“Of course. In the past, I’ve encountered clients who thought they were bigger than the program.”
Kiyah chuckled, nudging me with her elbow, wanting me to join in.
Honestly, she’s laughing a little too hard for me; however, that’s just the jealousy talking.
I cleared my throat.
“Next question. Our case is highly sensitive. What measures do you take to ensure confidentiality?”
“All employees sign strict NDAs, undergo bi-annual polygraph testing, and we control all client-related data on an encrypted, offline system. No names or identifying details are used over open channels, and all company-issued electronic devices are highly monitored.”
“Great. Based on what you know, what’s your initial assessment of our security needs?”
“Given the complexity of your case, I’d recommend a three-layer approach—residential security with access control, a two-person rotating close-protection team for Mrs. Baker, and counter-surveillance to identify anyone gathering intel on you.”
“That sounds… involved,” Kiyah whispered.
“It is, and I promise we’ll handle your security as delicately as possible. I can’t promise there won’t be times when you feel suffocated or when you find us intrusive and disruptive to your day-to-day life, but our goal isn’t disruption; it’s protection. From what your husband tells me, Mr. Branson had you under heavy surveillance, correct?”
Kiyah nodded listlessly.
“They were always watching—always near. I couldn’t go anywhere without SWAT-level protection. At first, I thought he was concerned for his son after his wife’s death, but soon, I realized it was less about keeping his child safe and more about controlling me. He had my phone cloned, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were listening devices and cameras in my hotel room smoke detectors.”
Mr. Preston nodded.
“I’m sorry for what you and your family are going through, and I can’t stress enough how I don’t want your family as long-term clients because the longer I’m around, the more danger that’s present.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Kiyah confessed, reaching for my hand. Immediately, I grasped it in mine. “I don’t want this to be our life forever or until he gets what he wants.”
“Have you ever lost a client?” I interjected.
“Once. She was 17, and the daughter of a senator. She gave her details the slip when she went to the ladies’ restroom at a public event. She ditched her phone and tracking device andwent out another bathroom exit. She was meeting up with an ex-boyfriend to give him “closure,” and he decided he couldn’t live without her. Tragically, she passed in a murder-suicide. Since then, we have always kept a female bodyguard on staff when we have female clients.”
I cleared my throat, hoping the ache would disappear. Children being hurt and killed was always a sore subject for me. They were my most difficult cases, and I always tried to pass them to Casey when his workload allowed it.
“Mr. Preston, we have no idea how long your services will be required. What is your billing structure? Do you bill hourly or is it a retainer?” Kiyah asked.
“For continuous protection, we recommend a retainer—it’s more cost-effective and guarantees team availability. We can break it down into daily or hourly for special assignments. Given your situation, you’re looking at a full protective detail plus counter-surveillance. Our retainer for that level starts at $120,000 a month. That covers manpower, equipment, and rapid-response. Travel and non-typical expenses, such as overseas extraction, would be additional, but we pride ourselves at Preston Personal Security on being transparent. There are no hidden fees or surprise bills.”
“Thank you. We appreciate that,” Kiyah remarked.
“What do you think so far?”
“I—”
“Are your teams trained to shoot to kill?” I asked, interrupting Kiyah. From Mr. Preston’s slow blinking, I could tell I threw him off.
“Mr. Baker….”
“If my wife is in physical and mortal danger, will your team hesitate to take the shot?” Mr. Preston and I stared at each other—neither of us flinching. “Well?”
“My team would neutralize the threat by any means necessary—headshots, but I see that I’m not the right fit for you and your family,” Mr. Preston said, standing to his feet and buttoning his suit jacket. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker. I wish you and your family the best of luck.”
Confused, I followed him to the front door. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He paused briefly with his hand on the door. “What the hell happened back there?”
He turned to confront me.
“Trauma is a poison that can infect anyone, even the most sane of us. You are not looking for protection, Mr. Baker. You’re looking for retribution, and you’re not using my men to do it. If you want someone to take your problem off your hands, then hire a fucking mercenary. Good luck, Mr. Baker.”
