Chapter 4
The conference room overlooking downtown Chicago is already occupied when I arrive.
The floor-to-ceiling windows frame a city still wrapped in the grayish-blue dawn haze.
Jagger is sprawled in one of the leather executive chairs like it’s a Lay-Z-Boy, still half asleep.
Damon, his hair still wet, is sitting beside him with a large coffee.
Neither looks particularly happy to be here at this hour. I can relate.
“Morning.”
“Debatable,” Damon grouses, gesturing at the still sunless horizon.
Jagger tips his head. “Dad.”
It’s too early for his shit.
Abby strides into the room with a broad smile, clearly more awake than the rest of us. Hawk follows a few paces behind her.
Jagger shakes his head. “No.”
Abby drops into the seat next to me and throws her hands into the air. “What?”
Jagger points at her. “Just… whatever you’re selling this morning… No.”
She blinks, her blue eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I haven’t said anything.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He helps himself to Damon’s coffee, his eyes never leaving her face. “You are never this bubbly in the morning, so something’s up.”
“You are impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” He takes another sip of the stolen coffee, completely unbothered. “Several times. Usually by you… or Doc.”
Several times. Often by Abby. Pretty much daily by his sweet wife.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Hawk shares, settling into the seat at the head of the long table.
“For who?” I ask.
Hawk shifts in his seat, and it groans slightly in protest beneath him. “The corporate account from yesterday is being handed off to a couple of the more seasoned junior operatives. We can manage them from our next job.”
Jagger beams, his face transforming with relief. “See? Growth opportunities. They’re finally letting the children play with the expensive toys.”
She nudges my elbow. “Can you do something with him?”
“I’ve repeatedly been told that I’m not allowed to shoot him. So, no.”
“Rude,” Jagger huffs playfully.
Damon straightens slightly, his interest genuinely piqued for the first time since I arrived. “Our next job?”
Abby taps the stack of manila folders resting on the table before her. “The four of you have been requested elsewhere.”
“Requested by whom?” My brow quirks up with curiosity. We are damned good at our jobs, but duty assignments are generally based on the threat level and caliber of skill required to ensure the safety of our clients. They are very based on request.
She rests both hands on the dossiers, and her expression becomes suspiciously innocent.
“This is a high-value client with enough influence to bypass standard assignment channels and specifically ask for the four of you. That alone should tell you the level of concern. The threat assessment has been deemed imminent, and the local authorities are already involved.”
“It’s not…” Damon mutters, his shoulders slumping.
“Abbs…” Jagger groans, his gaze flitting between her and the folders resting before her.
She pulls the thick folders from beneath her hands and slides one across the polished conference table to each of us.
I glance at the folder, my fingers resting on the manila cover.
When I flip it open to a professional headshot, the kind that comes with a studio-lit face, striking in a way that makes me forget to breathe for a moment, Abby says the four words we all dread the most. “It’s a celebrity detail. ”
A collective groan loud enough to be heard outside the conference room rumbles from all of us.
Historically speaking, celebrity protection detail ranks somewhere between tax audits and getting shot on my list of favorite experiences.
They involve managing egos, navigating entourages, dealing with publicists who think they’re security experts, and trying to protect people who have spent their entire adult lives being told “yes” by everyone around them.
I shake my head. “We are way over-qualified to be driving Miss Daisy to and from the studio lot—”
“Miss Martin,” Jagger interrupts. “Wait? Do you really not know who she is?”
Without answering, I glance down at the folder and the photo of our newest client. She’s beautiful. Not in the classic Hollywood or magazine way, where everyone looks manufactured and impossible, airbrushed into something resembling a mannequin. Just… beautiful.
Her light brown hair, caught in a moment of movement, looks silky to the touch.
Laughing at something off camera, her hazel eyes sparkle.
The extra light in them showcases the notes of green and gold flecked around her irises.
She has delicate features, high cheekbones, and a slender, slightly upturned nose.
Her full pink lips curve into a smile that looks genuine, despite her profession having likely trained her how to fake happiness.
While I ogle the photograph before me, Damon flips through his folder. His expression darkens as he skims through the contents. “Why are they always actors?”
“Or musicians,” Jagger grouses.
“Regardless, they’re always a complete and utter pain in the ass,” I add.
Everyone seated at the table nods their agreement. “She has a legitimate threat,” Abby shares over our collective annoyance about this assignment.
“They all have legitimate threats,” I flatly insist. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t all a pain in the ass.”
“Not like this,” Abby corrects. I know she’s referencing the threat, but I can’t help but wonder whether her assertion carries over to Miss Martin being a pain in the ass, too.
My interest piqued, I thumb through the papers before me.
The first page contains the basics: name, age, career history, recent public appearances, awards, and achievements.
It’s a standard—yet impressive—biography of someone who has spent two decades becoming one of the most visible people on the planet.
Well, for most people… I still have no idea who this woman actually is.
After pulling my gaze from her photograph, where it has become affixed, I force myself to flip to the next page and immediately decide she is going to be a nightmare.
A very pretty nightmare, but a nightmare, nonetheless.
Her upcoming itinerary is littered with red carpets, public appearances, fan interactions, press tours, and media obligations. As if that weren’t bad enough, there’s still the paparazzi and thousands upon thousands of strangers constantly trying to get close to her who will need to be dealt with.
The dull throb behind my temples starts before I finish reading through the threat assessment. As though he’s reading with me, Jagger reaches the same conclusion I do. “No.” His groan carries genuine pain. “Give her to someone else. One of the junior teams. They need the experience.”
“Sorry, Jag.” Abby’s apology carries zero empathy. “Due to the situation, they’ve specifically requested the best we have.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he croons with that cocky-ass grin.
I continue reading, and the further I get into the file, the less I appreciate Jagger’s jovialness about this assignment.
The professional in me is quickly overriding the man who would rather be anywhere else.
Abby has provided us with a litany of threatening letters, documentation of stalking incidents, and, most recently, a security breach.
It’s an escalation pattern that shows someone becoming bolder, more confident, and more dangerous with each contact.
Celebrity nonsense is one thing. We’ve dealt with overzealous fans who send too many letters, executives who get a little too close, and even the occasional aggressive autograph hunter.
They are annoying, but manageable. The breach of her residence that warranted a call to us is another beast entirely.
When someone crosses the threshold from public harassment to private invasion, the rules change.
And so do the stakes. The psychology of the threat morphs from obsession and admiration to entitlement and possession.
I turn another page, my movements slower, as I read every detail meticulously.
According to the threat assessments compiled by a previous security team and law enforcement, the stalker appears organized, patient, and methodical.
He—I assume—is obsessive in a way that suggests he’s highly intelligent with ample time and resources.
He is smart enough to avoid stupid mistakes, learning from his engagement and adapting.
Once I’ve flipped back to the front of the folder, I glance at the photograph that originally stole my attention. “When do we meet her?”
A slow smile appears on Abby’s face, the kind that says she knew exactly how this conversation would end. She knows us well, and by putting these folders before us, she likely had no doubt that the moment we saw the details, we’d stop complaining and start working.
“Tomorrow morning. I’m putting you on the red eye to get boots on the ground ASAP. The rest of the team will be a few hours behind you with whatever supplies you all deem necessary.”
I nod, mentally shifting gears and preparing to become acquainted a woman who has no idea how much we are going to completely upend her life. I’m preparing how best to do my job, despite the inconvenient fact that I can’t seem to stop staring at her photograph.