F inn
Ten years in the CIA teaches a man to trust his instincts, and mine are screaming that whatever's on the other end of this line is either going to make me very rich or very dead. Maybe both.
"McKenna." My voice comes out rough with sleep and the whiskey I had before bed.
"Finn, it's Frank." Frank Chen, my former handler and current freelance broker for the kind of security jobs that don't make it into the newspapers. "I've got a situation."
I'm already sitting up, reaching for the jeans I left on the chair. Two years of retirement in Grizzly Ridge, and my body still goes to full alert the second Frank's voice hits my ear.
"What kind of situation?"
"The kind that pays seven figures and comes with more complications than a Russian spy novel.
" There's a pause, and I can practically hear him calculating how much he can tell me over an unsecured line.
"Celebrity client. High profile stalker threat.
Needs immediate extraction and long term protection. "
"How long term?"
"Unknown. Could be weeks, could be months. Depends how long it takes the FBI to catch this bastard."
I'm already pulling on my shirt, my mind shifting into operational mode. Seven figures is serious money. Serious money means serious danger. And serious danger means the kind of adrenaline rush I've been missing since I hung up my government credentials.
"Where?"
"Los Angeles. Client's been getting escalating threats for six months. Letters, photos, break in attempts. Last night someone got past her security and left a message written in blood on her bedroom mirror."
"Jesus. What did it say?"
"'Soon.' That's it. Just 'Soon.'"
The single word sends ice through my veins. I've seen enough psychopaths to know that the quiet ones, the patient ones, are the most dangerous. The ones who plan, wait and savor the anticipation are the ones who don't just want to hurt their victims. They want to own them.
"Local police?"
"Useless. Too many false alarms, too many celebrity stalker cases that turn out to be publicity stunts. They've got two uniforms doing drive bys and a detective who thinks this is all for attention."
"But you don't believe that’s the case."
"I've seen the photos, Finn. This isn't some lovesick fan with boundary issues. This is a predator who's been studying her for months, learning her routines, her weaknesses. He's escalating because he's ready to make his move."
I'm fully dressed now, checking my go bag that's been sitting packed by the door for two years. Old habits die hard, and the habit of being ready to disappear at a moment's notice dies hardest of all.
"What's the client's name?"
"Nova Wilde."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Nova Wilde . Even living in the middle of nowhere Montana, I know that name. Everyone knows that name.
Singer. Actress. The kind of beautiful that makes grown men forget their own names. The kind of famous that means paparazzi follow her to the grocery store and tabloids dissect every outfit she wears.
The kind of woman I've spent my entire career avoiding.
"The pop star?" I keep my voice neutral, professional, but my mind is already calculating complications. Celebrity clients are a nightmare. They're used to being the center of attention, used to having their every whim catered to, used to thinking rules don't apply to them.
They're also walking targets with stalkers, obsessed fans, and more enemies than they can count.
"The very one. And Finn, she specifically asked for you."
That stops me cold. "What do you mean she asked for me?"
"I mean when I told her I had the perfect man for the job, she said, and I quote, 'Is it Finn McKenna? Because I've heard he's the best at making people disappear.'"
A chill runs down my spine. "How the hell does Nova Wilde know my name?"
"Good question. Maybe you can ask her when you pick her up."
"Frank, I don't do celebrity clients. You know that. Too much drama, too much attention, too many variables I can't control."
"Seven figures, Finn. Plus expenses. Plus a bonus if you keep her alive until the Bureau catches this guy."
Seven figures is enough money to buy that piece of land I've been eyeing, the thousand acres that border Grizzly Ridge National Forest. Enough money to build the kind of off grid compound where a man can disappear completely if he needs to.
Enough money to set up the kind of security business that would let me stay in Montana permanently instead of taking jobs that drag me back into the world I left behind.
"Where do you want me to take her?"
"Somewhere isolated. Somewhere secure. Somewhere this bastard will never think to look." Frank pauses. "I was thinking Montana might be perfect."
Montana. My mountain. My territory. My rules.
The idea of bringing Nova Wilde to Grizzly Ridge is so outlandish it may just work. A Hollywood celebrity in a town where the biggest excitement is usually a bar fight at Murphy's Tavern? Where everyone knows everyone else's business, and gossip travels faster than wildfire?
But something else is stirring in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
"Send me the file," I hear myself say. "I'll review it on the plane."
"Already sent. The jet leaves from Billings in three hours. Don't be late."
The line goes dead, and I'm left staring at my phone in the darkness of my cabin. It takes three hours on the jet to get to Cali from Billings, and another two hours to drive through mountain roads that are probably icy as hell to even get to Billings.
I should call one of my brothers to let them know I'm disappearing for a while. But something stops me. Some instinct that says this job is different, that once I walk into Nova Wilde's world, I'm not going to be the same man who walks out.
Instead, I grab my keys and head for the truck. Whatever's waiting for me in Los Angeles, whatever danger is hunting Nova Wilde, I'll face it the same way I've faced every threat for the past ten years.
With deadly precision and no room for emotion.
The drive to Billings passes in a blur of dark highways and my own thoughts. By the time I'm boarding the private jet, I've read Nova Wilde's file three times, and each reading makes me more convinced that whoever's stalking her isn't going to stop until he has her.
Or until someone stops him permanently.
The photos are what get to me. Not the glamorous publicity shots or the paparazzi candids, but the surveillance photos taken by her stalker.
Pictures of her leaving her house, getting coffee, talking on the phone.
Pictures taken with a telephoto lens from impossible distances, showing a level of dedication and obsession that makes my blood run cold.
Someone has been watching Nova Wilde for months. Learning her patterns, her habits, her vulnerabilities. Planning something that's going to end with her blood on his hands if I don't do my job right.
The jet touches down in Los Angeles at dawn, and I'm met by a car that takes me through traffic-clogged streets to a mansion in the Hills that probably costs more than my entire hometown's annual budget.
The security is impressive. High walls, cameras, motion sensors, and guards at the gate. The kind of setup that would keep out amateur stalkers and garden variety criminals.
But I've spent enough time in this business to know that no security system is perfect. That a determined enough predator can find a way through any defense if he's patient enough, smart enough, and willing to wait for the right moment.
And this bastard has been very patient.
The guard at the gate waves me through after checking my credentials, and I park in front of a house that looks like it belongs in a magazine. It has glass, steel, and intimidating architecture designed to impress rather than comfort.
The front door opens before I can knock, and I find myself face to face with the woman I've been hired to protect.
Nova Wilde is even more beautiful in person than she is in photographs, which should be impossible but apparently isn't. With dark hair that falls in waves past her shoulders, green eyes that seem to see straight through me, and the kind of face that would launch a thousand ships and probably has.
She's wearing jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than most people make in a month, but it's her expression that stops me cold. Fear. Real, honest to God terror barely hidden beneath a veneer of Hollywood composure.
This woman is scared out of her mind, and she's trying desperately not to show it.
"You must be Finn McKenna." Her voice is exactly what I expected. Smooth, cultured, with just a hint of vulnerability underneath. "I've heard stories about you."
"Ms. Wilde." I keep my voice neutral. "I understand you have a problem."
"A problem." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's one way to put it. Come in. We have a lot to discuss, and not much time to do it."
I follow her into a living room that's bigger than my entire cabin with white furniture, abstract art, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of Los Angeles sprawling below us.
It's beautiful. It's impressive. And it's completely indefensible.
"Nice place," I lie.
"It's a fortress." She settles onto one of the white couches, and I notice the way she chooses the seat that puts her back to the wall, her eyes on all the exits. "Or at least, it was supposed to be."
"Tell me about the threats."
For the next hour, she walks me through six months of escalating terror.
It started with fan mail that was a little too personal, a little too intense.
Then came the gifts. Expensive jewelry, flowers, and items of clothing that were exactly her size, even though her measurements weren't public knowledge.
Then the photos. Pictures of her taken from impossible angles, in places where cameras shouldn't have been able to reach. Her bedroom. Her bathroom. Her private gym.