1
HUDSON
I stareat the cracks in the ceiling of my shithole apartment, memorizing each one like they’re escape routes from hell before dragging my eyes back to the laptop sitting in front of me. Scrolling through the endless list of security gigs offering “competitive pay” that wouldn't even cover my electric bill this month, warehouse work that would break what's left of my back, and night shifts that would finally finish the job the Marine Corps started. My trigger finger twitches with every scroll. I reach for the mug beside me and swallow a mouthful of coffee that’s now stone-cold, the bitter sludge coating my tongue like motor oil.
"Christ," I mutter, grimacing.
My phone rings, vibrating against the table. It’s an unfamiliar number, but I answer anyway. Desperation does ugly things to one’s pride.
“Yeah?”
“Is this Hudson Reed?” the voice on the other end asks.
“Who wants to know?”
“Vincent Landon, Halo Protective Group. I heard you might be looking for work.”
My heart rate kicks up. “Yeah…I mean, yes, sir.”
He continues, “I’ve got something. A high-priority security detail. It’s only for a week, but it pays well. I’d need you to start immediately. Are you interested?”
“Hell yeah, I’m interested. You want a background check?” I cringe a little at the thought of another letdown due to my record. “What about a blood sample? I’ll give you whatever you need. I just need to work.”
He laughs, and it’s short and humorless. He gets right into the details, skipping right over the mention of a background check or drug test. “It’s at the request of one of our current clients, the Valenti family. They have guests coming into town for the Harbor Lights Gala, and the daughter’s regular detail can’t travel due to an unexpected family emergency. You’d be assigned to her for the whole week.”
Without hesitation, I state, “Done…I mean…yes, sir, I’ll do it.”
He gives me the hotel name, then a few other important details. I jot them in the margin of some overdue bill. My hand remains steady unlike the rest of me. Old reflex, I guess. When you’re this damn hungry for a job, you don’t waste time feeling grateful.
We hang up.
I move on autopilot, showering as fast as I can. I throw some clean clothes into a duffel bag and grab a suit jacket just in case someone expects me to play dress-up. Next, the gun gets checked, loaded, and holstered under my arm. I check my reflection in the mirror. Looking back at me are hollow eyes and a thin line that’s supposed to be my mouth.
Doesn’t matter. No one’s hiring me for my charm or good looks.
Boots and keys are next, then I’m ready to go.
I slam the door shut behind me and walk down the piss-stained hallway, out into the city. My car is waiting, still smellinglike stale cigarettes and old coffee. I drive with the windows down, letting the cool breeze cut through me.
I don’t know this girl. Don’t care. All I do know is I need this job so bad it hurts. And I never fuck up a detail.
Not for anyone.
The hotel lobby smells like money and lemon furniture polish, with all the warmth of a dentist’s office waiting room. My boots squeak on the marble floor, announcing every step. The strap of my duffel digs into my shoulder, but the whole time, I’m staying conscious of my surroundings. I could pick every person in here as a threat in under ten seconds. The concierge looks up, clocking me, my bag, then the way I don’t stop at check-in.
Smart man.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Suite 2217. Now. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford are waiting.”
I get in the elevator, catching my reflection in the gold-mirrored walls, trying not to look like I crawled out of some gutter.
I run a hand over my jaw, hoping the stubble looks somewhat intimidating.
When I get to the penthouse door, I notice it’s cracked open. Learning my lesson the last time, I go ahead and knock anyway. But before I get the opportunity, a tall guy with slicked-back hair and silver at the temples swings the door open. He’s wearing a suit that I’d almost bet cost more than my last car and stares back at me with cold eyes, not even bothering with pleasantries or a handshake.
I’m going to guess this is Mr. Ashford.
