Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
He was going to take me.
“How?” Is that my voice? So small and breathy.
Richie turns to me, but I don’t understand the words coming out of his lips. His face is set in concerned lines.
Was he in on it?
He wasn’t there.
He was supposed to be there.
“Blackbird is secure. ETA two hours,” I hear someone say as we zoom through Manhattan, just as I start to shake, and I’m hurled back in time five years.
“Get her out of here!” Gideon pushes me toward Richie, but I don’t want to leave him. No one makes me feel as safe as Gideon. No one can protect me like him.
I shake my head, clinging to him.
“No. I’ll go with you.”
“Go with Richie. That’s an order.”
I shake my head again, but then shots ring out, and Gideon grunts, then collapses to the ground.
“Oh my God!”
“Go,” Gideon says. His face is white, his voice strained. “Get the fuck out of here, Lena.”
Strong arms pull me back, but I’m yelling for Gideon. I won’t leave him.
“Lena.” Richie shakes my shoulder, pulling me out of the past. “Shit, she’s going into shock.”
“Of course she is. She just saw a man die.”
“I’ve told you exactly what happened five times,” I tell my mother, who’s sitting with me and my detail in the living room of the White House, in sweats. Her eyes are cold and hard. She’s in scary executive-president mode right now.
Which is better than the terrified-mama mode she was in about an hour ago. I don’t know what to do with that. My mother is not emotional. And she’s never gone into mama-bear mode with me.
My dad’s pacing behind the couch, pushing his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair over and over again.
“He passed everything,” Richie says for the fifth time. “There were no red flags to make us think that he was a threat.”
“Well, he clearly was,” Mom says. Her voice is like ice, and it makes Richie shift on his feet. “The mess has been dealt with?”
“Yes, Madam President,” Bishop, the head of the Secret Service, says. “It’s been dealt with, and it won’t make the press. The other people in the gallery have been debriefed. There won’t be any mention of it anywhere.”
The press only knows what those in charge want them to know. Politics is like the Mafia on steroids.
“You’ll stay here for the immediate future,” Dad says to me.
“I have a life—”
“And you’ll be here, where we can protect you better,” Mom adds, her voice leaving no room for disagreement.
I love my apartment. I don’t want to live in the White House.
I hate this haunted house.
Resigned, I let out a sigh. “Do you need me for anything else, or can I go to bed?”
“Go on up,” Mom replies, and catches my hand as I walk by. “Try to get some sleep.”
“I’m sure that won’t happen.” I kiss her cheek, then give Dad a side hug before climbing the stairs to my old bedroom. But suddenly, a thought occurs to me, and I turn back. “Wait. What about Chelsea?”
“She’s fine,” Richie says. “She’s at the hotel, and she’ll be back in DC on Monday.”
“She’s staying in New York after everything that happened tonight?” I frown and reach for my phone, but there aren’t any missed calls or texts from her.
“She doesn’t know what happened,” Bishop replies, with no emotion on his face. “She thinks you were pulled back here on official business.”
“And you won’t tell her otherwise,” Mom adds. “Good night, Lena.”
Fuck my life.
Chapter Two
Gideon
“You have good aim.” Nodding with approval, I cross my arms over my chest and stand back as the guys I’m training continue to shoot. Today is their last day here on my property in Montana, and after this, they’ll be out in the field, protecting celebrities, politicians, and billionaires.
My phone rings in my pocket. When I see “Bishop” on the screen, I send it to voicemail—for the fifth time today—and turn my attention back to the guys.
We go through my obstacle course, and I evaluate every one of them to make sure they’re ready to guard someone with their lives.
We started with ten trainees a month ago.
Six survived to today.
By the time we’re finished, Bishop has tried to call three more times, but I’ve ignored all of them. My old boss from Washington, DC, hasn’t called me in four years. He can wait another hour until my guys have left the property.
“Thank you,” Roberts says, shaking my hand. “You’re fucking brilliant.”
“I know.” I smirk and pat him on the back. “You’ve got this. You have my number if you have questions.”
They pack up into the van that’ll take them to their hotel in town, and when they’re gone, I walk into my house and take a breath.
I like training new guys. They’re motivated and dedicated, and they’re here to learn. If they’re not, they’re kicked out. I don’t tolerate bullshit.