Chapter One

Even without the neon yellow sign that read “STONEbrAKER” in thick black marker, Wes would have recognized the man sent to greet him at the Toronto Pearson International Airport. Isaac had assured Wes he’d have no trouble picking Jonas Elwyn out of the crowd, and Wes trusted Isaac implicitly. Isaac Kaur, an old friend from his police academy days, before Wes and his two brothers had gone a different route and formed their own business, had called with a close protection job for him. Turned out Isaac was now the head of event security for Audio Siren—a rock band Wes had never heard of—and the lead singer, Shane Castle, was having a serious stalker problem.

“I know you, Wes,” Isaac had said. “I don’t trust anyone else for this.”

Bodyguard gigs for celebrities were not Wes’s first choice. He hated all the bright lights, and the crowds and music fans were on another level. Unpredictable fans aside, high maintenance people exhausted him. There was a reason he preferred to live a simple life at his home on Haverstall Mountain Ranch in Northern Colorado, surrounded by nature and wildlife and horses, and limiting his jobs to the digital chase.

But Isaac was a friend and had called for his help directly. Not to mention sweetening the offer by asking for Wes’s investigative expertise as well.

And Isaac couldn’t have been more accurate. In a sea of neutral clothing and exhausted faces, Jonas stuck out like a bright, bold beacon of hope .

Jonas stood tall and confident, dressed in a peach-colored three-piece suit with a crisp white collared shirt and a thin pastel-blue tie. On his feet were spotless white shoes that looked like a cross between loafers and Doc Martens. Round glasses with pink-tinted lenses framed his sparkling eyes, and his dark blond hair was coiffed to perfection. A good-looking man, if flashy dudes in flashy suits were Wes’s thing.

Jonas grinned when his gaze landed on Wes. He lowered the sign and approached. “Going by that cowboy hat, I’m guessing you’re Mr. Stonebraker.”

“Wes, please.” Wes reached out to shake Jonas’s hand. His grip was firm and as bold as everything else about the man.

“Jonas Elwyn, but call me Jonas.” His voice was clear, a touch nasal, and carried over the din of the busy airport. “I’m Audio Siren’s band manager.”

Wes tipped his hat.

“This way.” Jonas gestured over his shoulder. “I’ll fill you in on the way to the hotel.”

Wes followed Jonas outside to a short-term parking lot and toward a silver Mercedes SUV. The fresh air, albeit choked with exhaust, was a welcome reprieve from the circulated air on the plane. Wes placed his large suitcase into the back of the vehicle before climbing into the passenger side.

Once buckled in, his laptop bag stowed at his feet, Jonas navigated the tangle of asphalt arteries that led from the airport and onto a busy highway.

“So, tell me what’s been going on?” Wes asked as he stared out the window at the passing scenery, such as it was—nothing but highway interchanges and enough signs to boggle the mind. And it was all so flat. Not a single mountain to be seen. A longing for the rugged peaks and lush greens of Northern Colorado hit him like a hoof to the chest. And he’d only been in Toronto for less than an hour.

Jonas clenched his jaw as he rolled his hands on the steering wheel.

“I’m sure you know celebrity comes with some less than desirable side effects, one of which being intrusive fans.”

Wes nodded. “Especially for musicians. Music is emotive by nature and can lead some people to break from reality. ”

“Right. The stories I could tell you . . .” Jonas huffed and shook his head. “Anyway, we noticed a fan a couple months ago who has been more annoying than usual. Nothing that worried us too much, though. Not at first.” Jonas flipped on the right turn signal and changed lanes. “It was the usual stuff—letters declaring their love for Shane. Gifts showing up at concerts, and so on. But more recently, some of those letters and gifts have arrived at the hotels where the band was staying. Hand delivered to Shane’s rooms, in different cities and states.”

“That’s a pretty dedicated fan to follow the band on tour,” Wes said, his mind collecting and cataloguing the information.

“Dedicated but not uncommon,” Jonas said. “It’s a thing. Fans for all kinds of bands will follow an entire leg of a tour. Some even follow the tours overseas.”

Wes shook his head. He got wanting to see your favorite band more than once, but to him that meant when they came to your city, or a neighboring city. Close enough that it didn’t require time off work, but far enough to make it a weekend getaway. But to follow them all the way across the country, and beyond? No. He didn’t get that at all. That could help narrow down potential suspects, however, as the stalker would need a job with a flexible schedule or a degree of wealth to make that much travel possible.

Or the stalker was already on the road with the band.

“What is uncommon, more than somehow figuring out which hotels the band is at, is finding out which rooms were Shane’s.” Jonas looked over his shoulder before changing lanes again. “That’s not public information, nor is it shared outside our immediate need-to-know crew.”

“Do you have any idea who it could be?” Wes asked, squinting from a blast of sunlight reflecting off a cluster of tall, glass-fronted high-rises. “Anyone hanging around that shouldn’t be?”

“Not a clue.” Jonas glanced toward Wes. The pink tint of his glasses obscured his eye color, but Wes imagined they were blue. “I should know, being his manager, but honestly, Isaac and Sonia can tell you more, as can Chloe.”

“And they are? ”

“Isaac, you know, of course,” Jonas began. “Sonia Allard is Shane’s personal assistant. She spends more time with him than anyone else, aside from the rest of the band. Chloe Palmer is the band’s publicist and handles their social media accounts.”

Wes reached for his carry-on bag and retrieved his laptop. He opened an app that he’d custom built for Stonebraker Protection and Investigation Services, the business he and his brothers founded. His oldest brother Colt, a logistical specialist and profiler, was the brains behind their company. His ability at reading people bordered on preternatural. Wes’s younger brother, Levi, was a highly skilled tracker with a photographic memory. Levi was also a natural people person. He could get just about anyone to say just about anything. Wes was the digital wizard. While he wouldn’t technically call himself a hacker, he had a talent for breaking code and tracing digital crumbs. All three of them offered close protection as well.

He opened a new file, entered Sonia and Chloe’s names and positions, and saved it into a folder titled “Audio Siren”, that he’d started after Isaac’s call.

“Have the letters and gifts grown beyond superfan level?” Wes asked as he saved the file, and started a new one for incidents, and another for potential suspects and leads.

“Isaac mentioned something about you being more than a bodyguard,” Jonas said, flashing another grin.

“We all are, my brothers and I.”

Jonas nodded, his expression tightening. “We haven’t shown the most recent letters to Shane. Chloe tries to get to any emails and direct social media messages before he does. Stalker aside, there’s a lot of inane shit people say to celebrities that they don’t need to hear. Better for everyone’s mental health all around. They might be famous, but they’re still human beings. Just like everyone else. But in the last month or so, his stalker’s messages have become more possessive in tone, threatening even, and the gifts have become more personal and . . . Let’s just say, disturbingly intimate.” Jonas merged off the highway onto an expressway. “Whoever this person is, they seem to think Shane is their destiny and they’re going to be married on New Year’s Day. ”

“That’s specific,” Wes said under his breath. The whole stalker thing creeped him out but became downright horrifying when the stalkers felt they owned the person they obsessed over. That’s when the potential for deadly outcomes grew exponentially. Wes knew nothing about Shane, but he felt for the guy. No one should have to live a life of always looking over their shoulder. “So, what happened that prompted you to call me?”

Jonas reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket and handed Wes a photocopy of a polaroid. The image depicted Shane Castle in bed, asleep, and a person spooning him from behind with an arm tucked around Shane’s waist. Without the black hoodie and gloves, one might simply think it was a candid photo of an established couple.

“This happened on our last stop, in New York City.”

Wes whistled. “I see what you mean.” He handed the photo back, but Jonas motioned for him to keep it. Wes tucked it into his laptop bag. “Was Shane harmed in any way? Any sign of forced entry? Could it have been a groupie Shane brought back to the hotel with him?”

Jonas shook his head. “Other than shaken up, Shane is fine. We don’t know how the person got in, and as for Shane and groupies, well . . . Believe it or don’t, not all rock stars live up to the stereotype.”

Maybe, maybe not. Wes hadn’t met a lot of rock stars—he’d only had one bodyguard gig for a pop star, and it had been a nightmare with groupies always around and clamoring for their idol’s attention. Suspects were endless in that case, and the stalker hadn’t been declaring their love but threatening to kill. That stalker turned out to be someone the star trusted—their personal assistant.

“But yes, that’s why Shane needs twenty-four-hour protection.” Jonas nudged his glasses higher on the bridge of his very straight nose. “He wasn’t . . . you know. But it’s terrifying to think what that person could have done to him. He was out of it, like he was hungover, but he doesn’t drink. We think someone spiked his water.”

Wes suppressed a shudder. He couldn’t imagine how frightening that must have been for Shane. And if Shane wasn’t hungover, Jonas was right in thinking someone could have roofied him.

“Did you test Shane for Rohypnol or other date rape drugs? ”

Jonas nodded. “Yes. Both Shane and the water bottle in his room, but we don’t have the results back yet.”

“What is Shane’s current protection status?” Wes asked as he made a notation about possibly being drugged. “Isaac told me he heads up a security team?”

“Yes. Isaac has a crew of five who handle event security for the whole band, but they aren’t personal bodyguards. They only work when the band is on tour,” Jonas said, slowing to take the expressway off-ramp that dropped them onto tree-lined surface streets.

The buildings grew taller and closer, and Wes shifted in his seat as a twinge of claustrophobia pressed in on him. Which was odd. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but the endless concrete and steel and glass was suffocating. Maybe it was the lack of a horizon line that squeezed his lungs and amplified his yearning for open spaces and towering evergreens and the constant babbling of the Laramie River behind his cabin back on the ranch.

“They make sure the band doesn’t have any issues getting to and from the concert venues, interviews, recording studios, etcetera,” Jonas was saying. “But after what happened yesterday morning, we can’t take any more chances.”

“You’ve filed a police report, yes?”

“We have.”

“I’d like a copy of everything, please.” Wes made a note in his app to follow up in case Jonas forgot, but he needn’t have worried.

Jonas pressed the phone icon on the display screen attached to the vehicle dash and said, “Call Sonia.” A few seconds later, the call connected, and a professional-sounding female voice answered.

“Sonia,” Jonas said, raising his voice over the hum of the engine. “I need you to get a copy of yesterday’s police report for Shane’s new bodyguard.”

“I’ll have it waiting when you arrive,” she said, her voice crisp and efficient. “What’s your ETA?”

“About five minutes,” Jonas replied. He disconnected without saying goodbye.

Abruptly, in Wes’s opinion—his mom would have cuffed Jonas upside the ear for such rude behavior—but perhaps that’s how they did business in these circles .

“Do you have any suspicions as to who this might be?” Wes asked, catching a blink-and-miss-it glimpse of Lake Ontario between buildings as Jonas turned onto a street named Queens Quay West, where small urban parks broke the drab gray and lessened the oppressive feeling of the city. “The access the stalker seems to have to Shane leads me to think it might be someone he already knows.”

“I would hate to think that’s the case.” Jonas clenched his jaw, and the skin around his eyes tightened. “We background check everyone on payroll and haven’t come across any major red flags.”

Which didn’t always tell the whole story, Wes thought. How many times did the nice, quiet guy next door turn out to be a murderer?

Conversation fell silent while Jonas steered into the parking lot of a towering hotel. A sign at the entrance proclaimed the hotel eco-certified. Wes didn’t know what an establishment had to do to be declared eco-friendly, but he snapped a photo to send to Mason, owner of Haverstall Mountain Ranch and Colt’s boyfriend, later. Mason would love that, being he focused on ethical and sustainable ranching, and had revoked the hunting leases his late father offered on the vast ranch in favor of wilderness eco-camps.

Jonas drove around to the back of the parking lot and through a gated entrance to the underground garage. Once inside, he parked beside a row of matching silver SUVs, all with tinted windows.

“I’ll take you up to meet Shane now,” Jonas said as they entered the elevator, after gathering Wes’s luggage. He pressed a key card to the panel and pressed PH2 when the light flashed green. “He can fill you in on what’s been happening from his side of things. Then we’ll sit down with Sonia and Chloe and get you copies of all the correspondence Shane has received.”

“Sounds good.”

The elevator opened to a foyer with textured gold wallpaper and dark, wide-planked wood floors. Wes bumped his hip on a glass entry table that was sitting to the left as he stepped inside and bit back a curse. Bright-colored flowers in a tall vase rattled on its surface. Straight ahead was a dining table that wouldn’t look out of place in his cabin back home, but the eight modern chairs covered in red and black leather didn’t match. An inviting bowl of apples sat in the center of the table and Wes realized he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. Thanks to his fear of flying, he’d never been able to eat before or during a flight. His stomach had tied up in knots the second he’d booked his flight and was only now beginning to settle.

Through large, floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a view of the massive Lake Ontario was the horizon. He could see for miles. His lungs expanded, and he took his first full breath since climbing onto the charter plane at the ranch’s private airstrip earlier that morning.

“Shane?” Jonas called out. “I’m here with your new bodyguard.”

Wes and Jonas only walked a few feet into the penthouse suite before Shane Castle rounded the corner. Wes cataloged three things at once:

One, Shane looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He had dark circles under his honey-brown eyes, his complexion was pale, and there was a wariness in his gaze that Wes would bet his bottom dollar wasn’t normal. From his research, Wes knew Shane was twenty-eight, but even exhausted, he looked younger.

Two, he was a few inches shorter than Wes’s six-foot-two height, with a lanky frame. His longish hair was a dark brunet with golden highlights, the bangs falling to the bridge of his nose, and a neatly trimmed goatee hugged his chin. He wore a black, short-sleeved shirt with a distressed collar. Intricate and colorful tattoos covered the exposed skin of both his arms, and silver, black leather, and bright rainbow-threaded bracelets adorned his wrists. Silver rings on his thumbs, fore, and pinky fingers glinted in the bright light of the suite, and his fingernails were painted black. He wore jeans fashionably ripped at the knees and thighs, black again, and his feet were bare. Sexy popped into Wes’s mind unbidden. He frowned.

And three, when Shane’s gaze landed on Wes, a gasp of breath escaped his open mouth and echoed throughout the suite. Shane’s features hardened, his expression blanked, and he narrowed his eyes at Jonas.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”