Concierge (Black Raven Book 3) Page 3

  “You, plus those two on the line for a job assignment?” Definitely not the norm.

  “Ragno will be on the call, too. Client’s that important. We just finished a troubleshooting call. Brandon is currently on the phone with Hutchenson, trying to persuade her not to fire the company, then he’ll call in. Your buddy, Ragno—”

  “She’s your buddy, too—”

  “Not denying that. I respect the hell out of her intuition. That’s why I’m agreeing with her. She’s diagnosed the job as needing Gabe-ness.” Zeus gave a rare laugh. “Hell. I’m saying it like even I’m starting to believe that magic fucking fairy dust swirls around you. Anyway, Ragno’s sending you the file. Brandon and Sebastian are calling in. Ready for a call?”

  “Give me a few seconds.” Gabe made his way through the semi-framed house. As the construction team stopped their conversation, he said to them, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Most important thing in this whole house?”

  The builder, architect, and designer glanced at him with questioning eyes.

  “You already know it. The kitchen. I love to cook and I’m a gadget junkie. I need lots of space in cabinets. And counter space. Plenty of it. Got it?”

  They nodded and returned his smile.

  “Zeus, ready when you are.” Gabe jogged across the wooded yard and climbed into his truck. As he fired up the engines and cranked up the heat to ward off the wintry chill, his phone vibrated with a text from Ragno, ‘Z gave you the heads up?’

  Black Raven’s lead data analyst kept a hands-on approach with various high-profile jobs that required her skills while overseeing the Denver-based think tank that handled investigations and cyber intelligence for in-field agents. Ragno’s division alone numbered in the hundreds. The in-field agents, in jobs worldwide, numbered in the thousands.

  ‘Yep,’ Gabe replied via text. ‘Not like you to let Z beat you to the punch. WTF’s going on?’

  ‘Swamped. Plus I’m working on your job file. Hutchenson deserves better than we’ve delivered. You need to figure out how to help her.’

  Gabe reached for his iPad and started the protocol that enabled access to Black Raven’s encrypted databases. Slipping his mic into his ear, he touched a button on his watch that activated his audio line.

  After a round of hellos, Ragno used her all-business, clipped tone, to deliver essentials. “Job’s a domestic twenty-four/seven detail. Client is female. An artist. Lives in the French Quarter. Her physical world encompasses her Royal Street townhome and a radius of four square miles, give or take a few blocks. She was kidnapped, brutalized, and left for dead by an attacker two and a half years ago. Since then, she’s suffered severe PTSD issues. Acute anxiety disorder. Hallucinations. Stress-induced agoraphobia. Night terrors. She’s fighting it all, though. Well on the road to recovery.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase, Gabe,” Brandon said. “My brother’s the reason our client is in this state. You’re familiar with what happened in New Orleans involving my wife’s family and her father’s business partners a couple years ago?”

  “Yes.” Gabe was connected to the powers-that-be in Black Raven enough to know that Victor Morrissey, Brandon’s brother, had, among other things, killed two women and kidnapped two others. One of the women he’d kidnapped was Taylor, who had since become Brandon’s wife. The other had been Andi Hutchenson. Absorbing the grim concern in Brandon’s voice as the lawyer provided details, Gabe typed a text to Ragno-‘K. NOW I get it. Where’s the file?’

  ‘Hold your horses. Building one for your eyes only.’

  ‘U playing me?’

  ‘Always, Angel. Always.’

  “I consider Hutchenson my responsibility, as well,” Sebastian said. “I was in New Orleans when it all went down.”

  Gabe’s gaze crawled over tall, skinny pines gently swaying in the winter wind, while Sebastian replayed a few of the tense moments for all in Black Raven as the debacle with Brandon’s brother had played out. “Like Brandon, I see our work on this job as a way to make things right,” Sebastian continued. “On site agents aren’t giving her job the respect it deserves. Our work force suffers from hotshot mentality. Agents aren’t understanding that when we’re doing our job correctly, the days will be damn quiet.”

  “I’m trying to rectify that problem in my courses at Last Resort.” Gabe reached for the dash and turned off the truck’s heat.

  “Use your expertise,” Zeus said. “Do a trouble-shooting assessment, establish team protocol going forward, and make sure the team that’s in place functions in a manner that satisfies Hutchenson’s objectives.”

  “Really, all she wants is constant eyes looking out for her,” Sebastian said. “Which means security in her home and safe time outside so that she can paint.”

  “I’m giving full disclosure here,” Brandon said, “she’s not easy on the agents.”

  Difficult clients typically weren’t a problem for Gabe, so he listened to the warnings, but focused on the density of the pine, birch, maple, and magnolia trees that filled his two-acre property. Beyond the construction frame, he spotted a couple of locations for a tree house and an elevated deck. He’d make it an outdoor gathering spot for the family he’d one day have. A place to be lazy and disconnected. Read books. Play board games. Strum his guitars. Maybe, finally, one day learn how to sing.

  “If you look at her as someone with an intense fear of being taken, but hates that she’s so afraid,” Ragno said, “it explains her behavior. She wants Black Raven there, but she doesn’t like the intrusion or her weakness. She’s got rules in the file for agents to follow. They’re not outlandish. Nothing like the eye-aversion stipulations our more eccentric clients sometimes put into contracts.”

  “I can handle rules.” Especially since I’ll ignore most of them. Gabe pushed the seat further back, stretched his legs, and clicked on the iPad to refresh the connection. Inter-office emails loaded, but there was no file on the Hutchenson case.

  “Yeah,” Zeus said. “We all know rules are subject to interpretation with you. Be careful with this one.”

  “What was the precipitating event for today’s firing?” Gabe asked, looking at the front elevation of the house, imagining the wide expanse of windows that would soon be overlooking the gently sloping front yard.

  “We’re still trying to figure that out. Pursuant to her request, we’re transferring the two agents who were outside with her. The two agents who remain on detail have now requested transfers,” Ragno said. “As have most of the other agents who’ve been assigned the job. We’ve denied the transfer requests, consistent with company policy. Agents need to learn to embrace the suck and not cry to corporate when a job gets difficult.”

  “Agreed,” Gabe said.

  “I’m sending Agent Nathan Marks with you,” Ragno said, “assuming you approve?”

  Gabe knew Marks. Liked him. “Sure.”

  “He’s a prime candidate to be lead agent-in-charge once you deem the job is running properly,” Sebastian said.

  “Most of all,” Brandon interjected, “make the client feel safe and satisfied. Frankly, I’m worried that if she fires us, she’ll spiral downward. I can’t let that happen. I feel responsible for everything that went wrong with her. There are strong psychological issues here that aren’t your responsibility, but I need you to help me figure out if there’s any way we, as a company, can make this job work. Her daily painting excursions seem to be the reason she lives. She cannot handle her daily excursions without Black Raven. You’ll get a better feel for it all when you read her file, but…”

  As Gabe clicked open the file, Brandon’s words fell away. For the cover image, Ragno had chosen a painting by Hutchenson entitled, ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door, Jackson Square, New Orleans.’

  It was a spectacular representation of a pedestrian-crowded, city square surrounded by rust-colored, brick buildings. Lush foliage, a study in hues of green, filled the square. Blue sky hadn’t given up afternoon brightness. Thin wisps of clouds imbued
pink and gold by an unseen sun, bathing the scene with palpable warmth and soft light.

  A lone figure playing a guitar, his face pointed heavenward, was the focal point. Gabe knew the song that was the painting’s namesake, knew the lyrics as Dylan wrote and sang them, and knew how to play it on the guitar. Painted abstractly, the musician leaned against a wrought iron fence. His red-velvet lined guitar case was open on the ground. Dollar bills and coins littered the interior.

  The guitar’s body was a brilliant blue, a traditional color that was a dead ringer for the color on Gabe’s favorite of his three guitars. The manufacturer called it Chicago Blue. Gabe called it gorgeous. The people in the painting seemed to lean toward the young man, engrossed in the music.

  “Gabe? Sound okay?” Brandon asked.

  “Yes.”

  To whatever.

  Any concerns that Gabe might have had, fell away as he studied the vivid painting, inexplicably moved in a way he hadn’t often experienced. If ever.

  “Thank you,” Brandon said. “I know this isn’t the high-action job you typically handle. In the ranks of our agents, though, you’ve got celebrity status. Having you in charge for a while will elevate this job in the eyes of our agents to the position of importance this client deserves.”

  “No problem. Happy to do it.” Gabe answered honestly, flattered that Brandon and Sebastian trusted him to make things right for a client they valued so highly. A natural born protector, and an extrovert who enjoyed meeting new people, Gabe loved most of the work he did for Black Raven. The jobs that he handled were as varied as the clients who needed them. He approached each assignment with a firm appreciation of the human perspective that required Black Raven’s expertise.

  He clicked to the next page, saw more breath-catching paintings by Hutchenson, and then opened a photo of the client. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as his gaze rested on a delicate-featured young woman with a serious expression in her forest-green eyes. Sleek, dark hair framed her face. His heartbeat stuttered as he took in her natural beauty.

  My job for the next two weeks is to keep this beautiful woman painting those glorious paintings?

  With pleasure.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence. This will all work out. I’m on it. Client’s my responsibility now.”

  As they switched off the call, Gabe kept clicking through the file. Ragno, in cyber-step with him, instant messaged him off and on as he read the data. From Ragno’s vantage point in Denver, she could remotely see in real time what he was seeing and reading. Ragno knew how long he hovered on each page, how long he took with each horrific report.

  The bright wintry day fell away as Gabe absorbed the hell that Andi Hutchenson had endured throughout her ordeal. The facts of the other-worldly fight she still battled, as she fought to combat the mind-fuck that Victor Morrissey’s actions had accomplished, showed deep-from-within bravery.

  ‘Now you understand why I thought you’d be perfect for this job, don’t you?’ Ragno texted.

  He opened forensic photos of the crime, which documented images of Andi’s back and the burns Morrissey had left there. He cringed.

  He typed, ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ve monitored this file for Brandon ever since she hired us. She’s climbing up from a really deep ravine. From what I can tell from afar, she’s almost to solid ground. She needs a line and a tug. She needs your brand of strength, more than anyone I’ve ever seen. Be her lifeline, Gabe. Set this job straight. You can give her the confidence she needs to win her fight.’

  His life experience—as a child whose father was murdered and an agent who regularly combatted violence—had honed his natural empathetic qualities and his tendency to fix problems that others didn’t even diagnose. His work as an agent, often as personal private security, meant he regularly had access to things that people normally kept private. His work was often guided by a reflexive desire to help others when they’d been dealt a hand that was loaded with bad luck.

  From what he’d learned in the phone conversation, and the details he was reading in the file, Andi Hutchenson had been dealt such a hand. With his gaze resting on a file image of her, he studied the haunted expression in her eyes and damn well planned to figure out what he could do to help her.

  If anything.

  Because sometimes, the best thing to do, was to let the hand play out, without interference. Sometimes, fixing things meant leaving them alone.

  Chapter Four

  Andi

  Saturday, February 13, 2:45 a.m.

  Dear Journal—

  It’s been two weeks since I’ve come in this room and poured out my heart on these pages. I told myself I’d stop coming to you. That I didn’t need this crutch. I guess I was wrong.

  Maybe I saw reality on Esplanade Avenue. But maybe it was another daymare. A cruel trick played by my damaged mind, where reality enters another dimension.

  I think I saw them push her into the van. If I could just stop thinking about what they might do to her...But I can’t. Burns? Arms and ankles bound? His hand on the back of her head, while her mouth is on his cock, as he puts out cigarettes on her back?

  No. That was my living nightmare.

  The men in the van will get away with it because I didn’t help her. No one will believe me. And why would they? I’ve cried wolf too often.

  Dammit, I don’t trust my eyes either.

  The days are long when you’re crazy, but the nights are longer.

  And no matter how much I pretend I’m fine, yesterday reminded me that I’m just one distraction away from totally losing it.

  Brandon’s right—I shouldn’t fire Black Raven. I’m not well enough to go it alone. I’m too scared to walk outside without protection. Too scared to stay inside, alone, all day. Too scared to be alone at night.

  On a night like tonight, with my anxiety spiking, I can hear Victor laugh, as he puts out cigarettes on my back.

  And though I know he’s dead, when I’m alone, I think he’s close. On that one night, he infected me with an insanity that I’ll never quite shake. At least if the agents are downstairs, I know that someone is breathing, that someone normal is nearby.

  I was doing better.

  The funny thing is, I’d almost rather what happened today on Esplanade Avenue be a real kidnapping than a hallucination. Because if it’s just a hallucination, then I’m slipping back into crazy world.

  Oh dear God, I was doing so much better. I went months without a daymare, though the nightmares never stopped. But if the daymares are returning, I’ll really have no peace.

  I promised Pic—and myself—I’d never attempt suicide again. And I won’t. I WON’T.

  Pic’s been in Austin, playing music on the streets, for God knows how long. It feels like forever. He’ll be back soon. He told me he’d return by Mardi Gras. I’d love to see him. I worry about him when he’s not in New Orleans. I worry about him when he’s here, too, but it helps to have him closer.

  I’ll have to cancel my appearance at the gallery on Sunday. There’s no way I can show up in public now.

  I’d just like to be able to sleep, but I’m scared. Because with sleep, dear journal, you know what comes. At least my daymares are sometimes about someone else.

  When my eyes shut and the world turns dark, I’m the star of the show. And I experience total terror, over and over again.

  Chapter Five

  Concierge

  Saturday, February 13, 10 a.m.

  “We acquired a pregnant girl yesterday,” I say to my client on the phone. “You placed a right of first refusal on our next pregnant acquisition. Exercise it, or not.”

  “That’s one way of saying hello.”

  “If you want hello, call your mother. If she still talks to you.”

  “I’m not necessarily in the market,” he says.

  I wait for it. After a long beat, he utters the name I train all of my clients to use. “Concierge.”

  The name has meaning for me and
for my clients. It means I deliver whatever they want like no one else can. For that service, I demand payment in currency and respect.

  Because he says my name with the respect I deserve, I stay on the line. “I’m offering a six-week rental for five million dollars, with a two million dollar damage deposit. She’s young. Think fast.”

  Amidst the hum of medical monitors hooked to the product I’m offering, a harsh intake of breath through the phone line greets my announcement. Some men and women have an insatiable desire to be intimate with pregnant girls. I don’t ask questions, as long as they pay what I ask and return the product uninjured.

  This client’s slow exhale tells me he is now interested.

  Of course he is. Even in the sick world I’ve created, pregnant girls for lease are big news. They’re hard to find because they’re typically not the type of person one could kidnap easily, not without someone immediately missing them.

  I sit on a chair beside the sleeping girl’s bed. As I settle into the negotiation, I push the sheet off and let it puddle on the floor as I study her. “You’re interested, aren’t you?”

  “Hispanic or American?”

  I almost smile as he nibbles on my bait. “American.”

  The reality is, most of my stock is Hispanic. Why? Because it’s easy to acquire humans from Mexico, apparently a country full of people who’d sell their future, their bodies, their souls, and even their fucking children, to get to the United States. Mexican border towns are replete with people naïve enough to believe my reapers and their promises of a future. A job. Medical care. A safe passage to this country with golden streets.

  God bless America, the greatest country in the world. It’s a lure the desperate and downtrodden can’t resist. And the beauty of it is that no one in the good old U.S. of A. is looking for someone who isn’t supposed to be here in the first place.

  Americans barely look out for their own. There’s an entire class of people who no one gives a damn about. Call them homeless. Street people. Runaways.