Page 9 of Gunnar

Yesterday’s meeting with the Fortune 500 execs dragged on well into the evening. It was hours of discussing international threats, executive travel protocols, facility vulnerabilities, and risk mitigation strategies. I was not expecting to be sitting around this table again quite this soon. I toss my keys onto it with a metallic clatter and take a seat.

“Morning.”

“Debatable,” Damon grouses, gesturing at the still sunless horizon.

Jagger tips his head. “Dad.”

It’s too early for his shit.

Abby strides into the room with a broad smile, clearly more awake than the rest of us. Hawk follows a few paces behind her.

Jagger shakes his head. “No.”

Abby drops into the seat next to me and throws her hands into the air. “What?”

Jagger points at her. “Just… whatever you’re selling this morning… No.”

She blinks, her blue eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I haven’t said anything.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He helps himself to Damon’s coffee, his eyes never leaving her face. “You are never this bubbly in the morning, so something’s up.”

“You are impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.” He takes another sip of the stolen coffee, completely unbothered. “Several times. Usually by you… or Doc.”

Several times. Often by Abby. Pretty much daily by his sweet wife.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Hawk shares, settling into the seat at the head of the long table.

“For who?” I ask.

Hawk shifts in his seat, and it groans slightly in protest beneath him. “The corporate account from yesterday is being handed off to a couple of the more seasoned junior operatives. We can manage them from our next job.”

Jagger beams, his face transforming with relief. “See? Growth opportunities. They’re finally letting the children play with the expensive toys.”

She nudges my elbow. “Can you do something with him?”

“I’ve repeatedly been told that I’m not allowed to shoot him. So, no.”

“Rude,” Jagger huffs playfully.

Damon straightens slightly, his interest genuinely piqued for the first time since I arrived. “Our next job?”

Abby taps the stack of manila folders resting on the table before her. “The four of you have been requested elsewhere.”

“Requested by whom?” My brow quirks up with curiosity. We are damned good at our jobs, but duty assignments are generally based on the threat level and caliber of skill required to ensure the safety of our clients. They are very based on request.

She rests both hands on the dossiers, and her expression becomes suspiciously innocent. “This is a high-value client with enough influence to bypass standard assignment channels and specifically ask for the four of you. That alone should tell you the level of concern. The threat assessment has been deemed imminent, and the local authorities are already involved.”

“It’s not…” Damon mutters, his shoulders slumping.

“Abbs…” Jagger groans, his gaze flitting between her and the folders resting before her.

She pulls the thick folders from beneath her hands and slides one across the polished conference table to each of us. I glance at the folder, my fingers resting on the manila cover. When I flip it open to a professional headshot, the kind that comes with a studio-lit face, striking in a way that makes me forget to breathe for a moment, Abby says the four words we all dread the most. “It’s a celebrity detail.”

A collective groan loud enough to be heard outside the conference room rumbles from all of us. Historically speaking, celebrity protection detail ranks somewhere between tax audits and getting shot on my list of favorite experiences. They involve managing egos, navigating entourages, dealing with publicists who think they’re security experts, and trying to protect people who have spent their entire adult lives being told “yes” by everyone around them.

I shake my head. “We are way over-qualified to be driving Miss Daisy to and from the studio lot⁠—”