4. Cole

4

COLE

J ake died on a beautiful day.

It didn't seem right at the time. Just like now. Lovejoy escaped. He's on the lam with two other men as bad or more dangerous than himself.

The sky shouldn't be such a perfect shade of blue. The sun shouldn't shine down with such stark brilliance, catching the highlights in Emory's honey locks. Her expression is at odds with her beauty. An ugly mask of fear verging on panic hangs on Emory's face.

She's right to be afraid. This is a hard world and a hard city. LA makes a lot of people stars. But for every star who shines bright, there are a thousand more who fall to earth and sink deep into the dirt, never to be seen again.

I can't stand Emory's fear and pain. It cuts me like filament wire, all the way to the bone.

"Emory, I'm going to keep you safe."

Her eyes, bluer than the sky above, dart over to me. Emory wants to believe me. She wants to be reassured. But she's no airhead. Emory is sharper than an armor piercing round. She penetrates through the layers of bull most people weave around themselves.

"I know you're trying to make me feel better, Cole," she says with a sigh. "But you're just one guy, against my ex and two main events from a true crime podcast. I was scared before. Now, I'm terrified."

It's hard to find the right words to respond. I've always known there are no guarantees in this world. Even when Jake and I went down into the Red Sea, the waves perfectly calm and visibility high, we'd known there was no guarantee we would make the trip back up.

I don't want to offer her cold comfort. It never gave me anything when it was offered to me. I think Emory deserves better.

"The future hasn't been written yet."

Emory frowns, her lips growing plumper in a pout.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, you keep acting like your ex getting to you, hurting you, is an inevitability. There's no reason to believe that."

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest protectively.

"What can we really do? We don't even know where Julian is, or what he's planning."

"We take calm, logical steps to keep you safe."

Emory visibly composes herself, but the suspicion remains deeply rooted in her blue eyes.

"All right, Cole. What calm, logical steps?"

"First off, you need to leave town for a few days, maybe a week."

Emory's face contorts as if she's in pain. Her eyes squeeze shut and she turns her face away from me as if the words hurt.

"I knew you were going to say that. When I talked to Jax, he assured me that wouldn't be the only option on the table."

"Why can't it be? And quite frankly, Jax told you that when we thought it was only Lovejoy to contend with. The game has changed."

Emory shakes her head. "No, the game has not changed. I just landed the biggest gig of my life. I'm working with multi platinum selling artists on what might be the ultimate boy band comeback of all time. I can't leave town. I have to finish this gig, because if I flake out now my career might as well be over."

I can't help a flash of annoyed rage boiling through me.

"You're more worried about your career than your life? Are you crazy?"

"A little, yeah," she snaps right back, body stiff and angular like a posturing mantis. "Or a lot. You don't understand how hard I've worked to get here."

"It can't be worth your life."

She puts her hands on her hips. "What would you do if you were in my situation? Would you give up on your career and give in to fear?"

A groan forces its way out of my mouth.

"It's different for me. My careers have all been inherently dangerous."

She rolls her eyes. "That's a cop out and you know it. Answer my question."

I chew it over in all seriousness. In every scenario, I come to the same conclusion.

"No," I say at length. "I wouldn't."

Emory relaxes, and we start walking across the lot toward the parked truck.

"I'm not going to let my insane ex-boyfriend crush my dreams," Emory says firmly. "I'm going to see this job through to the end."

I thought the same thing myself, except my job involves keeping her safe and in one piece. That could be damn hard if she has a steady schedule, a pattern others could take advantage of.

The more I think about it, the more I realize this is an impossible situation. Lovejoy and his minions will know where Emory is likely to be, and at what time to boot. How can I possibly keep her safe under these circumstances?

One thing's for certain: Right now, we're in the only safe place for her, because it's the only place we know for sure Lovejoy and his boys aren't.

I open the door for her and take my phone in hand.

"Hang tight for a minute," I say. "I'm going to make a quick call."

Emory nods, her eyes still swimming with fear, but also with stubborn will. Walking away from the truck, I dial Jax.

"What's going on, Cole?" he says by way of greeting.

I take pains to keep my back toward Emory when I speak, in case she can read lips.

"Boss man, I don't know if I can pull a rabbit out of this particular hat."

He sighs. "Why not? Are you saying you're not up to the task of keeping one woman safe?"

My heart rate increases, but I keep my tone level when I respond.

"That's not it at all. I can keep her safe, but she wants to keep working. Julian Lovejoy will be able to predict where she will be, and when. It's tantamount to suicide."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic, Cole?"

"If anything, I'm understating the danger."

Jax laughs, making my scowl deepen.

"Look, Cole, Platinum Security is a business. And we have to answer to our clients. If she wants to keep working, then protect her at work."

"What about on the way to work? What if Lovejoy posts up on a billboard and snipes her out when we make the morning commute?"

"Lovejoy isn't skilled with that class of weapon, and it's not his style. His psychological profile suggests that he still wants to win Emory back."

"Impossible," I say with a bit too much vehemence.

"Maybe, but that doesn't matter to Lovejoy. My point is, he's obsessed with her. He's not going to kill her, or even hurt her, until he has a chance to make one final play for her heart."

I rub the bridge of my nose. "Yes, but he's likely to abduct her to facilitate this little exchange." Peeking over my shoulder, I see Emory's silhouette in the passenger side of the truck.

I can't stand the idea of her being at that creep's mercy.

"Besides, if Lovejoy is obsessed with Emory like you say, Jax, then his only way out might be to purge the obsession."

Jax snorts. "Since when did you study criminology, Dr. Lechter?"

"I saw it in a movie. It's not safe, Jax."

"No, it's not, but that's why you're here. You have a job to do, Cole. Do it in the parameters the client establishes, or I'll assign someone else. Clear?"

"Clear."

I don't like the idea of someone else protecting her.

Maybe I slam the door shut a little bit too hard when I get back behind the wheel. Emory glances over at me, her face studiously blank.

"Is anything wrong?" she asks.

"No. Nothing's wrong at all."

Emory snorts. "I know that you think I'm an idiot for wanting to go back to work. You don't have to pretend."

"I don't think you're an idiot."

"Oh yeah? Then what do you think about me?"

Emory stares at me, bottom lip quivering, a look of challenge in her azure gaze. Her nostrils flare, and the fire in her eyes contrasts the ice in her tone.

What do I think of Emory? I think she's fascinating. I think she's brilliant. I think she's beautiful.

And she's already managed to get under my skin. But I'm smart enough not to say any of the bullshit going through my mind right now.

"I think you're the client, and that makes you my boss. If you want to go to work, my job is to keep you safe while that happens. Simple as that."

We stare at each other for a long moment, and then she chuckles and relaxes back into her seat.

"Your answer feels a little bit rehearsed, or like something you've heard someone else say. But I'll take it."

We spend much of the ride to her place in silence. I'm mulling over what Jax said, and there's a tension in the air leftover from our heated exchange outside of the prison.

When we reach her upscale neighborhood, she sits up straighter. I can see her staring intently at every parked car, every pedestrian. It's a good instinct to have, but I hate seeing her this way. I want to find the bastard Lovejoy and his cronies as quick as possible to spare Emory further pain.

"There," she says as we come up on her house, a two-story clinging to the side of a steep hill. "That's my place."

"Uh huh."

"Stop," she says as we drive right past it. "Did you not hear me? That was my house."

"I heard you."

"But…you missed it."

"No, I didn't."

She squirms in her seat. "But..."

"I didn't miss anything. Missing implies that I made a mistake. I never intended to pull into your driveway."

"Why not?"

"I want to scope the place out first. Do a little recon."

She gasps. "Wait, you think Julian or those, those henchmen of his could be at my place? Right now?"

"I think it's a possibility. I also think they could have spotters looking out for them. Or maybe they're hiding at the entrance to this subdivision. It never hurts to be too cautious."

I drive past her place three more times before I'm satisfied that no one is watching it from the outside, and there aren't any sentries posted on the subdivision itself. I park the truck in her steep driveway, and then give her a stern look.

"Listen, Emory. It's very important you stay right here, understand?"

"What? I can't go with you? But I thought it was clear."

"I need to make sure it's safe on the inside first, before I let you come in."

Emory swallows hard, her eyes glassy with fear.

"All right. I understand."

"I'm leaving the keys in the ignition. If you feel your life is in imminent danger, I want you to drive back to the Platinum Security office. Don't stop for anyone, not even the police."

Emory nods, and I get out of the truck. I keep my eyes focused on the darkened windows of her abode. No cover from gunfire. If Lovejoy is sitting in there, with a gun trained on me, I'm a dead man.

No gunshots as I approach the front door, but that doesn't mean it's safe. I remember that Banner is an expert with chemical based poisons. Could he have applied something dangerous to the doorknob?

I dig out a handkerchief and use it to open the door. Only then do I realize I've forgotten to disable the alarm. A loud screech pierces my eardrums. I quickly punch in the keycode and stop it.

Then I realize that the keypad could have been poisoned too. If so, it's too late now.

I push open the door. The smell of stale air recycled by the AC unit reaches my nostrils. Emory doesn't cook in her huge, open concept kitchen much. Otherwise, there would be some trace of seared meat or spices in the air. Probably she doesn't have the time.

I watch the corners, check my six, and work my way through the house in increments. I'm starting to think nobody's home. It still doesn't hurt to be cautious.

Besides, I'm learning little bits about Emory as I go.

Photos decorate the mantle in the living room. I stop to examine one of Emory, maybe three years younger, posing between two people who are likely her parents. She has her mother's eyes, but her father's nose. Somehow it all works for her.

The three of them seem happy, big smiles, a view of the Pacific in the background. My finger traces over the contours of Emory's face.

I move away, both from the photo and the feelings it inspires. In other photos, Emory's father stands with the assistance of a cane, sometimes even a walker. Health issues? A chronic illness, or rehab after an accident?

I remind myself that I'm supposed to be clearing her home, making sure it's safe for Emory to enter.

On toward the bedroom. I hesitate to enter. This is Emory's inner sanctum. I don't belong here, as much as I might wish I did.

I gently nudge the door open. My gaze falls on the neatly wrapped package in the center of her crisply made bed.

I'm afraid to enter her room for a totally different reason now. I retrace my steps and exit out the front door, moving around the outside of the house until I reach the window looking into her bedroom.

My finger traces over a thin, shiny groove in the metal. Someone has picked the lock to this window, and it wasn't a particularly skilled attempt.

Now there is no way Emory is going inside her home. Not until I know that the package isn't a bomb.

Bombs don't have to be big or elaborate affairs to do damage. Just a simple nail bomb can kill or maim. They're simple to make, with parts easily obtained. And instructions are available on the internet.

I don't have my kit with me. As many demo details as I did in the Navy, I'm not used to improvisation. My best bet is to use a lifeline.

Moving slowly, hoping that if there is a bomb it won't go off because of the signal, I bring out my cell phone and unlock the screen.

I find my contact right at the top, literally the first entry.

Now let's just hope he's around.

I send a text first, 911, and then call, putting the phone on speaker and setting it carefully on the mattress.

It rings several times. I'm about to give up hope when a deep voice comes over the speaker.

"Hey, man, you good?"

"I'm good, Axel," I say. Then I have to laugh. "Well, no, I'm not really good. I have a problem, but it's not the one you think."

"Oh. When I saw the 911–"

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not feeling depressed or like I'm going to hurt myself. In fact, I'm trying hard not to get hurt. I think I have a bomb on my hands."

"Well, that's dumb. Why would you go and do that?"

It takes me a second to realize he's joking. Axel has a penchant for gallows humor, but only at the worst possible times.

"You know me, I'm no brain trust. Want to know what I'm dealing with here?"

"Yeah, might as well. I assume there's no countdown clock?"

I snort. "Have you ever actually seen one of those in the field, Axel?"

"Hell no. What are the dimensions?"

"A box, about twenty-four inches long and eighteen wide."

"Is it a deep box?" he asks.

"No, it's kind of shallow."

"Sounds like a garment box, Cole."

I sigh. "Possibly, but it's wrapped. I can't tell what's inside."

"Then you need to get the paper off, while disturbing the package as little as possible. Do you have your kit with you?"

"Of course not."

"But I'll bet you have your trusty knife."

"True."

My hand reaches down to the knife at my belt. I flick the switchblade out and carefully cut the thin wrapping paper.

"Okay, it's open at both ends."

"Try to slide the paper off, and again, don't move the package more than you have to."

Sweat beads on my brow as I remove the paper, sliding the box free. It's not heavy, whatever it is. So, not a nail bomb, but it could be plastic explosives.

"It looks like a plain ass box inside," I report.

"You need to get inside the box itself," Axel says. "Otherwise we won't know what you're dealing with."

The knife slices through, layer by layer. I peel back the corrugated brown paper until only one thin membrane remains.

"Okay, down to the last bit…" I say.

"Stay frosty, Cole. This is the worst of it."

"Right."

This is it, the most dangerous part. If I pierce this final layer, I could set off what's inside. But likewise, it may not be safe to just leave it, either.

Something flashes in my peripheral vision. I glance up and see the last thing I want to see.

Emory, standing in the doorframe while I've got a possible bomb in my hands.