Cruz
I shifted awkwardly again, the decade old bullet-wound in my right knee causing me grief. I could never fucking tell when it was going to hurt. The pain may have been related to the fucking weather, for all I knew.
Christ, I’m getting old. Only 37 and I know when it's going to fucking rain before CNN, I thought, annoyed. At least the sneaky Russian who shot me is swimming with the fishes. Well, a guy ain't got much choice with concrete boots on…
I suppressed a smile. The mere memory seemed to have alleviated the gnawing pain somewhat.
Fucking hell, she was beautiful. Not like a dolled-up bar girl or stripper. This girl had almost nothing on except a dressing gown. Not even a speck of makeup, and she was still stunning. From what my eyes had briefly seen on their foray down her body, I could tell she wasn't wearing a bra.
Big boobs, big hips. Slim waist. Not too short, not too tall. Long blonde hair…
Fuck, keep it together, Cruz, I inwardly chastised myself.
Shaking these thoughts away, I reverted back to my military pose. “You got it, Lex.”
She frowned at the shortening of her name. It would probably piss her off, but I bet she was even fucking hotter when she was angry. Not to mention it would be funny, to boot. “Tell you what? How about I come back here in a couple days? I got shit to do, favors to call in, and whiskey to drink. You know, the usual. I’ll bring a car and we can arrange a plan, okay?”
Her eyebrows raised. “How about I just call you?” she said.
How about your phone is probably fucking tapped, beautiful? I smirked. “Okay. But look, just do me a favor. No names on the phone. No locations. Just tell me what time to bring a car to get you and your pretty friends to meet you here, all right? Now, I’m guessing you’ll need a big car. Yeah?”
She giggled. “You got that right. And by the looks of you, you won't struggle getting my suitcases.” She raised her hand in a mock salute, her expression slightly patronizing as she pretended to look serious. “I just need your phone number.”
“Oh, right. Sure.” I handed her my card, which simply read ‘C. MILLER’ with a cell number written beneath it in blue ink.
Alexandra didn’t look impressed.
“Say someone taps that number,” I said. “I break the phone, throw the SIM, and fuck off. Damn well ain't payin’ for new business cards. So I just write the new number on the next card. Genius, ain't it?”
“Yeah...” she responded, her expression deadpan. “Genius.”
All of a sudden, excitement gleamed in her eyes and a slight smile spread across her pretty face. “Okay, I’ll call you. But now, I need to get ready. Oh, and your shoulders are blocking the doorway. I’m expecting a delivery or two.”
I nodded, guessing that what she really meant was, “Get the fuck off my doorstep and scram.”
Like father, like daughter.
I left and strolled along the large driveway to the mansion’s gates. I had known Alexandra wouldn’t be ready, and I wasn’t dumb or old-fashioned enough to think I could just turn up in a couple days’ time and we’d be off on the grand tour.
No, I’d come here to case the joint. Check security, access, sight lines--that sort of thing. And I wanted to see how this guy lived. Someone who was sending his daughter on a no-expense spared, four-month luxury trip with an expensive bodyguard--an expensive bodyguard who’d had his usual rate almost doubled, no less--was worth checking out a little closer.
I turned around as I walked, taking in the long winding driveway, as well as the immaculate lawns, large pond, and tennis court. I imagined there was probably a swimming pool out back. And the big fucking mansion in the middle of it all.
It wouldn’t surprise me if someone ever tried to go after his daughter just for his money.
The security looked good at face value. There were two guards at the gate, one in a little office which likely had CCTV monitors for the perimeter fence, and probably one each at the front and back door as well. If these guards were worth their salt, the place would be hard to get into, detected or undetected. If not, however, it wouldn’t take much to sneak past or simply take them out one-by-one.
Leaving Little Miss Beautiful all on her own, wearing nothing but a fluffy pink dressing gown…
I had to shake myself to clear the image that had started to form in my head of Alexandra slowly opening the gown and letting it drop to the floor.
I decided it would be best to keep an eye on the place over the next few days, mainly at night when the guards would be half asleep and not paying as much attention. I didn’t want to fail the job before it had even fucking started.
“Damn, I need a drink,” I said out loud. Even though it was a bit early, I was sure I’d be able to find some seedy bar that would sell me a coarse whiskey in a dirty glass. But first, I had some errands to run and a few logistical issues to iron out.
I had no fucking clue where the first destination was, which meant I couldn’t plan anything. Besides, you couldn't get away with strolling on a plane with a gun these days; I had to take one with me in my check-in or arrange for one or two to be ‘deposited’ at the intended destination. I had some old contacts in America, Europe, a few in Russia, some in Asia and a couple in the Middle East. Most of them owed me favors.
It’s surprising how many people run to America, thinking they might be safe here. Well, thing is, they ain’t safe. Not when someone’s hired me to find them…
As soon as I knew a couple details, I’d stroll on down to the nearest payphone and make some calls. When I knew the destination, I could use the same contacts to check who was operating in the area, and which gangs might be sniffing around. And I could use those same contacts again to scare the living shit out of most of them, which would just leave a few hard bastards remaining.
It was a good thing that I was harder.