2. Chapter 2 （Noah）
Iknow she's trouble the moment I step off the elevator.
She's sitting at her desk, all wild dark hair and defiant posture, looking like she's ready to take on the world. Looking exactly like Jessica did, that last day. The memory hits like a blade between the ribs, sharp and unwelcome.
"Noah." Jackson Wells' voice breaks through my thoughts. He's waiting by his office door, every line of his face etched with worry. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
I give him a curt nod, forcing my attention away from the woman who's about to become my responsibility. My curse. "Brief me."
Jackson's office is a fortress of filing cabinets and old journalism awards. He closes the door behind us, but I remain standing. Old habits die hard, and some never die at all.
"Olivia Blackwood," he says, sliding a file across his desk. "Our best investigative reporter. She's working on a story about corporate corruption that's made her some powerful enemies."
I flip through the file, memorizing details. Thirty-two years old. Lives alone. No pets. No relationship status listed. "The threats?"
"Started this morning. She was followed, chased through downtown. Then this." He shows me the text messages on his phone. Threatening, but amateur. It's the photo that catches my attention—the angle, the timing. This wasn't random.
"There's something else." Jackson hesitates, and I feel my muscles tense. There's always something else. "The company she's investigating... it's Randall Industries."
The name hits me like a physical blow. My hand tightens on the file, crumpling the edge. Memories flash through my mind: blood on marble floors, the crack of gunfire, betrayal burning bitter in my throat.
"No." The word comes out harsh, final.
"Noah—"
"Find someone else." I turn to leave, but Jackson's next words stop me.
"They'll kill her."
Three words. Simple. Direct. True. I close my eyes, seeing Jessica's face again. The trust in her eyes right before everything went to hell. The way she looked at me like I could save her.
I couldn't.
"She doesn't know about your connection to Randall," Jackson says quietly. "No one does. But you're the best chance she has."
"And when she finds out?" Because she will. Reporters like her always do.
"Cross that bridge when we come to it." He stands, moving to the window that overlooks the newsroom.
Olivia is still at her desk, arguing with a woman in a yellow dress.
Even from here, I can read the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand keeps straying to her phone.
She's scared, even if she won't admit it.
"She won't make this easy," I warn him.
"No." A hint of pride creeps into his voice. "She won't."
I should walk away. Should get back in that elevator and never look back. But the photo keeps playing in my mind—the calculated angle, the professional framing. Whoever took it knew what they were doing. Knew exactly what message they were sending.
"I have conditions," I hear myself say.
Jackson nods. "Name them."
"Full access to her schedule, her contacts, her research. I need to know everything she knows about Randall Industries." I pause, adding the most important part. "And she doesn't learn about my past. Any of it."
"Agreed." He holds out his hand. I ignore it.
"I'll start tonight. Have someone send her address and daily routine to my phone." I move to the door, then stop. "And Jackson? If this goes south..."
"It won't."
But we both know that's a lie. I've been here before. I've watched this same scenario play out in blood and bullets and broken trust. The only difference is, this time I know what's coming.
I take one last look at Olivia through the glass. She's leaning back in her chair now, laughing at something her friend said. The sound carries faintly through the walls, bright and fearless.
She has no idea what she's walking into.
And I'm about to become her shadow.
The next few hours are a crash course in Olivia Blackwood's life.
I watch her from my parked car across the street, logging her movements, noting patterns.
She's still at her desk as the newsroom empties, the sky outside fading from blue to bruised purple.
The woman in yellow—Cassandra Monroe, according to the file—tries to convince her to leave twice. Olivia waves her off both times.
Finally, at 8:47 PM, she emerges from the building. Her eyes scan the street, and I see the way her hand clutches her bag closer. The threats have rattled her more than she lets on. Good. Fear keeps people alive.
I follow her Uber at a safe distance, already knowing her destination. The file Jackson sent was thorough: a third-floor apartment in one of those converted industrial buildings downtown. Exposed brick walls and huge windows. A security nightmare.
She stops at the Thai place on the corner—her usual Wednesday order, according to her routine. The teenage delivery kid knows her by name. Another vulnerability. Another thread that could be pulled.
While she's inside, I circle the block, cataloging escape routes and blind spots. Three possible sniper positions. Four entry points to her building. The fire escape outside her bedroom window needs maintenance—the metal groans with every strong breeze.
Just like the ones at Jessica's place did.
I grip the steering wheel harder, forcing the memory away. Focus on the now. On the target—no, not target. On Olivia. Something about this case has me slipping back into military terminology, into the mindset of a man I thought I'd left behind.
My phone buzzes. A message from my contact inside Randall Industries:
They're moving pieces into position. Watch the shadows.
Cryptic, but clear enough. I text back: How long?
Days, maybe hours. M.R. is personally involved.
Marcus Randall. The name makes my shoulder throb where the bullet went in three years ago. The scar tissue pulls as I reach for my gun, checking it purely out of habit.
Movement catches my eye. Olivia's leaving the restaurant, takeout bag in hand. But something's off. Her pace is too quick, her path too direct. She's spotted something—or someone.
I scan the street and catch it: a figure in black, lounging too casually against a parking meter. Another by the newsstand. They're not even trying to be subtle anymore.
Olivia fumbles with her keys at her building's entrance. Even from here, I can see her hands shaking. The first figure starts to move.
Every instinct screams at me to intervene. To grab her and get her somewhere safe. But I can't. Not yet. Jackson was clear: observe only, until direct contact becomes absolutely necessary. She can't know I'm here until?—
The door finally opens and she slips inside. I wait until her lights come on, until I see her shadow move past those huge windows. She doesn't close the curtains. Of course she doesn't.
I settle in for a long night, methodically checking my weapons, running through contingencies. The two figures have disappeared, but I know they're still out there. Watching. Waiting.
Just like I am.
My burner phone vibrates again. Another text, this time from an unknown number:
Did you really think we wouldn't recognize you, Harrington? You should have stayed dead.
I delete the message, but my hand stays steady. I've been anticipating this from the moment Jackson mentioned Randall Industries. They were always going to find out.
The real question is: how much does Olivia know? How close is she to uncovering the truth about what happened three years ago? About what really goes on behind Randall's pristine corporate fa?ade?
A sound catches my attention—metal on metal. The fire escape.
A sound catches my attention—metal on metal. The fire escape.
I'm out of the car before the second scrape echoes across the street. Two figures ascending, using the shadows for cover. Professional gear, professional movements. These aren't the same watchdogs from earlier—these are hunters.
The distance to her building's front door might as well be miles. I won't make it in time, not through the security door, up three flights of stairs. Which leaves one option.
The service entrance lock takes four precious seconds to pick. Another six to clear the basement. The security camera in the stairwell is already disabled—they've been planning this.
My phone buzzes. I silence it without looking. Whatever warning my contact has, it's already too late.
Second floor. My footsteps are silent, years of training taking over. The scar in my shoulder pulses with each heartbeat, a reminder of what happens when you're too slow, too trusting, too late.
Not again.
Third floor. I hear it now—the subtle sound of a window opening. Her apartment is at the end of the hall, 3E. Light spills from beneath the door. The hallway is dark—they've taken out the bulbs. More evidence this was planned.
A muffled thump from inside. Then a sound that stops my heart: Olivia's voice, sharp with fear: "Who's there?"
I have my gun out, ready to breach, when I hear her gasp. The sound of breaking glass follows.
The door splinters under my kick. The scene unfolds in snapshots, combat clarity taking over:
Living room. Two hostiles. Combat gear. Semi-automatic weapons.
Olivia backed against her kitchen counter, a wine bottle gripped like a weapon.
Third hostile coming through the window.
Distance to nearest target: seven feet.
Time until they react: less than a second.
I take the first one down with a tackle, redirecting his weapon before he can raise it. The second swings toward me—amateur mistake. Olivia hurls the wine bottle, catching him in the shoulder. The distraction is enough. My elbow connects with his throat, and he goes down choking.
The third hostile is halfway through the window.
I reach for my weapon, but Olivia moves faster.
She grabs her laptop—the one containing all her research, I realize—and swings it like a baseball bat.
It catches the intruder in the face. He falls backward onto the fire escape with a satisfying crunch.
"Police are already on their way," I tell the men on the floor, though I doubt they're in any condition to care. I zip-tie their hands anyway, muscle memory from another life.
Only then do I look at Olivia.
She's breathing hard, still holding her dented laptop like a shield. Her eyes are wide, but there's no panic in them. Only fury and confusion and something else—recognition?
"You're him," she says. "The bodyguard. From the office."
I nod once, already moving to check the fire escape. The third man is gone, leaving only a blood trail. Sloppy escape. He'll be easy to track.
"You've been following me."
It's not a question. When I turn back, she's lowered the laptop but her posture is still defensive. Still ready to fight. Something inside me resonates with that stance, that refusal to back down.
"Jackson hired me to protect you." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "Looks like his timing was good."
Police sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. I holster my weapon and start constructing the cover story in my head. The less she knows about who I really am, about my connection to all this, the better.
But when I meet her eyes again, I see the questions forming. The reporter in her is already picking apart the scene, noting details she shouldn't: my response time, my training, the efficiency of my takedown.
"Who are you really?" she demands.
The smart answer would be a lie. A simple cover story about private security and good timing. But standing in her destroyed apartment, with unconscious attackers at our feet and her laptop still clutched like a lifeline, I find myself saying:
"Someone who knows exactly how dangerous Marcus Randall is."
Her eyes widen at the name, and I silently curse myself. I've already said too much. Given her too many threads to pull.
The sirens are closer now, and I can hear Detective Grant's voice in the lobby. Soon this place will be crawling with cops, and I'll have to explain why a simple bodyguard was able to take down three professional hitmen.
I was right from the start.
She's going to be trouble.