The Bodyguard (17)

Had I ever shown up for an intake meeting with a client who didn’t even know he’d hired me?

No. This was a first.

It was unsettling to think that he didn’t even want me there.

Most people were at least somewhat grateful for your help.

By the time he was finished arguing, fifteen minutes had gone by. He walked back, looking angry—a facial expression that, weirdly, I already recognized. I’d seen that face in Something for Nothing, right after the drug dealers confronted him. I’d also seen it in The Optimist, after he got cheated out of winning the cooking contest. I’d just met this man, but I already knew the funny little dimple that inevitably appeared on his chin when he was really pissed off.

And there it was.

As I stood up, I was not un–pissed off myself. We could’ve been done by now. I could’ve been home and already punched out for the day.

“Did you not know they were hiring us?” I asked, as he got close.

“I just thought we’d decided against it,” he said.

“Guess not,” I said.

“I mean,” Jack said, “I did decide against it. But the studio decided for it.”

“I thought you wanted out of that contract.”

“I do,” he said. “But what you want and what you get aren’t really the same thing.”

Not untrue.

“Anyway, their lawyers want them to protect their assets.”

“Is that what you are?”

Jack nodded. “Absolutely. They don’t want trouble. And they do want me to stay alive.”

“I’m sure everybody wants that,” I said.

“Not everybody,” he said. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

True enough.

As I nodded, Jack Stapleton really looked at me for the first time since I’d arrived: his new housekeeper-slash-bodyguard. I felt his gaze like a physical sensation—like sun rays on my skin. I’d looked at him so many times. It was unbelievably weird for him to actually look back.

He let out a long, defeated sigh. “Let’s talk inside.”



* * *



INSIDE, AS HIS anger-dimple will testify, he stayed pissed for a while.

Though I hoped it was more at the studio than at me.

We sat at his dining table, and I unclutched the accordion folder I’d been holding to my chest since I got there. It felt strangely naked to release it.

Jack Stapleton was now slumped in defeat on a dining chair. “Just do what you normally do,” he said.

I took a breath. “Okay.”

What I normally do. This was better. We were back in my wheelhouse.

“I’m Hannah Brooks,” I began. “I’ve protected dozens of people in every type of situation imaginable.”

This was an introductory paragraph I’d memorized. I used it the same way, every time, when I met new clients. It was comforting to recite it, like singing an old favorite song.

“Executive protection is a partnership,” I went on. “We’re here to help you, and you’re here to help us. What you need from us is competence and experienced guidance, and what we need from you is honesty and compliance.”

Jack Stapleton wasn’t looking at me. He was checking his texts.

“Are you texting right now?” I paused to ask.

“I can do both,” he said, not looking up.

“Um. Not really. But okay.”

Nothing to do but keep talking. As I remembered who I was, I gained momentum. I pushed the handout I’d brought for him across the table. Printed on the cover page was our guiding principle. I recited it out loud. “The object of personal security is to reduce the risk of criminal acts, kidnapping, and assassination against a principal through the application of targeted procedures to normal daily life.”

Jack Stapleton looked up. “Assassination? Really? I’ve got a fifty-year-old stalker who breeds show corgis.”

But he couldn’t derail me now. “Constant awareness is the cornerstone of good personal security,” I went on. “In addition, security measures must always match the threat. Based on our level of knowledge at current, your threat level is relatively low. Of the four levels—white, yellow, orange, and red—we presently list you at ‘yellow.’ But we expect the news of your visit to Houston to break at some point, and when it does, we’ll up your classification to ‘orange.’ The strategy is to have systems in place to make that transition quickly.”

Jack Stapleton frowned. This was a lot of high-level jargon coming from the cleaning lady.

I went on. “All security is a compromise between the demands of the threat level and the reasonable hopes of the client to live a somewhat normal life.”

“I gave up on normal life years ago.”

“We’d like you to read this guidance carefully and familiarize yourself with your responsibilities toward your own safety. Anything you can do to prevent yourself from being successfully targeted helps us all keep you safe.”

“Again,” Jack said, “this lady mostly knits Christmas sweaters with my face on them. They’re actually kind of impressive.”

I stood up a little taller. “All successful kidnappings and assassinations happen because of one final factor and one final factor only: the element of surprise.”