Chapter 2
DAGMAR
“Hello to you too, Collin. You’re looking fit.” Too fit. And too much like the man I’ve dreamt about for twelve years in spite of my determination to put him behind me.
Mimicking a granite statue, he says nothing, but then what did I expect? He’d never been one to acknowledge emotions let alone deal with them. Unless he was forced. I heave a sigh.
“Are you still with us? Holy Trinity Security wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“What the fuck? Holy Trin—” He whips his head around to glare at Joe and I hold in my secret satisfaction at rattling him, though I’m not accustomed to holding anything in.
I promised Joe I’d play nice. I’m trying, but the fluttering in my gut and that damn tell-tale lump of gooey need and desire that floats up my throat may not allow me to keep that promise.
The only time I’ve ever been able to keep my cool is under fire.
Joe told me Collin needed us after what went down between him and Dane Blaise—the OG legend of special ops. I don’t envy him the loss of a friend like that—a true brother.
His jaw tics but he regains his control like always as Joe stares back at him without any more apology than a shrug of his shoulder. A burning desire to make Collin lose it grips me.
“I heard you betrayed the legend Dane Blaise himself—
“What the fuck, Dagmar?” Joe loses it before Collin does.
All Collin Lynch does is allow a brief murderous glare at me before he shutters all emotion—as always—and nods.
“That’s right,” he says. “Dane skated the line and a jury found him innocent so now he’s free and clear. The way I see it, I did him a favor by allowing him to keep his reputation intact without the shadow of doubt. He ended up being the conquering hero in the end.”
“All you had to do is sacrifice your friendship with your longtime friend and hero. Oh, and end up being the villain. Still as noble as ever.” I don’t hold back on the bitterness because it’s not in me to hold back, flushing my promise to Joe down the shitter.
Collin smiles. “Same old Dagmar ”
Joe gives me his best frown and growls, “Now that you two have gotten re-acquainted and for all intents and purposes, have picked up exactly where you left off—with a minor change in location—let’ get going.”
“Since you’re flying the bird, you’re in charge.
” I follow the two men to the Bell 429, a twin engine light helo that holds up to six passengers with a flexible cargo space.
Quickly climbing into the co-pilot seat, I leave Collin to the back.
He would have offered me to ride shot-gun anyway.
Unless he’s no longer the perfect gentleman I remember.
Turning to him as he settles in, I say, “Should get to Boston in no time. This bird is fast.”
He nods. No smile and no picking up the conversational ball. I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes before I turn back around and face forward.
Joe goes through the instrument check, and pauses. “This’ll take a few minutes. Bear with me. Dag, why don’t you brief Collin on the details about tonight’s assignment.”
I nod and steel myself to turn and face Collin’s grim expression again, though I don’t know why it should bother me. I’m surprised to find him neutral and curious. I’d be pissed if I were him, being left in the dark on so many details, but Joe thought it best.
“Our client is Kat, the up and coming singer song-writer from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. She called because she’s experienced some viable threats recently and she has a gig at Fenway Park tonight opening for Imagine Dragons.”
His eyebrows go up at the mention of Kat’s name, but otherwise, nothing. Not even a nod.
“Got it?”
“I’m not deaf.”
I give him my middle finger. Now he smiles.
And damn if that doesn’t stretch my mouth with a whole-face grin.
“Where—”
“Don’t ask me any questions because that’s the sum total of what I know.”
Joe turns to us. “All set? I’ll give you both a full briefing when we get to our office-residence.”
“Office-residence?” Collin asks. But Joe fires up the engines and the rotors start spinning and we put on our headset coms.
Joe points his finger up and Collin and I give the okay sign and we take off.
The flight is short and breathtaking. Not that Boston Harbor is beautiful, but it’s heart-clenching in its familiarity. I glance down, watching the water give way to the harbor front and the buildings that make up the Boston skyline. It’s been a minute or two.
Being home again after so many years—twelve of them—makes my chest tighten and my head spin. Before I think, my eyes glance back at Collin. It’s not about him. Absolutely not. I’m home again so naturally I’m excited
It was time to come back about being home.
Joe circles around a tall building and I see the helipad on top as we lower at a painful pace.
Collin says, “This is The Hub on Causeway, the new exclusive building near the Garden. How the hell did you manage to get permission to land here?”
“Our office-residence is in this building. The penthouse.”
Collin grunts by way of scoffing. Or maybe it’s what passes for his laugh these days.
“How aspirational that you think we can afford this place.”
“We have an investor, something like a silent partner.” Joe grins and winks at me as if it’s our private joke, but he hasn’t let me in on the details either. The difference between me and Collin is that I don’t care where we got the money.
“Let me guess?” Collin says in his driest voice. “Peter John Douglas?”
My eyes pop involuntarily. “The former governor and Unit leader?” I stare at Joe who concentrates on his landing target. Maybe I do care after all because PJD is the only other legendary OG from special forces who impresses me, maybe more than Dane Blaise or even Collin.
“None other. He’s the only reason we managed to get approval for the roof-top helipad. Although we’re limited on the helo size we can land here.”
“Small price,” I say, still trying to get control of my excitement.
I’ve always wished I could be one of those cool secret assassin types, but I’m not.
My sleeve is filled with all the turmoil and chaos of every single emotion I feel.
It’s why I’m possibly the only one in all of special ops without a tattoo.
Me and Collin. For me, it’s because I don’t need tattoos to spell out how I feel.
For Collin, it’s because he needs to keep as much hidden and under wraps as possible, giving not even the tiniest of hints at what’s inside.
“When was the last time you were here?” Collin surprises me with his question. I take a few blinks to try for an answer and of course he can see my hesitation because every question from him is a loaded one.
But the helo hits the pad and Joe shuts the coms down. We jump out and Joe powers the bird down, nodding to the landing crew of two men who get busy buckling it down. As Joe heads for the door on the far side of the rooftop, we follow him inside.
We hurry down exactly one flight of stairs when Joe swipes a keycard at the armored door and opens it. Joe turns to us.
“Your uniforms are in your closets.” He walks inside ahead of us through a short hall sporting what looks like industrial closet doors and then opens up into a large sun-filled room.
Two walls are windows and one wall is decked out as a massive chef-style kitchen, another hallway and a couple more doors.
The rest of the space is dining room, living room and last, but not least, a pool table at the far end with a fireplace and book shelves along that shorter wall.
“We have the entire floor. Of the penthouse.” I walk to the center of the space and drop into one of the couches in a grouping. “It’s nice.” I’ve processed the extravagance and my brain is transitioning into assignment mode now, wondering about this Kat chick.
“Uniforms?” Collin says, standing barely inside the space, his eyes busy checking every detail.
I want to tell him we’re among friends, but I hold my tongue. For a change.
Joe nods.
“Let’s have the details of our assignment first,” I say, now that I’m in professional mode.
Not special ops mode, I remind myself for the millionth time. We’re in the states and we’re doing personal security, not extractions or assassinations or—
“Sure. We don’t have a lot of time.” Joe motions for Collin to come have a seat. We each end up on our own couch, facing each other. Joe is in the middle. Just like old times.
“What made Kat call us for protection?” Collin asks. “By the way, What’s the name of our—”
“Holy Trinity Security,” I tell him, chin raised in challenge.
His jaw clenches, and I notice his hands grip his thighs where they’d been resting.
But it only takes a beat before he forces a neutral expression and nods, releasing his tension as if he doesn’t care.
Too late. I know he does. We were the Holy Trinity within the unit, inseparable and unstoppable. Until we weren’t.
Joe clears his throat. “The threat was in the form of a message written in pink lipstick—Kat’s lipstick—on her dressing room mirror after her last concert in New Hampshire at the Verizon Center.”
“Inside job,” Collin says.
“What was the message?” I ask, my voice cold.
Joe grimaces. “Nasty message. It said Your blood is mine. No signature or symbol or other clues.”
Collin’s expression remains passive, all business.
While I struggle to maintain my professional distance because it makes me fucking crazy when people betray someone they know. Even if they are clearly psychotic.
Joe flicks his eyes to mine and I sober up. He nods.
“We’re part of the crew or the band. Kat is coming up with a cover for us. Either way, we’ll be on stage and backstage every step of the way, in sight of her.”
“What about Fenway security?” Collin is in mission-mode, which is where I should be. So I train my eyes on Joe.
“We’ll meet with them as soon as we can when we arrive. Kat will be with us.”
“Have you briefed them on the threat?” I ask.