Chapter Two
Darhg
These events are security nightmares. Too many people going in and out and too many blind spots to hide in.
But I have everything under control, as usual.
I stand at the ballroom entrance, my seven-foot-tall frame giving me a perfect view of the room. All exits are mapped. All lines of sight are clear.
This is what I do. What I'm good at.
Senator Quinn's voice carries across the room from the podium, but I pay it no attention. I’m not paid to care about what my principal says or does. My job is to keep her safe, that’s all.
I take a mental inventory of the people present.
Two hundred and thirty-seven donors are present at the brunch. Twelve waitstaff stand by the back wall, waiting for the senator to finish her speech and the guests to pour into the dining room. One hotel manager hovers near the service entrance.
Nothing out of line. No surprises. Just like I want it.
My earpiece crackles with static, then Wilfred's nervous voice cuts through.
"Uh, Mr. Rooke? We've got a situation at the back entrance."
I suppress a sigh. Wilfred's been on the team for three weeks, and everything's still a "situation" to him. It could be anything from a lost delivery driver to an actual murderer on a rampage with a knife between his teeth. With rookies, you never know.
I catch Elsebeth's eye across the room and give her a subtle hand signal.
She nods once, her sharp elven features already shifting into high alert mode.
In the two years she's been my second-in-command, we've developed the kind of wordless communication that proves to be more efficient than the constant babble most people prefer.
She'll maintain primary surveillance while I deal with whatever's rattling Wilfred.
The transition from the polished marble and brass fixtures of the ballroom to the utilitarian concrete and steel of the service corridors feels like stepping between worlds.
The sounds change too, the muffled political conversations replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of kitchen equipment.
I move quietly despite my size, a skill that's saved my life more than once. Most people expect to hear an ogre coming from three blocks away. I've made it a point to be the exception to the rule.
I find Wilfred at the back entrance, his massive orc frame blocking the doorway while he argues with someone I can't see yet. His shoulders are tense, and there are sweat stains on the armpits of his black t-shirt despite the cool morning air.
"Sir, you're not on the list," Wilfred says, his voice pitched higher than usual. "This is a private event."
"And I'm press," comes the reply in a fast-talking, nasal tone. "I've got credentials. Check 'em."
I step into view, and the source of Wilfred's distress becomes clear.
A gnome in a puffy vest and cargo pants stands on the concrete loading dock, camera equipment hanging from every available surface.
Press lanyard around his neck, phone gimbal in one hand, and the kind of bold arrogance that screams tabloid stringer.
Fuck. I hate those vultures.
"Problem?" I ask Wilfred, though my eyes never leave the gnome.
"Gribble Nix," the little bastard says before Wilfred can answer, extending a business card I don't take. "Freelance photographer and journalist. The Sizzle sent me to cover the fundraiser."
The Sizzle. Sweet Ogre Mother. If there's a lower bottom-feeding publication in existence, I haven't heard of it.
They're the kind of outlet that pays for photos of celebrities' kids falling down drunk or royals having meltdowns in grocery stores. The kind I won’t allow entry into the building under any pretense.
"Private event," I say, my voice flat. "Only pre-approved press is allowed."
"Public figure, public interest," Gribble shoots back, adjusting his camera rig. "Senator Quinn's been making a lot of noise lately. Seems to me the public has a right to know who's writing her checks."
There's something about the way he says it that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Is this slimy bastard trying to bully me into allowing him in? Fat chance.
"Press accreditation goes through the campaign office," I tell him. "If you want coverage, you follow proper channels. Maybe next event you’ll be allowed through the front door instead of trying to sneak in like a rat from the sewers."
Gribble's small black eyes shine with anger, but he keeps his cool. I’m sure men like him are used to being called worse than rats. And they deserve every single insult.
"Proper channels." He laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. "That's rich, coming from hired muscle. How much is Quinn paying you to keep the truth away from voters?"
Wilfred shifts beside me, his hand moving toward his radio. Good instincts, but I wave him off. Senator Quinn doesn’t want a circus of police squad cars at her fundraiser. This requires a more delicate touch.
"Mr. Nix," I say, taking a step closer. At seven feet, I tower over the gnome, and I let every inch of that height register. "You're on private property without authorization. I'm asking you nicely to leave."
"I'm on a public sidewalk," he counters, gesturing to the loading dock, where a dented gray van is parked. "Last I checked, that's still legal in this country."
Technically, he's right. The loading dock area borders public access, and as long as he's not actually inside the hotel, there's not much I can do legally. But there are other ways to handle persistent problems.
"You're right," I admit, which clearly surprises him. "You can stand here all day if you want. But you put one foot inside this hotel, and we'll have a different conversation."
Gribble's eyes narrow, calculating. He has the look of someone who's been run off by security before, someone who knows exactly how far he can push before things get unpleasant. Too bad. It’s been a while since I got some action.
"Listen, pal," he says, changing his tactic and lowering his camera just enough for my shoulders to relax. “I got a tip a few hours earlier from someone who thinks there's a story here worth telling. Something about the Quinn family that the voters ought to know.”
Every protective instinct I possess flares to life. Senator Quinn is my principal and protecting her from unwanted attention is almost as important as protecting her from physical harm.
"What kind of story?"
"The interesting kind. The kind that sells papers and gets people talking." He pauses, then his lips stretch over crooked yellow teeth topped with two sharp little fangs. “A big story like that means a big payload. I’m sure even hired muscle like you can’t be paid that much. I’ll share the bonus with you if you let me in. ”
I feel my hands clench into fists and force them to relax. Violence isn't the answer here, much as I'd like to introduce this little weasel to the dumpster behind him. But the threat is clear enough. He has something, or thinks he does, and he's here to cause trouble.
"Wilfred," I say without taking my eyes off Gribble. "Radio Elsebeth. Tell her we've got a problem at the back entrance. Tell her to run a check on a gray van, plates Delta-Echo-Seven-Seven-Nine."
"Yes, sir." Wilfred's relief at having clear instructions is obvious as he steps away to make the call.
"Smart," Gribble says approvingly, but his eyes shine with resentment. "Dig into your opponent. I respect that."
"You're no opponent," I correct him. "You're a pest."
"A pest with a camera and a nose for news," he replies cheerfully, yet takes a subtle step back. "And I always get my story, one way or another."
The way he says it sounds like a promise. Or a threat.
I study his face, looking for tells. Gribble Nix is the kind of bottom-feeder who thrives on chaos and scandal, but he's not stupid and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s good at sniffing out trouble.
If he's here, it's because there’s a story to tell.
Or there will be. And that last part is my biggest worry.
"Who sent you here?" I ask directly. I don’t have much hope that he’s going to answer, but I can stall him for time until Elsebeth does her thing.
"Professional confidentiality." He taps his press lanyard. "Same as lawyers and doctors. I don't reveal sources."
Bullshit. Guys like Gribble don't have professional ethics; they have profit margins. But pushing harder right now won't get me answers, just more lies.
"Mr. Rooke?" Wilfred's back, slightly out of breath. "Ms. Elsebeth says to tell you the vehicle's got at least four unpaid parking tickets. She already called the towing company."
Good. Elsebeth always thinks three steps ahead, same as me.
"Well, gentlemen," Gribble says, shouldering his camera bag, just like I knew he would the second we ran his plate, "it's been educational. But I've got work to do."
He starts walking toward the parked van, then pauses and looks back at me.
"Oh, and Mr. Rooke? You might want to keep an eye on social media today. Sometimes the biggest stories come from where you least expect them."
The cold tone in his voice makes my stomach drop. This jerk knows what he’s doing. He knows something specific, something that's about to go public.
I watch him climb into his dented van and drive away, his parting words echoing in my head like a warning bell.
"Sir?" Wilfred's looking at me expectantly. "Should we call it in to local PD?"
"No." I'm still staring at the spot where the van disappeared around the corner. "He didn't break any laws. But I want you to stay at this entrance. Anyone else shows up asking questions or taking pictures, you radio me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
I head back through the service corridors, my mind racing through possibilities. Guys like Gribble Nix don't operate in a vacuum. Someone fed him information, pointed him toward the Quinn family, maybe even paid him to be here today. The question is who and what they're hoping to accomplish.
I'm halfway across the corridor when Caroline appears in the service doorway, her usual composure cracked like broken glass. Her wings flutter with agitation, and her gold-hazel eyes are wide with barely controlled panic.
"Darhg," she says, her voice tight with controlled urgency. "Senator Quinn needs you backstage. Now."