One o’ clock. Ten yards out.
The man smoking a cigarette outside the mom and pop’s convenience store, Luisa’s Corner, had looked at Athena’s pacing figure five times in the last ten minutes. He kept fumbling with his cigarette lighter, used his left hand to light up the cancer stick, stepped on the still-lit cigarette with his right foot and started another one. Behind the shadow of the concrete street post in front of him, I’d gauge him to be 5’10”, medium build, and an amateur.
Whoever was ‘training’ him needed to tell him that when you were staking out someone, you had to be one with the shadows, not apart from it. Blend in, don’t try to catch attention by wearing the whitest shirt that could be seen a mile away. Be a part of the crowd, not setting yourself apart from everyone else so you’d look suspicious. He was following her footsteps the second she stepped into that frat party. He must have gotten his orders just a few hours ago. If there was any proof that Athena needed protection, the proof was right there, within the two-mile radius that I’d pieced together.
The man in the convenience store was just one of the three people under orders to watch her. Until they were given a new set of orders. Judging from the appearances of these thugs, there were no other ways to describe them, because they looked like amateur thugs – the skinhead, their massive build, the 0.45 caliber pistols, manufactured by ATOMIC, mass of 12 g and could penetrate up to 410 mm, that three of them were packing – they weren’t there to enjoy the party. They were sent by someone to grab her the millisecond they got their orders.
I’d tried to piece it together, but I was still coming up empty.
Who would want to take her?
The last time I spoke with her father, Joseph, he’d explained that he was studying a new way to preserve organs and the use of some sort of inorganic compound could change everything. He gave me the whole biochemical jargon when I asked the most important question, “Why would anyone want to harm your daughter?”
He had simply responded, “Because the only way to get to me is through her.”
He’d answered my unspoken thought with, “Webb, the research I’m conducting will change the way human organs are preserved. It can quadruple, maybe more, the amount of time an organ is viable for.”
My silence must have clued him in that I had no idea what he was talking about so he’d continued in his non-judgmental explanation. “As of present, the human heart, once it’s taken from the donor, can remain viable for less than 6 hours; the kidneys, 30 hours or less; the pancreas, less than 12. The times can vary because of the relative speed that the deterioration begins in the organ’s tissues. Now my research, this substance that I’ve created, can prolong the storage times, preserving the organs at higher rates; thus giving more time for the medical community to transplant the organs from donors to recipients.”
“What does this have to do with your daughter?” I had asked, while sitting in the leather chair I’d grown accustomed to since I’d been out. I remembered being tempted to go out for a surf when I’d caught the reflection of the waves from the mirror hanging over my desk at my mom’s house in San Diego. Joseph had taken a long sigh and with a surrendered breath, he’d softly uttered, “My discovery has many uses; it can be used to preserve organs, but it can also be used to hasten death.”
My skin went on high-alert at his admission, “What do you mean, Joseph?”
“I’m calling in my favor, Webb,” he’d hastily replied, then I heard the rustling on his end, with someone asking, “Are we still on for lunch, Dr. Bridges?”
“I’ll talk to you in a bit, Webb. Please make sure she’s okay.” Sounding resigned, he added, “She’s everything to me…” With those words, he’d ended the call. Joseph was 110 percent sure that I’d take the job. When my ex-S.O. talked to me about the job, I couldn’t refuse him. It wasn’t like I was given a choice, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t even think twice of not taking it.
As soon as I’d gotten off the phone with Joseph, I’d pulled all the files on his daughter – from her school records, her favorite places to hang out, which weren’t a lot, her schedule of classes, and her inclination to frequent and donate to animal shelters as indicated by her credit card transactions. I knew her life story before I even met her including the struggles and the multiple surgeries she had because of a rare variant of lymphoma. The astounding number of ER visits when she was barely eight could be three times the amount to what an average person would have in their lifetime. I’d expected her to be a half empty kind of girl, but from the very first time I saw her in the university cafeteria, I had a feeling that she was far from what her files depicted.
She wasn’t a sad and lonely girl, waiting for life to pass her by, covered in the darkness of her past, engulfed by the uncertainty of her future.
Standing in front of a frozen yogurt counter was a woman who took a bite of the mango-coconut-passion fruit combo and savored it like the first bite was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She’d been laughing with her friends and used her spoon to offer them a taste of what she was having. She shouldn’t be sharing utensils with anyone! What if they had diseases or a cold or something infectious? She shouldn’t be so trusting of everyone. What does she know of her classmates?
After inconspicuously staring at her for five minutes, she and her classmates, a redhead and a brunette, made their way to their Sociology class and I couldn’t help but notice that they had garnered numerous looks from the college guys.
If I was being honest, Athena held that quality that pulled the attention away from others so the only choice that made sense was to look at her. She wore simple clothes, but her radiance outshone everyone else’s; her dark locks were a stark but complimentary contrast to her creamy white complexion, and her huge, hazel eyes were beacons to a man’s inherent nature to follow and stare at a beautiful face.
When I was a child, my mom used to say, “In a roomful of souls, the purest of them all stands out.”
All I had of her were words and pictures, derived from files and files of data. I thought I knew her…but looking at her, hearing her melodic, tinkling laughter, seeing her close her eyes when she stepped out of the cafeteria as the sun hit her face, a disturbing sensation took over me – she wasn’t like any of the others around her, she stood out. Without meaning to, without trying to bring attention to herself, she just did. There was an air of innocence about her, a thread of vulnerability that made me want to protect her, keep her safe from anyone who would try to harm her.
I shook the feeling off just as soon as the thought materialized in my head.
She’s a job, Webb. A mission.
She’s not anything else, will never be anything more.
“I’m okay…” She was saying to her friend, her voice sounding anything but, her back was stiff as a pole, her head shaking in the negative, her tone trying to reassure her friend. She was standing less than a foot away yet I could sense the shiver in her voice. She was scared. Maybe even terrified of what I’d just revealed to her – that her father had sent me.
Dr. Joseph Bridges was a top-ranked, respected scientist for the CDC. He was the most sought-after bio-terrorism expert and had won the Nobel Prize twice, one in the area of physics, the other in medicine. His works were the bases for over ten percent of the pharmaceutical drugs developed and produced in the United States. The CDC created a program centered around his research in collaboration with the Department of Defense. He also owned millions of dollars’ worth of patents in the drug delivery system. He was a rock star in the field of science and there was always an air of reverence and mystery when people talked about him. I had known of him because when I was stationed in Panama, two of the members of my team were assigned to guard him. If that didn’t tell you how important of an asset he was, then the fact that the highest ranking officer of the U.S. Army drove him around would be enough to make you shit a brick. Navy SEALs as guards, a U.S. army major as the driver, and the President’s number on his speed dial, Dr. Bridges was a national treasure.
He was a man who held his position with the highest regard and I’d met him two times.
The first time was when he was introduced to us during a private meeting with our team to brief us on how the newest chemical weapon designed by the Syrians, and was being tested in Panama, worked. I remembered him to be the most unassuming man. He was brilliant but he wasn’t arrogant. He’d explained it to all of us – how to neutralize the agent – without making us look stupid. He’d mentioned a lot of scientific terms, but he also simplified it so that as soldiers we understood exactly what we were dealing with. My team was comprised of men with high IQs combined with physical and mental toughness; however, scientific jargon could still make our heads roll and our eyes glaze over in boredom. When we came out of the meeting, Drake and I both looked at each other and found a newfound respect for a guy who could undoubtedly concoct ricin in the blink of an eye and create a nuclear device in his own lab, but was humble enough to admit that the antidote he’d developed may not be a 100 percent effective and he needed the SEALs skills and judgment to ensure that it did.
The second time I’d met him was on a hot summer day in Colombia. It was a day I’d never forget.
It was the day I’d made a vow to him.
Placing him above my code to my teammates.
Promising him an oath stronger than the trident I wore for my country.
I never expected him to collect, yet desperate times called for desperate measures.
So here I was, standing in the balmy Southern California air with his one and only daughter who was giving off waves of anxiety and fear, mixed with the cold chill in the air that made her rub her open left hand over her right arm.
Athena hesitantly walked towards my bike, a custom-made MV Augusta F4 that I’d previously stored at my mom’s property in San Diego. Her steps slowed when she was only three steps from reaching me and she’d asked, “Can we talk?”
I nodded. Here was not the place to talk. There were eyes roaming around us, ears picking up on our conversation. I would not be surprised if the amateur clowns had scanners to hear what Athena and I were talking about. Anyone could pick those gadgets up anywhere nowadays – on the internet, from a friend who knew a friend, just about everywhere.
She’d looked really concerned about Denton. The guy was going to be okay. He’d most likely be waking up with leaves in his mouth and dirt in his eyes; but other than a bruised ego, he’d be fine. I had no intentions of coming between them. As long as she wasn’t in the line of fire, she was free to do whatever she wanted. The line of fire was delineated and set in stone tonight when I’d confirmed she was being watched. By who? I hadn’t any idea yet and I would find out. Her love affair with Mr. Basketball Star would have to wait until she was out of firing range.
Her body shook with another visible shiver. She wasn’t used to the light cool temperature which was equivalent to a nice summer night for me. It would take a half hour to reach my place in Laurel Canyon. I’d been renting a one-bedroom apartment close to USC so I could be close to her for surveillance, but knowing we were being watched, the best thing to do was to lose the rookies and ensure that she would be safe for the night. I wasn’t taking any chances with her safety. She was under my protection and she’d remain alive because of it.
I took my shirt off and handed it to her. She needed it more than me, especially since we’d be navigating the steep canyons in about twenty minutes. The higher altitude in the hidden canyon hills gave way to cooler breezes which would make her freeze. She’d just have to suffer pressing on my back for the whole ride. It may be an unpleasant experience for her since my back may not be smoothest surface; it was filled with tokens of hard won fights during my SEAL training days, carved-out, broken skin from numerous missions, and thickened by the extreme weather conditions that I’d been constantly exposed to.
She let out a sigh as she put on her helmet, sat on the pillion, and when she pressed her upper body, now covered in my shirt, on my back, she let out another heavy-drawn sigh. Obviously she was taking this as a painful punishment.
Too bad. I could deal with her comfort later. Right now I had to get us out of there while losing the three comedians who I was ninety-nine percent sure would be tailing us.
While she was talking to her friend, I checked the traffic on my phone. The 101 would be the best bet. I could get rid of these clowns on the freeway. The side streets would provide many opportunities for them to track us.
We settled on the seat, the engine revved, and when I released the somewhat heavy clutch, I knew that this baby was going to get us out of there, according to my plan. I felt Athena’s hands tighten over the front of my chest, her legs clamping tighter against my jeans. I was pretty sure that she’d felt the smooth, thick power of the engine as we entered the freeway.
Looking over at my right side mirror, I eyed the black SUV following us. Typical. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t clearly see the passengers and even the driver’s side was thick with black tint.
Traffic was extremely light and while I’d love to play with these fools, I had Athena on the back and if I was to take a wild guess, her teeth were chattering from the sudden burst of cold air the acceleration my bike created when I shifted to the left lane.
I downshifted and revved to pass three cars, feeling Athena’s shoes lift in the air, then felt them digging into my lower legs. I couldn’t say much right now, not when we were traveling at a speed where I was edging between the legal speed limits and being flagged by the highway patrol – an inconvenience we couldn’t afford. I lifted my right hand off the handle and raised it to her right hand, momentarily giving her reassurance that we were going to be okay. A red Mercedes C250 filled with teenage girls honked to the right of us, with one of them yelling out the window, “Hot biker, yeah!!!”
This seemed to relax Athena a little bit since her viselike grip loosened.
The teenage girl yelled something again, but I couldn’t hear because when I revved, the engine produced a loud sonorous sound. I felt Athena’s shoulders shake with laughter. Just a few seconds ago, her body was stiff as a board, now she felt softer, looser, maybe fifty percent more relaxed.
I gently let off the gas. We’d lost the stalkers-in-training ten minutes ago when I’d maneuvered my bike to the slow lane and got in front of a semi then worked my way swiftly to the fast lane. That last-minute move probably caused Athena’s heart to skip ten beats, so in a way, I’m relieved that she found something funny to laugh about right now.
I eyed the Hollywood Boulevard exit and changed gears. Now off the freeway, I could feel the heat radiating from the under seat exhaust. This was one of the drawbacks of this superbike, it tended to cook the pilot and the passenger in order to generate that 200 horsepower, with adjustable compression and rebound damping in high and low-speed range.
If I was feeling the engine start to boil from the under seat exhaust, Athena would undoubtedly be feeling it too. I wouldn’t want her burning her thighs which was exactly what would happen if we strolled at this leisurely pace. Gunning the engine once more, I drove us through the winding, bendy roads, managing the turns with crisp precision, one that I had a lot of practice on since this here, in the hidden hills, in the midst of Hollywood’s elite, was a place I’d called my home. It was my parents’ place, but since mom loved San Diego, she only came here when she needed to drive to L.A. and stay overnight.
I typed in the security code for the front gate and as soon as the wide metal gates opened, the lights in the foyer turned on. I killed the engine and my left foot touched the ground.
From my side mirror, I glanced at Athena while she took the helmet off of her head, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. I couldn’t see her facial expression because she turned her cheek to soak in the sight of my hideaway. She’d removed her hands from my back, making me feel at a loss for words because now that we were here, I knew I had to start talking.
I was about to remove my helmet, preparing to stand, when lean, soft hands grabbed my shoulders and motioned for me to stay still. I followed her lead and in a few seconds, I felt the softest touch of a fingertip, tracing the middle of my back, following the line of my spine.
I couldn’t move.
I didn’t want to move.
With the touch of a fingertip, she quieted the rioting thoughts in my head of how I was going to tell her that she had to be under my protection for an undue amount of time, until it was safe for her to be alone, until the threat against her father was no longer there.
And when she replaced her fingertip with her lips, for the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking of ops or missions or my past; I was under the spell of that soft skin touching that spot on my back that was marked with my battle scars.
She planted a kiss right on top of one of the scars, the layer of skin covering the spinal disk that made me unable to move for more than two months because of the swollen tissue. I could do a minimum of 100 push-ups in two minutes, swim 500 yards in under 9 minutes, run two miles in under 8:30 – and my heart rate would still be under 45. At this moment, I could feel my heart beating erratically, my skin itching in awareness, and my mind trying its best to rationalize the situation.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Foxtrot.
What. The. Flying. Fuck.
There was no way she was getting under my skin.
Because if she did, I’d be balls to the wall in deep, deep shit.