Page 14 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)

“You don’t want to know.” Jackson came from the kitchen and claimed a seat at the table. His mountain of food was even taller than Pinto’s, which really wasn’t all that surprising, considering his size. It had to take a lot of food to power that much muscle.

From what Sloane had heard, it was a standing tradition among the men and women who worked on the protection details to blow off steam at the end of the week by drinking a few beers while watching the worst movies they could find.

It used to be a small group but had recently expanded to include a few of the new hires.

“It can’t be any worse than last week’s movies,” Garrett said.

Pinto scoffed as if greatly offended. “Say what you want, but Meth Gator Versus Crackodile is a cinematic masterpiece.”

“After how much alcohol?” Jackson asked.

Rosario laughed. “To be fair, it was better than the one with the puppets. That was just weird.”

A few of the guys voiced their agreement.

“So what’s the movie?” Hatch asked as he gathered the last of his eggs onto his fork.

“Ask him.” Jackson jerked his thumb to the left where Navarre had emerged from the kitchen, a plate in one hand and a coffee mug in the other.

Navarre set his mug on the table and leaned against the wall because there weren’t any open seats left. “Ask me what?”

Jackson speared a chunk of chorizo with his fork. “They want to know what movies you plan to subject us to next week.”

“Oh.” Clearly not in a hurry—a stark contrast to the rest of the group—he crunched down on a strip of bacon. “I thought we’d start with an old school classic. You know, one that most people have heard about but few have actually seen. A superhero movie that was way ahead of its time—”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, will you just spit it out?” Pinto said, and several people at the table laughed.

Navarre sipped his coffee and set the mug back on the table. His lips curved up, just a little, a rare crack in his gruff exterior, and damn, it made him look sexy as hell. He scooped up a forkful of chorizo hash, and right before he put it into his mouth, he said, “ Howard the Duck .”

A collective groan filled the room. Somebody threw a sugar packet at Navarre that bounced off his chest and hit the floor. Undaunted, he picked it up and set it on the table.

“Keep that up and I’ll add Xanadu to the lineup.”

Rosario shot him a pained look. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“You should come next time,” Jackson told Sloane as he set his fork on the plate he’d emptied in near-record time. It wouldn’t surprise her to see him go back for more, if there was anything left at this point. “Misery loves company.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. It was nice to be included in their group, if only for a little while. “How can I refuse when you make it sound so appealing?”

“It’s actually a lot of fun. The movies are so awful, we spend most of our time making fun of them, kind of like MST3K but with good friends, good beer, good food, and no robots.” Jackson glanced up at Navarre. “What other movies did you decide to inflict on us?”

The roguish grin returned. “ Saturn 3 and Piranha II .”

Another round of groans erupted, but was quickly extinguished when Sierra Page walked through the entryway, wearing gray yoga pants and a teal tank top that hugged her toned torso and accentuated her cleavage.

Her hair was gathered into a loose knot, and even though she didn’t wear a stitch of makeup, she looked poised to walk the red carpet.

She was probably pretty used to that, to men stopping dead in their tracks whenever she graced them with her presence.

Sloane never had that problem. Most of the time, she considered it a good thing.

There were benefits to moving through life unnoticed, like not having to hire private security to ward off creepy ex-boyfriends and crazed fans.

But every so often, she kind of wished a man would look at her like that, like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

A note of amusement crossed Sierra’s face. Her fingers toyed with the neckline of her tank top, drawing even more attention to her cleavage, as if that was needed. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?”

“Nope, not at all,” Jackson said. “If you’re hungry, there’s eggs and chorizo hash in the kitchen. The bacon’s gone, but if you’d like, we can fry some more up for you.”

Her delicate eyebrows drew down. “I don’t think I’ve ever had chorizo hash.”

“Well, now’s your chance. Grab a plate and dive in.”

It struck her as funny, how Jackson spoke to an ultra-rich, mega-famous movie star as though she were one of the guys.

He’d worked a lot of protection details, including the one for actress Vicky Hale, which likely explained why he didn’t act intimidated by Sierra.

Still, her presence had stunned a number of the men into silence.

Garrett looked like he’d swallowed his tongue.

Curious about his reaction, Sloane’s focus shifted to Navarre, and her breath caught in her throat when she met his gaze head-on.

For a moment or two, he just looked at her, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath, his expression impossible to read.

Then he blinked, raised his mug to his lips, and turned his gaze away.

Sierra went to the kitchen and returned minutes later with a modest portion of eggs and hash on a plate, along with a bowl of fruit salad and a small glass of what looked like some sort of smoothie. Pinto’s partner, Hatch, scrambled to get up so she’d have a place to sit.

She glanced over her shoulder as Navarre pushed her chair in for her, flashed a brilliant smile, and said, “Thank you, sugar,” and Sloane thought she was going to barf.

Sierra sampled the hash, chewed a few times, and her face lit up like Christmas morning. “Oh, this is delicious.”

“Told you she’d like it,” Hatch said, and Pinto rolled his eyes.

With the exception of Sierra, most of the plates, glasses, and mugs at the table were empty.

Sloane checked the time, relieved to see she still had ten minutes before her scheduled session with the stylists.

Showing up late would have been kind of awkward.

Hopefully, the clothes they’d chosen for her wouldn’t be too tight, because she hadn’t planned to eat that much for breakfast.

Jackson clapped his hands to get everybody’s attention. “All right, folks, pick a number from one to twenty. Closest to the pin does dishes. Not you,” he added when Sierra tried to add her number.

Confusion colored her face in a way that showed she wasn’t accustomed to being told no. “Why not?”

“Because she who signs our checks is excused from dish duty. You were kind enough to let us use your kitchen; the least we can do is clean up after ourselves. Garrett and Rosario, you’re the lucky winners.

Team One, we’re leaving in two hours. Team Two leaves thirty minutes after that. Y’all know what to do.”

Navarre stood at the edge of the steps, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he leaned against one of the carved stone pillars.

All was quiet on the property. No perimeter breaches, or threatening messages, or anything else that might signal approaching danger.

Hell, even the paparazzi were keeping their distance, a rarity in his experience.

By all measures, things were going exactly as planned.

And yet, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that shit was about to go sideways.

He hated this feeling, mostly because it didn’t come with more detailed information, like what, where, when, why, or how many. Then he’d actually have something to work with. Instead, he only had a vague sense of impending doom that left him edgy, off-balance, and unsure how to proceed.

The front door opened, and he didn’t need to look back to know it was Jackson.

“You okay, man?” The sound of boot steps got closer until Jackson stood beside him. “No offense, but you seem off this morning.”

It wasn’t surprising that Jackson had noticed.

He’d always been perceptive. He was more than a friend; he was family.

During their time in the Army, they’d forged a bond that ran deeper than most could comprehend.

At this point, they couldn’t hide much of anything from each other.

Most of the time, he considered that a good thing.

Navarre glanced up at his friend. “I’ve got a bad feeling about today.”

Jackson’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the words. “How bad are we talking? The Pit? Kundig?”

Jaw tightening, Navarre shook his head. “Wanesh.”

“Aw, fuck.” Jackson’s hand instinctively reached for the grip of his sidearm. “Are you shitting me?”

“I never joke about Wanesh.” Even though the scars had faded with time, the memories would always remain fresh.

Some things were never meant to be forgotten.

There were times when he woke in the dead of night to the smell of burnt flesh and diesel.

They’d lost a lot of close friends in that shithole, a few whose bodies were never recovered in spite of their efforts.

Their names were inked into Jackson’s skin, just above his left pectoral muscle. They were seared into Navarre’s soul.

Jackson went quiet for nearly a minute, his eyebrows drawn close together as he stared out at the grounds. “How long you had this feeling?”

“I woke up with it this morning.”

His friend sighed. “Think you should tell Austin?”

“If I did, what good would it do?” In Wanesh, it hadn’t done a damn bit of good.

To the contrary, his CO had mocked him for being superstitious.

Missions were never canceled or altered just because somebody got a bad vibe, especially this late in the game.

You rolled with the punches, made adjustments, and powered through whatever got thrown your way.

And maybe, just maybe, you made it through alive.

“Austin trusts your instincts,” Jackson said. “He knows you’re not the type to freak out over every little thing. More important, he wants this job to go smoothly. If you tell him, he’ll probably bulk up the protection details.”

Navarre took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair.

He’d feel foolish warning Austin about a gut feeling, but if he didn’t and somebody got hurt—or worse—he’d never forgive himself.

Especially if that person was a civilian.

In his experience, it was better to be over-prepared and feel a little foolish than to get caught with your pants around your ankles.

“You’re right; I’ll call him.” There wasn’t much time, but perhaps they could get some additional help to deal with any potential problems.

“Good boy.” Jackson’s mouth curved up on one side. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Sloane, would it?”

The question caught him off guard. “What—no. Why would it?”

“Just asking is all.” Jackson slid his hands into his pants pockets, his tone casual but his eyes razor-sharp. “I heard talk about you two by the pool last night.”

Navarre stiffened. Fucking Pinto needed to keep his damn mouth shut. “You know how I feel about untrained civilians on an op.”

“The only thing she’s got to do is look pretty,” Jackson countered. “We both know that ain’t a problem. She’s a damn fine-looking woman.”

Navarre inhaled sharply, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. Friend or not, he wasn’t having this conversation. “Essie would kick your ass if she heard you saying that about another woman.”

“What? I’m just calling it like I see it.” His friend smirked. “I’m happily married, not blind. You, on the other hand, are very much single.”

Navarre didn’t respond right away. His mind flashed back to Sloane by the pool, and every cell in his body heated. It didn’t matter; he’d never act on the attraction. She’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested, and he wasn’t the kind of guy who disrespected boundaries. “Your point?”

Jackson chuckled as he turned toward the door. “You’ll figure it out eventually. If you need me, I’ll be inside.”