Chapter Six

Gage didn’t like her pallor and knew the stunt they’d pulled probably shook her up some. Good. She needed to be a receptive survivor—on top of her game. Her perfume drifted, and he wondered at the familiar notes, picking up a woodsy scent with a creamy coconut vibe. Why did it smell so addictive?

Finally, she took his hand. His rough fingers gripped her cool palm, and he felt a tremble. He was the cause. Squashing a sliver of guilt, he smiled reassuringly. A firm grip from a put-together beauty with incredible skin and glossy hair and Gage tried to find a flaw in her armor. And there it was—all in the eyes. She’d never be a good poker player—those large, chocolate-brown eyes held galaxies worth of intel. He released his grip and stepped back. Folding her arms, she backed up against the wall, looking paler than before.

“That stunt could’ve ended badly,” Kirk pushed, and Lucius snorted.

“It took fifteen seconds for us to make our point and retreat.” Lucius scratched his arm. “We watched you for a few days and knew you weren’t tactically ready to unleash a defense. What happened to your surveillance and detection skills, Kirk?” 

Gage knew of the agent’s reputation in diplomatic circles. Kirk was a good agent but easily distracted. They’d now seen this first-hand.

“I’m reassigning you, Kirk,” Martin said, and they engaged in a back and forth. The AIC threw out one justification after another, his face flushed in frustration. There were plenty of DS agents to take his place. The man had no excuse. He’d been neglecting his principal—playing with his phone and disappearing to the market instead of sticking by Miss Durant’s side. Gage had already submitted his report on the agent’s performance to Martin. His next task was to get to know Chantal Durant’s local bodyguards and create a working relationship. Naturally, they were now defensive; an easy challenge to overcome. 

Gage hadn’t yet returned to his seat, and when the ambassador’s daughter swayed and pitched sideways, he lunged to catch her.

“Chantal!” Martin jerked to his feet as Gage guided her to the nearest chair. Her face held no color, and her body shook as she dropped her head between her knees. 

“I’m fine…” She weakly raised a hand, which Gage caught.

“This is Kohen—the medic on the team.” 

Kohen took her wrist from Gage to check her vitals.

“Did you skip lunch again?” A local guard—Dishan Farook—crouched down beside her. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You have to take breaks.”

Gage frowned, knowing she spent a lot of her time in the center. But, from what he’d noted, she arrived around 0800 and left at 1700—a typical workday. Gage asked Gannon to locate the kitchen to grab a sugary drink and a snack from the fridge. 

“How much sleep did you get?” Martin asked.

Her shoulders rose and fell. 

“Chantal?”

“Three hours. It was a rough night.”

“You can’t operate on three hours.”

“I’ve worked on less.”

Okay—now Gage felt thoroughly confused. From what he’d understood, she was a chiropractor that only saw her patients during the day. She spent her nights at the ambassador’s residence. So why wasn’t she sleeping?

“You need at least five.” Martin moved closer. “I’ll talk to her.”

She raised her head and grabbed Martin’s wrist. “No. Please don’t. Mom always comes first.”

“Can you fill me in?” Gage addressed the RSO as Gannon handed Chantal a Fanta Orange and a banana. Reluctantly removing his hand off her shoulder, Gage followed Martin out into the entrance hall.

“Is she working at night? Is there a second job—”

“She looks after her mother.” Martin must’ve seen the confusion on Gage’s face. “Did you read the file I sent you?”

“I planned to look over it tonight.”

“It has all the answers.”

“Wait—she looks after the ambassador? I don’t understand.”

“Ambassador Durant lives with chronic pain and can’t sleep at night. Chantal works with her mother’s extensive nerve damage in the early evening hours through massage. That’s her essential role and the reason she became a chiropractor and medical massage therapist. That, including PTSD, are why some nights are worse than others. Some nights the ambassador can’t sleep and wants her daughter by her side.”

“PTSD from what?”

Kohen joined them. “She’s improved, but I’d still like to take her to the embassy clinic.” 

Martin nodded. Chantal appeared behind the medic, the half-eaten peeled banana in her hand. “I’m feeling better—I’m heading for my cottage.” She stepped past the men with her laptop bag, and walked to the rear of the mansion. 

“God, she’s stubborn.” Martin shook his head.

“I’ll watch over her.” Gage backed down the passage. “I’ll be back in ten for the rest of the briefing.” 

Gage’s pulse picked up as he approached the attractive female who now descended onto a lawn. The CMR—Chief of Mission Residence—was a beautiful estate. Gage hadn’t had a chance to take in the grand surroundings, which now sat in the darkening night. 

“Can I take your bag?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Nodding her head, Chantal popped the last of the banana in her mouth. Gage trailed after her along a pebbled path to a small building that sat near an elegantly lit pool, picking up her calm scent fanning out on a warm breeze. 

He’d never got tongue-tied around a woman but couldn’t think what to say. Instead, he tried not to breathe in her familiar fragrance. He was here to do a job—Get up to speed and keep the ambassador’s daughter safe.

“Hendrix. That’s your last name?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Gage Hendrix?”

“At your service.”

“I know how to find my cottage…”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She paused and turned. “So, you can run back to your badass team.”

“If you faint and spend the evening under some bush, your mother will fire my badass team.”

She shot him a narrow-eyed glare. “Doubtful. My health isn’t your concern.”

“The next time two men attack you in a market, I’ll need you to be fit and able enough to follow instructions.”

“That was nothing—hooligans harassing a couple of women. It happens.”

“You believe that? Then why did they leave bruises?” Gage raised his brow at the fading yellowed finger marks on her upper arm. 

Chantal covered the discoloration with her other hand. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? A CrossFit class, perhaps? Am I keeping you from drinking napalm and eating nails with your buddies?”

He tried not to smile. “I only drink napalm in the morning… and nails give me reflux. I prefer snacking on drill bits.”

“Har-dee-har. Funny man.” After folding her arms, she shoved her hands in her back pockets. 

He made her nervous. Interesting. Gage knew that MSD agents could be an intimidating lot—their alpha energy and tactical intensity was hard to miss in ordinarily sedate diplomatic circles. MSD teams rolled in to deal with violence and chaos and didn’t always play nice.

He also acknowledged the spark of attraction. It was the first time he’d felt the pull in the field, and it didn’t mean he would act on the chemistry. Gage would strive to do the opposite. 

Besides, they came from different planets, and Gage was pretty sure he’d see her entitlement at some point. Miss Durant was born into money. He’d heard that her mother owned five properties in both Europe and the States. Gage rented a crappy apartment in Virginia and hadn’t figured out where he belonged. Real estate was the last thing on his mind. Doing his job right—that’s all that mattered.

The earthy night air felt close and smelled like the tropical flora that surrounded them.

“How often do you exercise anyway? I’m sure you guys have a heavy routine.”

“We do. When not on duty—by your side—I work out twice a day, in the morning and evening.”

“I need to shower.” She stepped onto a verandah filled with plants. Their white ceramic pots perfectly arranged in size and in a neat line. 

“Are these yours?” He fingered a chili plant and recognized a few of the herbs. 

“Oui, ils sont mes plantes. I enjoy gardening, although I don’t technically have a yard—I make do. It motivates me to cook more of the local foods.”

Gage noted the French interjection which didn’t align with her standard American accent.

“You like Sri Lankan cuisine?”

“Some—many dishes. I enjoy curries and seafood.” She pulled a set of keys from the front pocket of her computer bag. The dangling key tag read, “Edit Your Life!” 

“Me too… although I’ve only just arrived, so I haven’t had a chance to sample much.”

“Well… thanks for your concern and unneeded guidance. Have a good night, Agent Hendrix.”

“Gage… It’s easier to call me Gage.” Why did he say that? Jesus. 

She didn’t say anything, just unlocked her door. 

“What time are you heading out tomorrow?”

“Seven-thirty. I want to be in my office by eight.”

Gage stepped back on to the path as she closed the door. The talk of curry had him craving a solid meal. After the rest of their meeting, a workout session and dinner in Colombo with the guys sounded perfect. Three days of close surveillance would switch over in the morning to their new role as bodyguards. They still had work to do before they could rest for the night. 

Later that evening, Gage and Gannon returned to their brightly painted hotel room. Gage shifted aside a basket of fruit and sat at the small wooden table before powering up his laptop. It only took him a minute to access the file Martin had sent. Yawning, he began to scroll through the history before pausing. Gage read over every detail before leaning closer.

Gannon emerged from the bathroom in a pair of board shorts and pulled open the fridge. “My shoulders are killing me. Those lateral plank walks and Hindu push-ups are insane.”

Gage rolled a sore neck. “Yeah, well. Jet lag is no longer an excuse. Exercise your ass off, or you’re off the team.”

“Cranky much? What’s up, man?” 

“Did you know about the assassination twelve years ago?”

“The what?”

“I knew the ambassador was a widow… that her husband had been murdered, but I’ve never paid much attention to diplomatic gossip.” 

“Bud, what are you talking about?” Gannon pulled out a chair and handed over a water. 

“Where were we, twelve years ago? My first deployment meant that I was growing testicular fortitude in the Ghan.”

“Me too.” Gannon chuckled. “For those first couple of years, I lived and breathed sand, sun, and gunpowder.” 

In Afghanistan, Gage had been doing the same—he hadn’t paid much attention to developing news in the States. Glancing up from the screen, he elaborated, “A sniper shot her parents—in front of Chantal. Her father died instantly.”

“You mean, in front of ‘Miss Durant.’”

Gage waved a hand. “That’s what I meant. The ambassador sustained a shoulder and back injury. Two of their bodyguards died protecting Chant—Miss Durant and her mother.”

“The shooter tried to take out the whole family. Damn. But wait—Ambassador Durant wasn’t an ambassador at the time?”

“Nope. She’d resigned as a desk officer and was about to take an assignment as a Deputy Economic Counselor—only just getting her diplomatic feet wet.” Gage scrolled down. “Her husband was a business tycoon. A freaking billionaire. Yet she chose to be a career member of the foreign service and refused to use his influence to get ahead.” 

“Did they catch the sniper?” 

“Yeah. Otto Kivela—a Finnish assassin. It was a paid hit—they never found his client. He died three days after the arrest.”

“Suicide?”

“No. Cancer.”

“That’s odd.”

Gage frowned as he read through the information that Martin compiled. “Not common knowledge, but the ambassador has extensive and irreparable nerve damage from the shooting.”

“She seems fine to me.”

“Look carefully; she favors her left arm. She’s had three nerve grafts.” Gunshot wounds were a common cause of traumatic nerve injury. A high-velocity bullet from a sniper’s rifle would create a massive amount of shock waves and cavitation effects—kinetic energy could be a bitch. 

“Damn. And I’m guessing that her daughter helps her to manage the pain—the ambassador’s caregiver.”

Gage continued sifting through the new intel. His neck itched as he tried to piece together the history. He didn’t like loose ends—which tended to fray and snag up a mission. 

“Let’s get some shut-eye.” Gannon slapped Gage on the back. “This assignment has drama written all over it—in a bright red sharpie. From politics to family calamities, and we’ll need to be on top of our game.”

***

Heart pounding, Chantal fought against her damp sheets and sat up. The oppressive darkness had her reaching for her bedside lamp and she huffed out a shaky breath, scanning the empty room. She was safe in her secure cottage in Sri Lanka. Not in Colorado. Her trembling fingers drifted down to an old scar and Chantal fought the urge to cry. When would the nightmares end?

Her tears wouldn’t change the past—bring back her father or take away her pain. Shoving aside the heartache, Chantal swung her feet to the floor, checked her phone and headed to the bathroom. Four in the morning—an earlier start than normal.

After splashing her face, she headed to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. When last had she cleaned the pot cupboard? And her spice rack needed rearranging. Knowing she wouldn’t go back to sleep, Chantal hunkered down and flipped open the cupboard door, eyeing the neatly stacked pots and pans. Perhaps she could arrange them by function instead of size.

Sitting her ass down, Chantal pulled out a saucepan and got to work. Her thoughts turned to her new MSD team. She hoped they didn’t restrict her work movements and didn’t get in her way at the treatment center. She now had way too much security. Not that feeling safe was a bad thing—especially looking back on her past. And MSD agents looked like hardened warriors who could slaughter an army. But still… She worried over her detail’s safety. Two good men had died sheltering her family and she’d never forget their faces. Chantal hadn’t known them well and yet they’d thrown themselves into the line of fire, sacrificing their lives for their wealthy clients. Without a doubt, she knew that Agent Hendrix would do the same—die for his principal. The thought terrified Chantal.

Gage Hendrix wasn’t the biggest man on his team, but he was definitely the most capable-looking. Tall and solid with a cocky confidence that almost seemed annoying. His valorous energy swirled like a restless snake and those light, bronzed eyes sliced into a person’s soul. Chantal wondered if he had a wife or a girlfriend. Kids? He looked like he’d be a great father. Her heart clenched and she placed a pan on the floor. Children weren’t in Chantal’s future and that complicated the hell out of her dating life. Should she even bother meeting men? Did she have time for dating? The clinic kept her busy and her patients came first.

A Swiss diplomat had shown interest and it might be nice to explore her options. All work and no play made for a dull existence. Granted, her dedication to the clinic would never falter, but she could carve out a little more time for her personal life. Which could be a challenge with a dozen guards trailing her every move.

Mind made-up, Chantal threw herself back into cleaning. A busy morning lay ahead.