Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DECK
She's late.
I check my watch for the third time. Six-fourteen. Fourteen minutes past when I told her to be ready. Fourteen minutes I've spent on the porch in the predawn cold, watching my breath frost and reminding myself that strangling the woman I'm supposed to protect would be counterproductive.
The cabin door opens, and Vivian stumbles out looking like she lost a fight with her suitcase.
She's wearing what I assume she thinks is appropriate outdoor attire.
Yoga pants that cling to curves I'm trying very hard not to notice, a fitted thermal top that does nothing to hide her figure, and sneakers that would fall apart after a quarter mile on this terrain.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, wild black waves catching the first light of dawn, and she's squinting against the cold like it personally offended her.
"You're late."
"Your coffee maker is from the seventies." She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. "It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to use it."
"I don't have a coffee maker."
"Exactly my point. That thing is a percolator. I had to figure it out through trial and error. Mostly error."
She holds up a travel mug like it's a trophy, and despite my irritation, the corner of my mouth twitches. I suppress it.
"Lesson one. On this mountain, you adapt or you fail. The terrain doesn't care about your comfort level or your caffeine addiction. Neither do the people trying to kill you."
"Cheerful. Do you practice these speeches, or do they come naturally?"
"They come from experience." I step off the porch and head toward the tree line. "We're starting with a perimeter walk. Two miles. Try to keep up."
"In these shoes?"
"In whatever you've got. Next time, pack better."
I hear her mutter something distinctly profane, but she follows. I set a pace that's challenging but not impossible, testing her fitness level. She's in better shape than I expected. Her breathing stays controlled for the first half mile, and she doesn't complain even when the trail gets rough.
The forest is beautiful at this hour, all silver light and long shadows. I know every tree, every rock, every game trail and water source. This is my territory, and showing it to her feels strangely intimate.
"This is the eastern perimeter." I stop at a spot where I've mounted a motion sensor on a tree trunk. "Anything larger than a deer trips the alarm. I get a notification on my tablet and the cameras activate."
She examines the sensor with more interest than I expected. "How many of these do you have?"
"Enough. The property is roughly a square mile, with the cabin at the center. I've layered defenses in concentric rings. Outer perimeter gives me early warning. Inner perimeter gives me response time."
"And if someone comes from above? Helicopter?"
Smart question. "No-fly zone over this area. Federal designation, thanks to some favors Marshal Taylor called in. Any aircraft that enters the zone triggers an automatic alert to the FAA and local law enforcement."
"So the Castellanos would really need to come on foot."
"Through terrain that takes hours to navigate even if you know what you're doing. Like I said, city killers don't know what they're doing."
She's quiet for a moment, studying the forest around us. The fear that's been a constant presence in her eyes since she arrived has faded slightly, replaced by calculation.
"You've thought of everything."
"I've thought of everything I can anticipate. The problem with threats is they don't always follow the playbook."
We continue the walk, and I point out landmarks, camera positions, escape routes.
She asks questions that reveal a sharp tactical mind, drawing connections I wouldn't expect from someone with no military training.
By the time we complete the circuit and return to the cabin, she's sweating despite the cold, but she hasn't complained once.
"Not bad." It's the closest thing to a compliment I can manage. "You have decent endurance. We'll work on your speed."
"Gee, thanks." She bends over, hands on knees, catching her breath. "What's next on the torture agenda?"
"Breakfast. Then firearms training."
Her head snaps up. "Firearms training? I told you, I qualified with my service weapon."
"And I told you, qualified isn't proficient. The range is behind the cabin. After you eat, we'll see what you can actually do."
I leave her on the porch and head inside to start breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast. Simple fuel. I can hear her moving around in her room as I cook, probably changing out of her sweat-soaked clothes.
Don't think about her changing. Don't think about what's under those yoga pants.
I focus on the eggs with more intensity than they deserve.
When she emerges, she's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that's too big for her. One of mine. She must have found it somewhere.
"I hope you don't mind." She tugs at the hem. "Everything I packed is either suits or athleisure. I didn't exactly have time to shop for mountain-appropriate attire."
She looks ridiculous. The shirt swallows her, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands, hem hanging past her hips.
My gut tightens. My shirt. On her body. Wrapped around her curves.
"It's fine." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "We'll figure out proper gear. Mace can bring supplies from town."
"Mace?"
"My second in command. Runs operations at the main compound." I slide a plate across the table to her. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
She eats with the same enthusiasm as last night. Still recovering from weeks of stress and malnutrition. I make a mental note to increase her portions.
"Tell me about your team." She says it casually, but I can see the prosecutor's calculation behind her eyes. Always gathering information.
"What about them?"
"How many people work for Guardian Peak? What are their backgrounds? If they're going to be involved in my protection, I'd like to know who they are."
"They're not involved. Not directly. This property is isolated from the main compound for a reason."
"But they know I'm here."
"They know we have a high-priority client. They don't know specifics." I finish my coffee and stand to clear my plate. "Information compartmentalization. Fewer people who know details, fewer potential leaks."
"You don't trust your own team?"
"I trust them with my life. I don't trust that the Castellanos won't find a way to compromise communications, intercept messages, or put surveillance on anyone connected to me.
" I meet her eyes. "I'm not just protecting you from direct assault.
I'm protecting you from the hundred indirect ways a sophisticated operation could locate you. "
She processes that, dark eyes thoughtful. "You really have thought of everything."
"I've thought of what I can control. The rest is adaptation."
After breakfast, we head to the range. It's a cleared space about fifty yards behind the cabin, with targets set at various distances and a covered shooting station I built three years ago. I hand her a Glock 19, the same model she would have trained on for federal qualification.
"Show me what you've got."
She takes the weapon with familiar confidence, checks the chamber, verifies the magazine, and assumes a decent shooting stance. Her first three shots land center mass on the target at fifteen yards. Respectable grouping for someone who only shoots annually for qualification.
"Not bad." I move to stand beside her, close enough to correct her form. "Your stance is too narrow. You'll lose balance under stress."
I could just tell her how to adjust. Instead, I find myself reaching out, hands settling on her hips to shift her weight. The contact sends a jolt through my system that I shove aside.
"Wider. Like this."
Her breath catches. I'm close enough to smell her shampoo, something floral that doesn't belong out here. Close enough to feel the heat of her body through the flannel.
My shirt.
"Like this?" Her voice is slightly unsteady.
"Better." I force myself to step back, putting professional distance between us. "Now try again."
Her next grouping is tighter, more controlled. She's a quick learner when she's not being defensive.
"Good. Now move to the twenty-five-yard target. This is where most shooters fall apart."
She adjusts her aim and fires. Less precise but still respectable. I spend the next hour drilling her on different distances, different stances, shooting while moving, shooting from cover. By the end, her arms are shaking with fatigue, but her accuracy has noticeably improved.
"You have natural aptitude." I take the Glock from her and clear it. "With practice, you could be genuinely dangerous."
"I'm already genuinely dangerous." A spark of her usual fire. "Just usually with words instead of bullets."
"Words don't stop someone kicking down your door."
"No, but they put people behind bars. They build cases that destroy criminal empires." She meets my eyes, chin lifted. "Different weapon, same result."
I hold her gaze for a beat too long. She doesn't look away.
"Lunch," I say finally. "Then we work on hand-to-hand."
Her eyebrows rise. "You're going to teach me to fight?"
"I'm going to teach you to survive a fight long enough to get away or get to a weapon. There's a difference."
We eat a quick meal of sandwiches and fruit, then clear space in the cabin's main room. I push the furniture against the walls to create a makeshift training area. She stands in the center, looking equal parts nervous and determined.
"First rule of self-defense." I circle her slowly. "Don't fight if you can run. Your goal is never to win. Your goal is to escape."
"And if I can't run?"
"Then you make escape possible. Create distance. Disable, distract, do whatever it takes to get free."
I step closer, demonstrating basic defensive positions. How to protect your face and throat. How to lower your center of gravity. How to absorb a blow without going down.