Chapter 7 #2
“Protocol said maintain position with the protectee. Wait for the threat-assessment team to neutralize. Standard procedure.” West’s mouth tightened.
“But I saw something the team missed. One of the actors—playing a bystander—had positioning that felt wrong. Body language. Hands in pockets. Line of sight to the protectee.”
“And?”
“And I broke formation. Left my post. Tackled the guy before he could pull the weapon.” West looked at her. “Saved the instructor’s life. Scenario ended. I thought I’d aced it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Evaluators said I was too much of a wild card. Made my own call instead of following protocol. They said agents who trust their gut over orders are unpredictable. Dangerous. Can’t be controlled when it matters most.”
“They rejected you for being good at the job.”
“They rejected me for being unable to follow the rules of the job.” He ate another fry. “They were right. I can’t follow orders when my instincts say different. I’ve tried. Can’t do it. That’s why Jones, Inc., works—Ham built a team of people who make their own calls.”
Britta processed that. The irony of it. How his instincts last night had probably saved them all. And then, to her horror, she asked, “So how is a guy like you still single?”
West’s eyebrows went up, and a small smile cracked his face. “Am I?”
Heat flooded her face. “I didn’t mean—I mean—I don’t know—”
“Calm down.” His mouth twitched again. “Yes. I’m single.”
She wanted to disappear under the picnic table. “I’m—you’re capable and smart and decent and—” Stop talking, Britta. “Never mind.”
“I had a girlfriend. Marine Corps days. She couldn’t handle the deployments.
The constant leaving. The not knowing if I’d come back.
We broke up after my second tour.” West shrugged.
“Maybe relationships aren’t for me. I like the freedom to leave when I want.
Pick my missions. Not answer to anyone about my choices. ”
Maybe relationships aren’t for me.
Oh. Well. “I get that,” Britta said. Grabbed another shrimp.
“College boyfriend. Junior year. Three months together. Dad was newly elected then. I invited him to the residence for movie night. He wandered into a restricted area. K-9 unit tackled him. Weapons drawn. Full security response.” She cracked the shrimp shell.
“Boyfriend texted me that night: ‘I can’t live like this.’ Never spoke to me again. ”
“He was an idiot.”
“He was normal. Normal people can’t handle my life.”
West was quiet as he ate his burger. Then, “So you’re single?”
She looked up. He was watching her with that almost-smile again.
Britta smiled back. “Am I?”
West laughed. Genuine. Warm. The sound of it simply unknotted all the remaining tension in her chest.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m single.”
“Thought so.”
“Why?”
“Because any guy you’re with would show up in security briefings. Martinez would have mentioned it. Probably run a full background check.”
“You’re not wrong.” Britta set down her shrimp.
Met his eyes. “Any guy I’m with has to be willing to be in the limelight.
Under scrutiny. A Secret Service background check before he’s allowed near me.
Media attention. Paparazzi. Public dissection of every interaction. It’s not for the faint of heart.”
West nodded, something shifting in his expression.
Britta saw it clearly. He wasn’t that guy. He valued privacy. Freedom. The ability to walk away when he wanted. Her life was the opposite of everything he’d built his career around.
The college-boyfriend pattern.
Different guy. Same ending.
She looked down at her shrimp, suddenly not hungry.
Then, “Wait. You talked with Martinez?”
He started to pile up their debris. “Yes. I told him where we were, and in exchange, he agreed to stay back, let you go to the wedding. His people will shadow us from a distance—close enough to move if they have to.”
She knew it. “So do I need to call my dad?”
“Absolutely. Definitely. When you’re ready.” He got up. “We should get back,” West said. “Regroup and figure out how we’re getting north.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He paid the bill. They walked back to the scooter in silence.
Britta climbed on behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Felt the solid warmth of him. The strength. The way he moved when he drove.
She held on tighter than necessary.
Wished her life wasn’t so complicated.
The ride back felt shorter. Residential streets. Beach houses. The ocean visible in glimpses between buildings.
West slowed as they approached Hawkeye’s place. Pulled to a stop half a block away.
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“What?”
“The window. The one we came through. It’s open.”
Britta looked. He was right. “Did we forget to close it?”
“Stay on the scooter.”
“West—”
“Fine. Okay. But stay behind me. Please.”
He got off and took her hand. Walked them toward the building. Scanning. Alert.
Then he headed around the building to the front. Frowned.
“What?”
“I don’t see your detail.”
“They could be hiding. Or maybe they’re the ones inside.”
He gave her a look that suggested no.
Especially when the door gave under his hand, already unlatched.
Inside, the small apartment was destroyed.
Furniture overturned. Drawers pulled out and emptied. Couch cushions thrown across the room. The TV on the floor. Everything searched.
“West?”
He edged into the room. Headed to the kitchen, grabbed the baggy with his phone and rice.
A hand closed over her mouth.
Britta tried to scream, but the sound was muffled against a palm that smelled like leather and cigarettes.
She was yanked backward against someone big. Solid.
An arm locked around her waist.
The man holding her dragged her backward. Toward the door. Toward the stairs.
She bit down on his hand. Hard.
He swore. Yanked his hand away.
“WEST!”
West spun around.
Two men emerged from the bedroom behind him. Big. Armed.
Going for West.
“Watch out!”
Britta struggled against the one holding her. Kicked backward. Connected with his shin. He grunted but didn’t let go.
The two thugs reached West.
And then a cloth went over her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath, smelling thickly of chemicals.
The last she saw was the two men closing on West as her captor dragged her out the door.
Britta’s scream cut through the apartment.
But West had already read the room.
Two men. Both big. Both moving with tactical precision. Both wearing civilian clothes that didn’t quite hide the bulk of body armor underneath.
Not Secret Service.
Yeah, this was bad. Martinez, where are you?
Secret Service would have announced themselves. Would have followed protocol. Would have secured Britta first, asked questions later, processed West through proper channels.
These guys had come through the bedroom window. Had ransacked the apartment looking for something. Had positioned themselves for ambush.
Hostile operatives.
Petrov’s people, probably.
Which meant they weren’t here to rescue the president’s daughter.
They were here to take her.
West stopped thinking and let his instincts, his training, take over.
When the first operative swung, West ducked. Came up with an elbow to the man’s face. Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed. The operative staggered.
West didn’t wait. Followed with a knee to the gut. The operative folded. Hit the floor hard.
One down.
The second operative was already moving. Faster. Better trained. He caught West with a punch to his side—right where Britta had glued the cut closed last night.
Something tore. Pain exploded white-hot through West’s side.
He ignored it and returned with a strike to the operative’s throat. Not full force—he didn’t want to kill him, just disable him—but hard enough that the man choked. Staggered backward.
West pressed the advantage. Another strike. This one to the solar plexus.
The operative went down.
Two down.
Then Britta screamed again.
West spun toward the door and ran.
There—one level below. The third operative dragging Britta down the metal stairs. She was fighting. Kicking. Struggling.
Not going quietly.
Good girl!
West vaulted the railing. Dropped to the ground. Landed hard, his side screaming.
Not now.
The operative must have heard him grunt, because he turned, spotted West coming at him like a bull.
The man shoved Britta toward the stairs. Went for the weapon at his hip.
West closed the distance before the gun cleared the holster. Tackled him. They hit the ground hard enough to slam the breath out of the attacker. He wheezed, rolling, gasping.
The gun skittered away.
“Get the gun, Britt!”
The attacker rolled, found his breath, his feet, and as West scrambled up, the man kicked him, slamming his foot into West’s jaw.
Pain detonated in his head and he fell back, tasted blood. Stars exploded in his vision.
West rolled with it. Used the momentum and spun back to his feet. The man’s own movement had turned him, his back to West. West charged, rammed him, arms around his waist, sweeping his legs out, and they slammed to the ground again.
West got his arm around the man’s throat, applied a sleeper hold, wrapped his legs around the man’s and clamped down.
Sleep, dude.
The operative bucked. Thrashed. Strong. Well-trained.
West held on. Squeezed.
Five seconds. Ten.
The man went limp.
West held on for three more seconds to be sure. Then released. Pushed the body away as he lay there for a second just breathing, ribs on fire, jaw throbbing.
Then he jumped up, found his feet.
Britta stood halfway up the stairs, eyes wide, hands over her mouth.
“Are you hurt?” West’s voice came out rough. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head.
West took a step toward her.
The stairwell door slammed open, the glass in it shattering.
Fragments rained down. West grabbed Britta. Pulled her against him. Shielded her with his body.
The two operatives from the apartment thundered through the shattered door, scrambling down the stairs.
“Run.” West pushed Britta toward the stairs. “Go. Now.”
“West—”
“RUN!”
She ran.
West turned to face the operatives descending the stairs. One bled from his nose. The other held his ribs. But both spotted him.