Ramsey Security (Ramsey Security #1-3)(72)
No longer hidden, I need a way to end the threat. Ten years and they're still waiting.
"I heard of a security firm capable of handling a situation like this one," Mom says, and I instantly think of the neighbors gossiping about a recent high-profile case. "I don't know if they'll take the job, but I can track down their info."
"No," Nell whispers. "That firm is full of killers."
"Those are just rumors."
"Why take the chance?"
"Because the rumors might be true," Mom says, giving me a steely gaze.
Nell says nothing, fearing the solution is worse than the problem. Mom and I understand, though. The cultists don't play by anyone's rules. They don't fear the law or society. They think a demon is on their side. How can the law argue with such insanity?
When faced with a group unwilling to follow society's laws, we need a weapon just as pre-pared to step over the line. Ramsey Security promises to be just such a weapon.
2
Saskia
All I Need is Comfort
Wealth feeds weakness. Hoarders buy too many things. Substance addicts snort, shoot up or swallow their fortune. Wealth makes weak people feel strong. Losing wealth can make the powerful fall to their knees.
These are the reasons I only want comfort. My money goes to keep a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and clothes on my back. My only indulgences are weapons and security systems. These keep me safe, and safety makes me comfortable.
I've visited many wealthy homes in my life. Most are cold, meant more to impress than to comfort. Brad Sloane's home is big, yet homey. A man's house says more about him than his car or clothes. If he rests his head in a sterile home, he'll likely provide no warmth to those around him.
All I know about Sloane is what I find on Google including plenty of pictures of him from his time on a hit paranormal show. He possessed a boyish grin and floppy blond hair back then. I can see why women drooled over the twenty-year-old, but he isn't my type. Scrawny men overcompensate, and I already have enough trouble with them trying to put me in my place.
In the elite Houston circles, Ramsey Security is the go-to agency for wealthy people with tough problems. Despite his dark skin and large size, Rafael Ramsey is the name and face people trust. He's the one who set up this meet and greet at Brad Sloane's house.
Far from downtown Houston, the ten-acre ranch is obscured from the road by high fences and thick brush. Through a security gate, we drive down a quiet tree lined path until reaching the large Craftsman-style house.
Exiting my compact SUV, I walk to where Rafael waits. He sizes up the location, checks his phone, and finally we walk to the front porch. A dark haired woman answers the door and identifies herself as Nell Bano. I know she lives in the house along with Brad, his mother Ruth, and their two German Shepherds.
Nell leads us inside the home, down a cozy hallway to a warmly decorated great room. I try not to flinch when one of the dogs rushes at me. Knowing I don't like animals, Rafael steps casually between the dog and me.
Entering the room, Ruth Sloane has a weathered face, and the excitement in her gray eyes surprises me. Running her hands through the brown and gray hair hanging loosely around her face, she sits in a chair and gestures for us to do the same. Rafael pets one of the dogs and does the small talk.
Catching sight of Brad lingering at the doorway, I realize he's bigger than in the Google pictures. I guess a decade can broaden a man's shoulders and chest.
"If you hire us," Rafael says after the small talk is over, "we think Saskia would be the best day-to-day security option for you. If a male operator like myself trails you, these targets would immediately assume we're security. Unlike a normal security team, we don't want to scare them away. Our goal is to make them feel safe enough to come out of hiding so we can hand them over to the authorities."
"Hey," Ruth announces, waving her hand around, "I say if you get a shot, take it and save the taxpayers' money. I know I will."
Ruth pats at her hip, and I hear one of her rings tapping against the gun hidden under her shirt. Nell stands nearby, showing me nothing. I suspect these women spent many years on guard for the day when Brad's stalkers returned.
"She's small," Ruth says, focusing on me. "I don't mean to be a gruff bitch, but your friend looks like she only weighs eighty pounds soaking wet."
"I'm one ten dry," I reply calmly. "I've been an operator for over a decade and dealt with targets far more deadly than those now stalking your family."
"That's all good and well, but you're still small."
"Yes, but I carry a very large arsenal, ma'am."
Ruth smiles at me. "Alright, but call me Ruth."
Glancing over her shoulder at the shadowed Brad at the doorway, she gets the nod of approval from her son.
"You're hired. What do you need from us?"
"A room for Saskia. We’ll also need a schedule of your upcoming appearances along with a list of approved people allowed on the property. For public appearances, we'll bring in more security operators. For the day-to-day, Saskia will suffice. Other members of our team will also monitor the area."
"The community already has security that drives by every hour."
"And the targets likely know the drive-by schedule by heart at this point."