Chapter 8
Arthur
Simple. Clear. Non-negotiable. I’d delivered it to a pop star who kept climbing out of bathroom windows to ditch her detail.
I’d delivered it to a diplomat’s wife who liked to shop without a shadow.
I’d delivered it to a tech mogul who informed me, on the first day, that he didn’t take orders from employees.
Most of my career had been with the SEALs or working alongside them for Pendragon. Executive protection wasn’t as exciting, but every man on my team had done it, and done it well.
Gwen was in the forward-facing chair across from me, notebook open on the small table between us, pen in hand. Lance was on the divan behind her, stretched out like he owned the jet. Outside the oval windows, lazy clouds drifted over the Atlantic, forty-two thousand feet below.
“What about inside buildings?” she asked.
“One of us will be with you or within immediate reach.”
“At the church while I’m working?”
“Yes, while you’re working.”
She frowned at me and made a note. “And if I want to follow a lead? If I see something at the church and want to look at it?”
“Then you tell me, and we go together.”
“And if you think it’s not secure?”
“Then we discuss it.”
“Discuss, or you decide?” She was testing how far I’d bend, precisely like they all did.
“I decide.” I liked it better when my clients threw tantrums. Tantrums helped provide a line between me and the protectee. Logical questions were worse. They made it sound like we were partners. “That’s the job.”
“And at the cottage? If I want to go for a walk?”
“Tell me first. I’ll verify the route’s safe.”
“A walk?” She tapped her pen against her notebook. “Around the property?”
“The property is rural. There are approaches I can’t monitor without advance warning.”
“What if I want to go into town? To a shop, a pub, or a library?”
“Same rules, and Lance or I go with you.”
She set her pen down. “If I’d known this arrangement meant so little autonomy, I might not have agreed to it.”
Good, push back. Let me put my foot down. “So long as you’re not doing anything that puts you at risk, you’ll have all the autonomy you want. The only condition is that Lance or I am there.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not the definition of autonomy.
” She wasn’t wrong. Close protection boxed a person in.
It was important, but it still boxed them in.
I never apologized for it. It was a job, and it suited me.
But the way she was looking at me, as though I would ruin her research trip? Something inside me almost said sorry.
Lance sat up on the divan. “What Arthur is trying to say, in his incredibly warm and personable way, is that we won’t be breathing down your neck. You do your work. We stay close, not immediately next to you. Ninety percent of the time, you won’t even notice the difference.”
Gwen’s posture stiffened a fraction. “And the other ten percent?”
“I doubt it will matter while we’re in England, unless someone wants the sword enough to follow us.” Lance gave her his easy grin, which seemed to calm her. He was so fucking good at that.
Send me into a hot zone, and I could talk down a warlord, but put one pair of hazel eyes in front of me, and I was barking orders like my father dealing with room service.
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Penn. Right away, Mr. Penn.’
She’s a client. Treat her like one. “The other ten percent is for moments like when your hotel was broken into, or when someone situated themselves outside of Sam and Antonio’s condo.”
She tensed further.
Way to go, idiot. “The cottage is near Bodmin, where the church is, so it’s a short drive.”
“Cottage?” Gwen’s pen hovered over her notebook again. “It’s more than one room, at least?”
Lance spluttered a laugh, but didn’t add anything to the conversation.
I had a lot of memories of the place, most of them positive—my mother drinking tea in the garden, the kitchen that always smelled like freshly baked bread, long summers when the house felt like the only place in the world where she actually relaxed.
My father was supposed to relax there too, but Gerald Penn worked everywhere he went, because that’s what Gerald Penn did.
His constant working was one of the things I preferred to forget.
Like the pond that froze over once every five years or so, and let us skate on it…
until the year the ice didn’t hold. I glanced at my best friend and decided to move on.
“The property is private, and you’ll have your own room and high-speed internet.” Before I could say more, my phone buzzed. I checked the screen and saw Morganna’s name.
“Excuse us a minute.” I stood and moved toward the aft cabin, gesturing for Lance to follow. The six-seat section near the back had a larger worktable and was far enough from Gwen that she wouldn’t overhear us.
I put Morganna on speaker. “I’ve got Lance here. What do you have?”
“Partial lead on the journalist,” Morganna said. “I’ve narrowed it to three defense correspondents with access to the kind of military service records cited in the article. Two are based in London, one in DC. I’m pulling their publication histories now.”
“How long?”
“A day, maybe two. I’ve been running double duty.” She paused. “Someone at White Spring noticed how much time I’ve been logging on RTS work.”
“And?”
“And I handled it. For now. But it would help if I had, say, a dedicated workspace with a server room and a cooling system so I could stop borrowing company time. And a salary to replace the one I’m making now.”
I’d asked around, and the salary she was demanding from me was significantly higher than what White Spring was paying her.
But we all knew once she finally committed, I’d pay it.
I’d have to increase the other guys’ pay, too, but so long as we brought in as much business as I expected, it wouldn’t be an issue.
“The server room is in progress,” I said. “I ordered the equipment you asked for. You’d better come use it, or I’ll find someone else to play with it.”
“Mmm.” She sounded amused. She was probably toying with me anyway. White Spring had more resources than we did, and she was likely building up her black book before she cut her strings. She’d come to work with us once she was confident her contacts were in place. “I’ll call when I have a name.”
She hung up.
Lance and I frowned at each other across the worktable. Three defense correspondents. London or DC. We’d have a name within days, and then we’d know who’d had access to my military file and decided to write about it.
“Good,” Lance said. “That’s progress.”
“It’s a start.” I pocketed my phone and headed toward the forward cabin.
Gwen was scribbling in her notebook, but she hadn’t put down enough ink to convince me she’d kept at it the entire time we were on the phone.
I sat, keeping my eyes on her.
When she looked up, she tilted her head and spoke slowly. “Is that about the Crécy Defense Review piece?”
How did she know?
Her gaze dropped to her notebook, then rose again. “I was checking you guys out before dinner, and found it.”
She’d known when she sat next to me at the restaurant.
She’d known about the Pendragon funding, my wealth, all of it, and she’d still listened when I went on about vineyards and wine choices.
I’d proven every single thing about that story right: I was a spoiled rich brat whose daddy bought him a security company.
And what was I doing now, to show how much I wasn’t in my father’s pocket? I was flying her in daddy’s jet to daddy’s fucking cottage in Cornwall.
Fuck.
“I’m not bringing it up to…” She closed her notebook. “I just thought you should know that I know, so you don’t have to sneak around about it. Is the woman you were talking to going to find out who wrote it?”
“That’s the plan.” My voice came out flat. Professional. Because I was a professional, whether my father was my silent minority partner or not.
Lance, back on the divan, didn’t come to my rescue for once.
Who gives a shit? She’s a client.
It doesn’t matter.
Remember that, Penn. It doesn’t matter.
“The article is being handled,” I said. “Morganna’s researching the journalist, but it’s not relevant to the current operation.”
Except it was the entire reason Lance had proposed this protection assignment in the first place. It was why we were on this trip.
I stared out the window at the spotty clouds below us and at the sun on the ocean.
Just because my father was helping me spin up the company didn’t mean we were beholden to him.
We weren’t mercenaries operating without the government oversight Pendragon had.
He wouldn’t ask us to go off-books, and he wouldn’t send one of his State Department friends to ask, either.
He wouldn’t.
Except he might.
Our work was solid, and that wouldn’t change. But articles in fucking Crécy weren’t helping.
I was excellent at my job. I’d graduated top of my class at the Academy because I worked my ass off.
I’d made it through BUD/S, despite all the nepo baby insults they threw at me—maybe because of it—because that was the one place I knew my father had no sway.
At Pendragon, I’d led our team on Task Force Legacy, and I’d done a good fucking job.
My father’s position and money might have opened doors, but I was my own man. I’d earned the respect of better men than me by working harder than anyone else.
I clenched my jaw and stared harder at the clouds. Part of me wanted to say all of it to Gwen. Wanted to justify my existence.
“The cottage has a good kitchen.” Well done. Way to prove to yourself it doesn’t matter.
Gwen tilted her head. “Hmm?”
“If you have any dietary restrictions, I should know before we land.”
“Are you offering to cook?”
“Restaurants in the area are limited, and eating out increases exposure.”
“That’s a yes,” Lance said from the divan.
“It’s an operational consideration.”
“Arthur’s an amazing cook,” Lance told Gwen, ignoring me entirely. “He won’t admit it’s a hobby, but he’s got opinions about olive oil that border on religious.”
I was going to kill him.
“No dietary restrictions.” She smiled. It was a small, private thing, aimed at her notebook. It wasn’t for me; it was just there. “But I do like olive oil.”
Lance caught my eye over her head and winked at me.
Fuck.