The Bodyguard (4)

“Bullshit,” Glenn said. “Dying’s a lot harder than you think.”

Glenn hated it when people begged.

I begged anyway.

“Send me somewhere. Anywhere. I need to get out.”

“You can’t spend your entire life running away,” Glenn said.

“Yes, I can. I absolutely can.”

I could tell from his face we’d hit the wall. But I still had some fight left in me.

“What about the thing in Burkina Faso?” I asked.

“I’m sending Doghouse.”

“I’ve got three years on Doghouse!”

“But he speaks French.”

“What about the wedding in Nigeria?”

“I’m sending Amadi.”

“He hasn’t even been here six months!”

“But his family’s from Nigeria. And he speaks—”

“Fine. Forget it.”

“—Yoruba and a little bit of Igbo.”

That was the crux of it. Glenn had a rep to protect. “I’ll send you,” he said like we were done here, “when it’s a good fit. I’ll send you when it’s best for the agency. I’ll never send you over somebody more qualified.”

I narrowed my eyes at Glenn in a way that just dared him to fight me. “There’s nobody more qualified than me,” I said.

Glenn looked me over, using his well-honed powers of observation like a weapon.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said at last. “But you buried your mother yesterday.”

I met his eyes.

He went on. “Your pulse is elevated, your eyes are bloodshot, and your makeup is smeared. Your speech is rapid, and your voice is hoarse. You haven’t brushed your hair, your hands are shaking, and you’re out of breath. You’re a mess. So go home, take a shower, eat some comfort food, grieve the death of your mom, and then figure out some goddamned hobbies—because I guarantee you this: You’re sure as hell not going anywhere until you get your shit together.”

I knew that tone in his voice.

I didn’t argue.

But how, exactly, was I supposed to get back to work if he wouldn’t let me get back to work?





Two


HAVE I EXPLAINED what I do for a living?

I usually try to put that off as long as possible. Because once you know—once I actually name the profession—you’ll make a long list of assumptions about me … and all of them will be wrong.

But I guess there’s no more avoiding it.

My life doesn’t make much sense if you don’t know what my job is. So here goes: I am an Executive Protection Agent.

But nobody ever knows what that is.

Let’s just say I’m a bodyguard.

Lots of people get it wrong and call me a “security guard,” but to be clear: That’s not even remotely what I do.

I don’t sit in a golf cart in a supermarket parking lot.

What I do is elite. It takes years of training. It demands highly specialized skills. It’s tough to break into. And it’s a strange combination of glamorous (first-class travel, luxury hotels, off-the-charts wealthy people) and utterly mundane (spreadsheets, checklists, counting carpet squares in hotel hallways).

Mostly, we protect the very rich (and occasionally famous) from all the people who want to harm them. And we get paid really well to do it.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking I’m five-foot-five, and female, and nothing even close to brawny. You’re conjuring a stereotype of a bodyguard—maybe a club bouncer with skintight shirtsleeves squeezing his biceps—and you’re noting that I’m pretty much the opposite of that. You’re wondering how I could possibly be any good.

Let’s clear that up.

Steroid-inflated bruisers are one type of bodyguard: a bodyguard for people who want the whole world to know they have a bodyguard.

But the thing is, most people don’t.

Most clients who need executive protection don’t want anyone to know about it.

I’m not saying that the big guys don’t have value. They can have a deterrent effect. But they can also do the opposite.

It all depends on the type of threat, to be honest.

Most of the time, you’re safer if your protection goes unnoticed. And I am fantastic at going unnoticed. All women EP agents are, which is why we’re in high demand. No one ever suspects us.

Everyone always thinks we’re the nanny.

I do the kind of protection most people never even know is happening—even the client. And I’m the least lethal-looking person in the world. You’d think I was a kindergarten teacher before you’d ever suspect that I could kill you with a corkscrew.

I could kill you with a corkscrew, by the way.

Or a ballpoint pen. Or a dinner napkin.

But I’m not going to.

Because if things ever get to the point where I have to kill you, or anybody else, I haven’t done my job. My job is to anticipate harm before it ever materializes—and avoid it.

If I have to stab you in the eye with a dinner fork, I’ve already failed.

And I don’t fail.

Not in my professional life, at least.

All to say, my job is not about violence, it’s about avoiding violence. It’s much more about brains than brawn. It’s about preparation, observation, and constant vigilance.