have so much to learn,” Ryan said, watching them go.

“Babies.” Elle flashed a motherly smile. “You should mentor them.”

“Not going to happen. But I might put them in a book.” If his budding career as a writer ever took off.

While people settled in their seats and the noise level lowered, the owners of Benson Security stood at the front of the room—Lake Benson, former SAS officer and company founder and by Callum McKay, also former SAS. There was also a very pregnant Rachel Ford-Talbot, aka Satan’s sister standing beside them.

Ryan leaned in to whisper to Elle, “Why’s Rachel up there? She sold her interest in Benson Security.”

“Lake asked her to reinvest months ago, when he opened the US office.”

“That woman needs to make up her mind. She’s in, she’s out, she’s in again. I’ve lost track of how many times she’s resigned or sold up her interest in the company.”

“Three.” Elle leaned against the table beside him. “But she never really left. Much like some other people I could mention.”

“Hey, I still do the odd job for Benson Security. Rachel’s the CEO of her family’s company and was born with half a dozen silver spoons in her mouth. She’s got no reason to hang around here.”

“And yet, here she is.”

“I blame her husband. If he’d just taken on a full-time role at Rachel’s company, she’d have lost interest in the rest of us. But no, he has to split his time between here and there. This is all his fault.” He glared at the back of Michael “Harvard” Carter’s shaven head.

Harvard must have sensed Ryan’s evil eye because he turned in his seat and grinned straight at him, his smile a beacon of amusement against his ebony skin.

Elle gasped. “How does he do that?”

“Spy crap.” Ryan stared at Harvard while pointing at Rachel. He mouthed, “You’re to blame.”

Damn man looked amused. “You’re welcome,” he mouthed back before turning away.

“Can’t be spy skills,” Elle said. “David was CIA as well, and he doesn’t sense when someone’s staring at him.”

Ryan pitied her wide-eyed ignorance of her husband’s covert skills.

“Really?” He stared pointedly at the back of David’s head, where he sat two seats over from Harvard. The man turned and raised an eyebrow in question.

Elle was visibly gobsmacked.

“I rest my case.” Ryan reached for another pastry, only to find they were gone, and all that was left was the banana. He shrugged and peeled it. Food was food.

“I’m going to make him teach me how to do that,” Elle vowed.

“Shut up in the back,” Callum shouted. “Ryan, you aren’t even employed by us anymore. Behave or leave.”

“You can’t kick me out,” Ryan called back. “I’m family.”

“This isn’t a family,” the big Scot growled. “It’s a business.”

“There’s no need to pretend, Callum,” Ryan said. “You’re among friends. Everybody knows I’m your favorite.”

There were shouts of agreement and quite a lot of laughter before Lake cleared his throat, and the room went instantly silent.

“I wish I could bottle whatever makes Lake Benson Lake Benson,” Elle whispered. “I’d make a fortune in the fragrance industry. Eau de Lake—commanding, understated, sexy, and manly .” She shivered.

“Gross,” Ryan muttered.

“It’s good to see you all here,” Lake said in his crisp English accent. “Together, the people in this room and those working jobs for us right now have made Benson Security a respected name internationally. I handpicked each and every one of you, and I’m proud to have you on board.”

“You didn’t pick me,” Megan Raast said loudly. “I had to beg to become a security specialist.”

“Yes,” Ryan added. “And thanks for foisting her on the London office while she trained.”

Lake looked like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite remember how.

“Shh,” Elle hissed. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“No, I’m not.” These people had sat vigil at his bedside for months on end; they wouldn’t turf him out for being a little raucous.

“Megan,” Lake said. “When I first met you, you were a teenager who dyed sheep pink, tormented your cousin with pet rats, and drove your police officer brother mad. The town of Invertary never knew what trouble you’d cause next. I didn’t pick you because I assumed you’d end up in jail.”

There was more laughter as Megan tossed her long blonde hair and looked perversely proud.

“But,” Lake continued, getting silence on his first word—the man had a gift, “you were a star of my Invertary self-defense class, you have a natural instinct for the business, and you have proven to be a valued asset to our team.”

“So, you’d pick me now.” Megan held up a hand. “It’s okay. No need to say it out loud. We all know that’s what you’re thinking.” She turned and beamed at her husband and partner. “I’m a valued asset.”

“Yes, you are,” Dimitri Raast said indulgently.

“Lake’s doing that lip-quirk thing again,” Elle whispered to Ryan. “Where he’s too cool to smile but still wants to show amusement. Why does that make my lady parts tingle?”

“That’s just wrong. Now I feel nauseous. I don’t need to hear about your lady parts. You’re practically my sister. And Lake… Lake’s like a really cool uncle. It’s all family, and it’s deeply disturbing.”

She gestured to the room. “At least half the people in here are related. They’re either married to each other, are siblings, or are connected through siblings. You must get disturbed a lot.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Before we begin our first session,” Lake said, “let me introduce our new American team. Guys, please stand up.”

There was a shuffle of feet, but before Lake could say anything more, the basement door slammed open, and Isobel McKay ran in. With her curly brown hair wild around her face, she aimed straight for her husband, Callum.

“I tried to stop them,” she gasped, clearly agitated. “But they have official paperwork.”

Everybody in the room turned toward the stairs leading up to the first-floor office and the reception desk Isobel manned—badly.

As they watched, a team of police officers streamed from the stairwell.