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Beck
Someone handedme the briefing document the second I walked into the office.
I needed the space as a command center where I could meet with prospective clients, manage operations, and onboard new employees.
Today, my team called me in because someone actually got shot on the job. It didn’t happen often, because my people made sure it didn’t. They performed background checks on everyone surrounding the clients they managed, learned their itineraries, and figured out the most secure ways in and out of a location.
Sometimes, however, things went wrong. We were in the business of protecting some of the most high-profile people in the world from politicians to diplomats and celebrities, it made the work interesting enough for my team of ex Marines and Navy Seals whose highly specialized talents were wasted otherwise.
Still, I didn’t appreciate my people getting shot. Margot Madison was one of my most decorated employees and lived for the most dangerous assignments. The diplomat she was assigned to protect had traveled out of the country.
The details were written on the document in my hands. I squinted, the words blurring together, morphing on the page. I handed it back to Miles as we headed to my office. “Read it to me.”
I couldn’t afford to get the information wrong. We didn’t need to get involved in an international incident because I mixed up a few letters, fucking up the details. Dyslexia did that to you.
“Sure,” Miles said, clearing his throat. “Margot Madison, age twenty-nine, sustained a bullet wound to the upper arm. She was immediately transported to the local hospital and treated on site. Her client, Ambassador Armando Herandez, was unhurt in the incident.”
We made it to my corner office and took our usual seats. “Do we know why she was shot at?”
Miles’ brow furrowed as he read the report. “Initial reports consider it a freak accident.”
I lifted my laptop and pulled up Margot’s work phone. She’d have it on her like other employees. With a few taps, I initiated the video call.
Margot’s disappointed face filled the screen. “Boss, I have it covered. I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two tops.”
I watched as she tugged at the various tubes and IVs connected to her.
“Stop doing that. You’ll hurt yourself,” I said immediately, putting on my best boss voice. It worked on the grown-ups I employed. It failed me when it came to my own seven-year-old.
Margot stopped picking at herself. “Fine. But I am perfectly okay over here. It was practically a graze.”
I heard someone guffaw from Margot’s side of the line.
“Who’s in the room with you?” I asked, haunches raised. She better be in a secure location. I paid well for international insurance so that my people were protected in situations like this. The one thing about international deployments was that it made it harder to extract employees when they were compromised.
“It’s Armando,” Margot said, staring at something—or more likelysomeone—off screen.
I swiped my face, trying to hide my smile. “Margot, hand the phone to Armando.”
“Do I have to?” she replied, sounding just like Alice. Sometimes managing people was just like parenting. Freakishly similar, really.
As if knowing she was going to lose this battle, Margot handed the phone to Armando.
The portly ambassador dabbed the sweat from his brow as he greeted me.
“Nice to see you again, Ambassador Hernandez. Are you okay? Were you injured at all?”
He continued to dab his face using his monogrammed handkerchief. “I’m perfectly fine. Just shaken up for poor Ms. Madison here.”
I appreciated the sentiment. At least someone in that room was worried about Margot’s condition.
Elbows on the table, I leaned forward. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Boss, I’ll have the full report for you in sixty,” Margot said offscreen.
“I’m not asking for the report right now, Margot. I’m asking the ambassador a question.”
I decided to ignore a few muttered expletives and suppressed a smile as I watched Armando turn beet red.