Code Name: Genesis Page 4

  “Who’s that?” Cruce asks as he thumbs her way.

  “Client.” I give her a glance, hating how even from far away she still causes my skin to tighten.

  Cruce cocks one eyebrow at my clipped tone.

  I force myself to relax, embarrassed the woman makes me so uptight. “She’s got a stalker after her. He managed to break into her house, then tried to strangle her a few days ago.”

  Because Cruce is a man who has spent his entire career protecting people, I’m not surprised by the hardening of his jawline with immediate concern.

  “Got any leads?” he asks.

  Before I answer, I motion with my hand for him to take a chair and I take another perpendicular to him. He folds his muscular frame in with surprising grace.

  “I’m taking her back to California tomorrow. We’re going to try to lure him to come after her again.”

  “Risky.”

  “We’ll be ready for him, and she’ll be fully protected,” I assure him. “It’s low risk.”

  Cruce makes a sound low in his throat that sounds like disapproval to me. And I like it, because I don’t need a team that thinks just like me. I want to consider all angles, and I’ve been looking forward to this interview with Cruce because it makes for an excellent opportunity to see how he thinks on his feet.

  I ease into it, though.

  “I have to say,” I drawl casually as I cross one leg over the other. “You certainly have the best letter of recommendation I’ve ever seen.”

  Cruce chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Can’t really top the president of the United States writing a letter on your behalf, can you?”

  “No, you can’t,” I agree.

  Cruce Britton has spent his entire working career at the U.S. Secret Service. His resume gave me the bullet points. Bachelor’s degree in criminal justice, eight years in the Los Angeles field investigative office, then four years protecting the newly sworn in Vice President Jonathan Alexander and his family.

  When the president decided not to run for a second term due to health issues, Jonathan Alexander threw his hat into the ring and won an easy victory. He was sworn in three months ago as our country’s newest president, yet Cruce is sitting here in search of a new job.

  “Why didn’t you take the presidential detail when Alexander took office?” I ask bluntly. “You spent four years protecting him as vice president. Based on the letter he gave me on your behalf, I’m guessing he wanted you by his side for the next four years.”

  Cruce smiles casually. “Actually… we’re allowed to stay on protective detail only about five years. I’d already served four so, at best, I’d only have a year with him. It just seemed like an appropriate time to start a new career.”

  “What happens once you’re off protective detail?” I ask curiously, since I don’t know a lot about the Secret Service.

  “Back to a field office doing investigations. Mostly financial crime and fraud. And no offense to those who do that shit, but I’m not a cop. Don’t enjoy sitting behind a desk either.”

  I nod in understanding and empathy. One of the reasons I wanted to expand Jameson into more covert and dangerous stuff is I’m getting a little bored myself. Much of running this business is sitting behind a desk. For a self-proclaimed adrenaline junkie, it’s not been my happiest times as the head of this company.

  The Secret Service is not ordinarily where I’d recruit from for this new group I’m forming within Jameson. Sure, someone like Cruce is an incredible marksman and his attention to detail when it comes to protective services is unparalleled. He’d be a no brainer to put in Vegas with Rachel and let him protect high-profile celebrities.

  But this new venture requires a bit more than that. Most of my recruits are going to be former Special Forces since I want their advanced fighting and weapons skills, knowledge of explosives, and actual battle experience, which means they’re cool under pressure.

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have looked twice at someone applying from the Secret Service, but Cruce does have something that sets him apart from the rest of the organization.

  “Tell me about the attempt on then Vice President Alexander’s life,” I say, and he blinks in surprise.

  I watch him carefully to see if there’s any reticence because I can’t ever have one of my guys holding back on me.

  He merely nods in understanding as to why I’d want to know more about it. After all, it made Cruce an international sensation and won him the undying gratitude of a soon-to-be president.

  “There are a lot of details I can’t give you,” he begins by saying, and I don’t bother telling him I’ve got high enough security clearance with both the U.S. and British governments I could get all the details if I wanted.

  But I don’t because I don’t care. I just want to hear him recount what happened, so I can I gauge just how traumatic it really was to him.

  “Tell me what you can,” I assure him.

  Cruce’s blue eyes—which are really an unusually light shade—darken quite a bit. His voice takes on an almost somber tone. “You know the set up… Jonathan Alexander—who was vice president at the time—was giving a graduation speech at Loyola, which is his alma mater. I was his primary and positioned off to his left, just behind him and the podium. When he finished the speech, I let him precede me off the stage and into the wings of the theater we were in. The plan was to take him straight to the limo waiting outside as he had a flight to catch. Two other agents were waiting by the double doors that led to the car.”

  Cruce falls silent. He takes a moment to rotate his neck, as if it had tightened up on him. I can faintly hear bones pop.

  His gaze comes to me and locks. “I don’t know how I saw it. I normally shouldn’t have been watching for it. My job was to consider everything that could be a potential threat to Cavalier.”

  Cavalier being the code name the Secret Service used for the vice president. I press him to continue. “But you saw something.”

  “I just had a feeling,” he says with a small shake of his head and a wry smile. “Don’t ask me how or why, but I looked at Nicholson instead.”

  He was the Secret Service agent at the door. His name will be forever embedded in our history books as the man employed to protect the vice president and who also tried to kill him.

  “It was a flash of silver, but it was shadowy. I couldn’t really tell what it was,” Cruce continues with a tone akin to amazement. “It could have been the silver wrapping on a stick of gum for all I knew, but my gut said it was something more sinister. I didn’t hesitate.”

  No, he didn’t. In front of a video crew who had been filming a documentary on Vice President Alexander—as it was widely known at that point he was going to make a run for president—Cruce Britton hadn’t hesitated a moment in pulling out his service pistol and cranking four bullets into Special Agent Nicholson’s chest.

  It was all caught on film, so there was no misinterpreting what Nicholson had planned. From his pocket, he’d pulled an eight-inch shiv, raised it high in the air, and had started lunging at Vice President Alexander when the first bullet caught him in the chest. It all came out in the investigation, but Nicholson held a deep-seated grudge against the current administration for its foreign war policies. Plus, he was a little touched in the head. He had hoped to make a statement by killing the vice president, and he had fully intended to die for the cause. There was a letter in his breast pocket.

  What made Cruce’s actions so heroically phenomenal was it all went down in just a few seconds. He’d reacted on pure instinct. There hadn’t been anything that ever could have led him to believe one of his own would try to kill the VP.

  “There are some who believe you acted too rashly,” I point out to Cruce. “That you had time to engage him in hand-to-hand combat to stop the attack, which would have saved his life.”

  That produces a chuckle out of Cruce, and his eyes actually lighten up and sparkle. “Only person’s opinion who matters is Alexa
nder’s, and he’s grateful for what I did.”

  “So no second guessing yourself?” I ask.

  “Never,” he assures me. “If he’d had a piece of gum in his hand, I’d be in prison suffering the consequences.”

  That’s what I needed to hear. It’s not up to me or anyone else to judge the situation. The case was thoroughly investigated by the Justice Department, and Cruce was cleared of any wrongdoing. In fact, he ended up getting a presidential commendation out of it. But I needed to know he was at peace with his decision to kill someone. It’s not something I tend to doubt from my employees who are former Special Forces.

  He’s satisfied me on that front, and I want him at Jameson.

  “The job is yours if you want it.” I’d previously laid out salary and benefits to him during a phone interview last week. He was interested in one of the new apartments upstairs. However, my offer to him was contingent on his references panning out—and a strong letter of praise from the current president suffices—and me meeting with him first. It’s safe to say that as of this moment, I’m confident in opening the doors to him. “Only other thing you’d have to do is a psych evaluation.”

  “I’m okay with that. When would you want me to start?”

  “Today if you want,” I answer with a smile. “The apartments upstairs won’t be ready for a few weeks, but I’ll put you up in a hotel of your choice as part of your signing bonus.”

  “I’m definitely interested,” he tells me, and I don’t miss the almost sly tone of his voice. He leans forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees. “But I need something from you first.”

  Some would be offended, but I find myself intrigued. “What’s that, mate?”

  “I need a reference from you,” he says bluntly. “A high-ranking member of congress would suffice, although I’d settle for someone at the CIA or Homeland Security. I want to know that what you plan to do here at Jameson isn’t a pipe dream. I want to know Jameson is trusted by our government.”

  I just stare at Cruce, realizing if I land him on board with us, I’ve got a true leader on my hands. While he may have had no hesitation in pumping his colleague full of lead based on just a “flash of silver” and “gut instinct,” he’s not really the impetuous type as proven by his care in checking me out as thoroughly as I’m doing to him. That makes me want him on my team even more.

  “I’ll have three names for you to contact by tomorrow morning,” I assure him as I stand from my chair.

  He follows suit, and we shake hands. “You’ll have my answer as soon as I check you out then,” Cruce says with a smile.

  “It will be ‘yes’,” I reply confidently, knowing he’ll be impressed with how deep Jameson is already in with the U.S. government. Over the past decade, we’ve done quite a few off-the-books missions that saved lives, dollars, and reputations.

  Cruce says he can see himself out of the building, and I don’t feel the need to escort him. If I didn’t trust him implicitly, I wouldn’t have made the job offer.

  I instead turn toward the conference room, noting Joslyn is now sitting in one of the chairs, head bent over her phone. When I open the door, she jolts slightly. There’s no hiding the tiny bit of fear and panic I assume comes pretty naturally to a woman who has to be skittish as hell after what she’s been through.

  “Get everything set up for the meeting?” I ask.

  “Breakfast meeting, day after tomorrow. At my house.”

  “Perfect,” I reply, motioning for her to stand. “Let’s head over to the hotel and get checked in for the night.”

  Joslyn looks exhausted. She’s had a rough few days between someone trying to kill her, having to grovel to an ex she’s on bad terms with so I’d take her case, and then flying cross country today. She’s not going to fare any better tomorrow as we head back west, but if I can get a good meal into her and several hours of solid sleep, she shouldn’t feel any worse.

  CHAPTER 6

  Joslyn

  His hands close around my throat, and my oxygen is immediately closed off. Although he’s wearing a ski mask over his face, I know I’d be able to recognize him by the color of his eyes. A golden-yellow color shot through with streaks of brown. Some might consider them beautiful but not me. There’s too much malice and hate within them to be considered anything but evil.

  Bending his head so his mouth hovers just above my own, he murmurs, “I know we’re just getting started, but I can honestly say… you’ve been my favorite.”

  His hands tighten even harder, and I feel something pop in my throat as my world turns black.

  I jolt awake, sitting up straight in bed and gasping for breath. My hands clutch at my throat, trying to pull his fingers away, but they come away with nothing. It takes a moment for it to permeate.

  A dream.

  Another fucking dream.

  I flop on my pillows, which are damp with sweat, and rub my hand over my face. “Shit,” I mutter with a tiny laugh of relief that I’m alive and well.

  It’s the same dream I’ve had for the last three nights since that asshole attacked me in my own home. I dreaded even falling asleep tonight, knowing this night terror was probably going to happen again.

  I take in a few deep breaths, willing myself to accept I’m safe and secure in a Pittsburgh hotel. I’ve got a man who was trained by the Special Forces in the other bedroom of this suite—one who is well armed. Besides, my stalker is most likely still on the West Coast. No matter how good he might be with computers, it’s unlikely he’s tracked me here given the private flight we took and registering under Kynan’s name.

  “You’re safe, Joslyn,” I murmur into the darkness right as my belly rumbles.

  And hungry, apparently. I’d barely picked at the room service meal I’d ordered and eaten alone. Kynan had dinner down in the hotel restaurant as he had another potential employee to interview, but he assured me I was safe during his absence with an armed guard standing in the hallway outside the suite door. I didn’t bother asking who. I just assumed it was one of his Jameson employees from Vegas or maybe even someone local. Regardless, the cost would be added to my bill, but that was okay.

  I can afford to throw unlimited funds at securing my safety, which is exactly what I intend to do. I’ve hired the best, and I’ve got no doubt Kynan will get the situation resolved for me.

  My stomach gurgles again, and I roll off the bed. I pad quietly across the thick carpet, then open the door that leads into the main living area. It’s dark with a few rays of moonlight slashing diagonally across the room. My gaze goes to Kynan’s bedroom door, directly across from mine. It’s opened several inches, but it’s too dark to see anything inside. I assume he’s sleeping, but something tells me probably not soundly. On my tiptoes, I make every effort to move in silence toward the refrigerator. I saw some trail mix in there earlier when I’d gotten a bottle of water.

  I slide past the couch, around the end table, and make it to the fridge as quiet as a mouse. When I pull it open, it makes a slight hiss. Through the dim light that glows, I make out the glass cannister of trail mix. I barely have my fingers around it when I hear Kynan say from behind me, “Grab me a bottle of water, will you?”

  Jumping, I squeak in surprise as my hand goes to my heart. I whip around to see him lying on the couch. Two rays of moonlight cut across his body, illuminating the black gun he has on his chest. He’s fully clothed, even wearing his shoes.

  “What are you doing? And why do you have your gun out?” I ask, scanning the darkened room before coming to rest on him.

  Sighing, Kynan reaches an arm behind him to the lamp on the side table. The room floods with light, causing me to blink against the brightness. When I’m able to focus again, Kynan is rolling off the couch. He places the gun on the coffee table.

  “Decided to sleep out here,” he says to answer my question. Then he just stops and stares, his eyes running boldly down my body and moving up twice as slowly.

  I blush from the tips of my toes
to the roots of my hair when I remember what I’m wearing. I’ve got on a soft cotton camisole and a tiny pair of matching shorts. My nipples are hard as rocks and pushing against the fabric, and the fire in Kynan’s eyes says he appreciates every bit of it.

  I cross my arms quickly over my chest and Kynan brings his gaze back to my face. He’s neither embarrassed nor chagrined to have been caught blatantly checking me out, but he also doesn’t seem affected anymore. His tone is bland and uninterested. “Just doing my duty to protect you, Joslyn. If I’d been in that room with the door closed, wouldn’t have done much good if someone had come sneaking in here, now would it?”

  “You really think that’s going to happen? Here in Pittsburgh?” I ask.

  “Unlikely, but not impossible.” Kynan nods toward the fridge, which is still open. “Hand me a water, would you?”

  “Sure,” I mumble, then turn to grab two bottles before closing the door.

  When I hand one off to him, he moves to the couch, taking a seat on one edge. He twists the cap off and takes a sip before asking, “Why are you up?”

  “Bad dream,” I reply quietly, moving to take a seat on the other end of the couch. I hunch my shoulders inward, hoping to alleviate the pull of my camisole over my breasts, but Kynan’s not paying them any attention anymore. His eyes are locked with mine.

  “About your attack?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I admit as I trace my finger down the edge of the water bottle. “The part where he was choking me and I was on the verge of passing out.”

  I don’t expect sympathy from Kynan. He doesn’t give it to me, either, but he does offer assurance. “That will never happen again, Joslyn. I promise you. You’re safe.”

  I nod, thankful for his words. I trust him, but it still doesn’t remove all the fear. “He said something to me… right before the police pulled into my driveway with the sirens blaring.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said I’d been his favorite.” I shudder as I force the words out.