"Copy."
I take the file and head for the door.
"Hayes."
I stop but don't turn around.
"She's wealthy, powerful, and used to controlling every situation she walks into," Deck says. "Don't let her rattle you."
"Nothing rattles me, boss."
I can feel his skepticism on the back of my neck as I walk out.
I spendthe next ninety minutes doing exactly what Deck asked. I review the threat assessment Sully compiled, which is thorough enough to make my teeth ache. Morrison Pharmaceuticals hasbeen hemorrhaging data for approximately four months. The internal investigation identified three possible sources, all C-suite adjacent, all with access to the files that were leaked. Her chief security officer, a solid guy named Warren Park, tried to handle it quietly. Then came the break-in at her penthouse. No forced entry. No alarm trigger. Just the note.
Whoever is behind this has money, access, and patience. That's a dangerous combination.
I memorize her schedule, her dietary preferences, her known associates, her ex-husband's information (amicable divorce two years ago, tech executive, currently living in Singapore, no red flags). I map out the compound's sight lines from cabin four and identify three extraction routes depending on threat direction.
Then I shower, trim my beard, and put on clean tactical pants and a fitted black henley instead of the dirty range gear I'd been wearing. Because I'm a professional, not because a woman who looks like that is about to walk through my gate.
That's what I tell myself.
At exactly fourteen hundred hours, I'm standing by the main entrance when the black armored SUV rolls up the access road. Warren Park arranged the transport from Reno. Tinted windows, run-flat tires, reinforced chassis. Solid vehicle.
The SUV stops. The driver steps out first. Then the rear passenger door opens, and a pair of expensive heels hits the gravel.
The photo didn't do her justice. Not even close.
Alexandra Morrison unfolds from the backseat like she's stepping onto a stage. Tall for a woman. Five-nine, maybe more in those heels. Platinum blonde hair catching the mountain sun, not a strand out of place. Navy suit tailored so precisely it could've been painted on, and beneath it, curves that the corporate headshot had no business hiding. Long legs, narrow waist, full hips. A body that doesn't apologize for itself, carriedwith the posture of a woman who knows exactly what she looks like and uses it as armor.
Her eyes find me immediately. Pale blue. Assessing. Dismissive inside of half a second.
I'm thirty-three years old. I've been shot at, blown up, dropped from helicopters, and pulled half-dead soldiers out of burning wreckage. My hands are steady in every situation I've ever faced.
They are not steady now.
She walks toward me with the kind of stride that says she's already calculated how long this interaction should take and allocated exactly that much time for it. Her driver follows with two rolling suitcases. Louis Vuitton.
I step forward and extend my hand. "Ms. Morrison. I'm Hayes Donovan, your lead protective operator for the duration of your stay. Welcome to Guardian Peak."
Her handshake is firm, brief, and absolutely devoid of warmth. Up close, her skin is flawless. She smells like something expensive and cold. Jasmine, maybe. Something underneath it that's warmer. Her eyes sweep over me from boots to face in under two seconds, and whatever she finds doesn't impress her.
"Mr. Donovan." Her voice is controlled, low, the kind of voice that commands boardrooms and operating theaters. "I believe I made my position on this assignment clear to your employer."
"You did."
One perfect eyebrow rises. "And yet here you are."
I smile. "And yet here I am." I gesture toward the path leading to the guest cabins. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your quarters and walk you through our security protocols."
She doesn't move. Those blue eyes stay locked on mine, and I can see her running calculations. My age. My build. My face that looks younger than my years because apparently God thoughtthat was funny. She's measuring me against whatever template she has for the word "bodyguard" and I'm coming up short.
"How old are you, Mr. Donovan?"
"Thirty-three."
"And how many years of protective detail experience do you have?"
