I half-throw Janette Springfield in the back of my car, shielding her with my body and slamming the door behind her. More car doors slam in the distance and engines rev. I unholster my Glock, climbing in the driver’s seat and setting the gun within easy reach.

“Oh my God,” she breathes from the backseat. Her perfectly curled platinum blonde hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat.

I slam the gas, tires spinning for a second before they gain traction and we tear out of the parking lot. I can still see the venue in my rearview. Over fifty thousand fans in there just watched me pull the biggest country music star in the United States off-stage. They would probably be upset if eight masked men hadn’t rushed after us.

“This is fucking insane,” says Jannette. “What were they thinking?”

“They might have just wanted to get you off the stage. To draw you out like this,” I say.

“Then why did we leave?” she demands.

I shift gears, fishtailing around a corner and catching a glimpse of the three cars speeding after us. I hear them slam on their brakes when they can’t make the turn fast enough. “Because they don’t know who they’re fucking with. Do you want to run and hide, or do you want to send a message?”

I glance at her in the rearview. She’s frowning. “Run?” she asks.

“Wrong. I’m not the best because I wait for my clients to be targeted to react. I’m the best because I find the source of the problem and shut it the fuck down.”

I hit the emergency brake and skid to a stop in a dimly lit alley. “Wait here. Don’t get out for anything. Do you understand?”

She shakes her head incredulously. “Just keep driving.”

“No. This ends here,” I say. All this stalker bullshit is good for my bank account because it has celebrities clamoring for personal security and willing to pay for the best, but I’m not in this for the money. I never have been. I do what I do because I’m good at it. Because after leaving the SEALs, it’s one of the few legal ways I can still channel the leftover aggression and rage. If I wasn’t a bodyguard, I’d be in prison by now, or worse.

I stand outside the car, headlights beaming from behind my back. The three cars pull in front of us a few moments later, slowly crawling to a stop. They park, and for a long while, nothing happens. I’m standing, Glock in my hand, waiting, but nothing happens.

Finally, the doors open and men start to file out. Four men wearing gold goat masks and black clothes with their hoods up.

I hold my gun up, making sure they see it, and then set it on the hood of my car. I crack my knuckles and roll my shoulders, planting my feet wide. The men glance at each other and nod, moving toward me. I have friends in the justice system, and I can get away with a certain level of violence, but I don’t push it unless I have to. Besides, I still haven’t found a message I couldn’t send loud and clear with my fists.

I suck a deep breath in through my nose, almost able to smell the potential violence in the air. It’s thick and acrid like gasoline, but I live for these moments. As strange as it may be, it’s only when I’m laying my life on the line that I can completely forget all the missions and all the horrors I saw in the SEALs.

The five of us are brightly lit by the headlights, and there’s no sound but the idle hum of engines and feet scuffing on wet pavement. The only thoughts in my head are primal--hurt or be hurt. Kill or be killed. Do the job.

I walk toward one of the masked men, leaving my arms at my side. Before I can throw the first punch, the biggest of the masked men steps forward, holding a hand up.

“Jesse Slade,” the man says knowingly. His voice is being run through some sort of distortion device that makes it sound inhumanly deep. He tilts his masked head in a way that makes me imagine he’s sneering. “I see you’ve stayed in shape over the years.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I growl.

He waves a dismissive hand. “Just a ghost, to you, at least.”

“I’ll rip that fucking mask of your face and jam it down your throat. Who are you?”

He laughs. “I’m sure you would like to. But my plans for you are just beginning. Tonight is just so you know the game has begun. You’re marked, Slade. And we’ll be coming for you when you least expect it.”

I suddenly wish I’d just shot the fuckers, but I let them get the upper hand when I set my gun down like an idiot. All I can do now is eye the barrels of their guns and watch this asshole “ghost” walk away.

The man backpedals casually, twirling a finger over his head. “Pack it up boys. I think he got the message.” He gets behind the wheel of his car and then sticks his head out the window. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Slade.”

I drain a Jack and Coke at the bar. I’m not sure how many I’ve had, but I’m almost drunk enough to forget about tonight. Almost drunk enough to stop running in mental circles trying to figure out what the hell that was, and who the masked man could have been. God knows I’ve pissed plenty of people off in my life, especially since I came back from overseas.

Janette Springfield wasn’t thrilled with how I handled the situation and has requested a new bodyguard. Fuck her though. She shot enough cocaine in the short time I knew her to supply the filming of Scarface. She hardly knew where she was or what was going on most of the time anyway.

I glance at my glass of Jack and huff a laugh. Look at me talking. I’d gladly trade places with her if it meant forgetting, but forgetting would be a betrayal. Remembering the men who died under my command is part of my pennance. Every day I think of each one of them and every day it reopens the wound. But that’s the price I have to pay.

They died because of me.

Thankfully, I already have another job, or else I could spend all week wallowing in this shit, pissing away my nights at the bottom of a bottle and replaying the haunting memories. This stalker shit is good for business, at least. The new client wanted to remain anonymous, according to Vivian, but she was able to tell me it’s an actress. I’ll take actresses over music stars any day. There’s a lot less travel involved, and that makes my job much easier. Either way, I meet the client tomorrow. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. The last thing I need is more time to sit around and stew over the past and now this fucker in the mask. Just thinking about him makes me want to break something.

A woman at the end of the bar has been trying to get my attention for the past fifteen minutes. She has brown hair, blue eyes, and an impressive pair of tits. I swill down the last dregs of my Jack and Coke and stand. I see her spine lengthen, neck straightening. She’s careful to look at her drink. Her hands clutching the glass. Nervous. I cross the length of the bar, sensing her anticipation growing with every step. Maybe she’s seen me here before, hoped I would notice her and offer to buy her a drink. She looks like a good person, someone who would be better off without the black stain I would leave in her life. She looks up at me as I pass, hopeful.

Maybe another time I would’ve introduced myself, but not tonight. Not now. I’m broken in more ways than one, and I don’t have it in me to put some poor woman through that right now. Besides, every relationship I’ve tried to have since I left for the SEALs--since I left Makayla--has felt empty.

I huff a humorless laugh as I step outside into the chill. Look at me, still thinking about some girl I left behind ten years ago, like a fucking idiot. Of the pile of regrets when I look back on my life, leaving Makayla is the crown fucking jewel.

Well, at least I’ll meet my new client tomorrow and I’ll have new work to distract me from the past, and from her.