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CHAPTER TWO

T he Garden District safe house was a classic New Orleans shotgun-style home hidden behind a high wall draped with bougainvillea. Wrought iron gates encircled the yard, giving it that old-world feel New Orleans homes were known for. Gator’s car pulled up to the front gate, and it didn’t take Noah long to spot the security camera tracking his movements. Though well hidden where most people wouldn’t notice it on a cursory examination, it provided a level of protection most homes in the neighborhood didn’t boast.

The old man parked in front of the house, eyes scanning the grounds with the practiced assessment of a career intelligence officer.

“Sam’s upgraded security since we last used this place,” Gator noted with approval. “Infrared sensors, motion detectors in the front yard and back garden. Good sight lines.”

Noah took in the property with his own professional assessment. Defensible perimeter. Multiple exit points. Security system clearly state-of-the-art. Not bad.

Gator led him to the front door, punching a code into a keypad. “This changes daily. Sam will text it to you each morning at 0600.”

The interior was elegant without being ostentatious—polished hardwood floors, high ceilings with ornate crown molding. Tasteful. Old money that didn’t need to announce itself. While not in the most expensive part of the Garden District, it also wasn’t in the worst neighborhood either.

“Ms. Baptiste arrives at eight,” Gator said, leading him through to the kitchen. “She’ll have a security escort from the airport. Once she’s here, she’s all yours.”

Noah frowned. “You mean my babysitting job begins.”

Gator fixed him with a pointed look. “She’s not a child, Noah. She’s a woman with a target on her back because she had the courage to stand up to people who think their money and power puts them above the law.” His voice softened slightly. “Sound familiar?”

Noah turned away, unwilling to acknowledge the direct hit. “I agreed to do the job, Gator. Two weeks, then when Nate’s back, I’m gone.”

“Fair enough.” Gator handed him a set of keys. “Car’s in the garage. Untraceable. Study’s the first door on the right down the hall. There’s a gun safe in the master bedroom. Fully stocked. Take your pick of what weapons you think you’ll need. Code’s your father’s birthday.”

Mention of his father sent a twinge through Noah’s chest. Typical Gator—playing on sentiment even in the details. He had to admit, he was surprised Gator even knew his dad’s birthday.

“You’re manipulative as always, old man,” he said without heat. Even though there had been times throughout the years when he and Gator had butted heads, he still loved the old guy.

Gator smiled, unapologetic. “Comes with the territory.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to head back. Meeting Samuel for dinner to discuss another case. You good here?”

Noah nodded. “I’ll familiarize myself with the property, review the file.”

“Good man.” Gator squeezed his shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, Noah, even if it’s temporary.”

“I’m not back,” Noah corrected. “This is a one and done.”

Gator’s expression suggested he thought otherwise, but he didn’t press the point. With a final nod, he left, the security system beeping as the door closed behind him.

Noah spent the next hour conducting a thorough security check of the property. The system was indeed top-notch, though he noted a few minor vulnerabilities—the third-floor windows overlooking the garden were less secure than they should be, and one of the exterior cameras had a blind spot near the rear gate. He made mental notes for improvements, his military training kicking in automatically. It was funny how some things came back so easily, especially since he’d left the miliary behind.

By the time he made his way to the study, evening was settling in. The room was lined with bookshelves, a massive oak desk dominating the space. The copy of the case file sat on the desk—a printout of the one on his phone—a thick folder alongside a laptop. Noah opened the folder, spreading the contents across the desk.

Jennifer Baptiste stared back at him from a photograph, a different one from the earlier photo he’d seen—dark hair, striking green eyes, and a determination in her expression that caught him off guard. According to the file, she’d graduated top of her class from a prestigious university in Paris, worked as an interior designer with a list of clientele, some of whose names he recognized, and pictures of some of the rooms and homes she’d done. He had to admit, he liked her style.

Noah continued through the file, absorbing details about the Amirs—their connections, their resources, their methods. It was an impressive operation, the kind that didn’t just make witnesses disappear, but erased any evidence they’d ever existed. With Tarik Amir dead, his brother had taken over running the family business—and the family, it seemed. With Jennifer Baptiste’s help, both the brother and his mother were under arrest and sitting in jail in New Orleans awaiting trial.

He was so absorbed in the file that he almost missed the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A quick glance at the security monitor on the laptop’s screen showed a sleek sedan coming to a stop at the front of the house. Two men exited first—security, judging by their posture and the way they scanned the surroundings. Then a woman stepped out, her movements careful but determined.

Jennifer Baptiste.

Noah watched as she exchanged words with the security detail, then made her way to the front door alone. He moved to the foyer, arriving just as the security system announced an entry code being entered.

The door opened and she stepped inside, backlit by the porch light. In person, she was more striking than her photograph suggested—tall and poised, with her dark hair cut in a fashionable style, the short length curving against her chin. Though he normally preferred long hair on a woman, this style suited her.

But what caught him off guard were her eyes. In the photograph, they’d shown defiance. In person, they assessed him with an intelligence that was almost unsettling. The vulnerability he’d caught in the photo he’d studied earlier wasn’t present anywhere in the woman standing before him.

“You must be Noah Temple,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of a French accent. “You’re earlier than expected.”

Not the greeting he’d anticipated. “Traffic was light, and I wanted to check out the surroundings before you arrived,” he said shortly.

She didn’t move from the doorway. “Mr. Carpenter said you’re military. Special Forces.”

“Former military,” Noah corrected. “And this isn’t a job interview.”

“Isn’t it?” She crossed her arms. “Because I didn’t ask for another bodyguard, especially one who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

This wasn’t going as Gator had outlined. The old man had led him to believe Ms. Baptiste not only expected him but had agreed to the arrangement.

“That makes two of us who’d rather be elsewhere,” Noah replied. “Are you going to come in, or should I do my job from the porch?”

A flash of something crossed her face and disappeared just as quickly. She stepped fully inside, closed the door behind her, the lock engaging with an electronic beep.

“I’ve already told Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Boudreau I don’t need a babysitter.” She moved past him into the living room. “I’ve managed just fine on my own.”

“Is that what you call three days in the hospital? Managing fine?”

Her spine stiffened. “That was an unforeseen complication.”

“That’s one way to describe attempted murder.” Noah followed her into the living room. “Look, I’m not here to cramp your style or take over your life. I’m here to keep you alive until Mr. Carpenter’s man returns from Colombia. Two weeks. That’s it.”

She turned to face him, her expression guarded. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“I plan to adapt to the situation as it develops,” Noah said. “But there will be some ground rules. Non-negotiable ones.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t go anywhere without me. You don’t meet with anyone I haven’t vetted. You don’t take unnecessary risks.” He held her gaze. “Basic security protocol.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And my work? I have depositions scheduled with the district attorney. I also have clients; I won’t let my work suffer because the Amirs think I should be unable to testify.”

“We’ll make it work.” Noah crossed his arms. “But your safety comes first.”

“Taking down the Amirs comes first,” she countered. “The Amirs put the life of a child at risk, a member of their own family. Mr. Temple, I am not a good person, I have never pretended to be, but even I would not risk the life of an innocent. If they’re not stopped, they’ll do it again, and that is unacceptable. Salem and Chloe deserve to be safe, to have a happy life.”

There was passion in her voice, conviction that went beyond professional obligation. This wasn’t just a case to her—it was a mission.

“I understand commitment to a cause,” Noah said, his tone softening slightly. “But you can’t finish your mission if you’re dead.”

Something in his words seemed to reach her. Her shoulders relaxed marginally.

“Mr. Carpenter briefed me on your background,” she said. “Though he was surprisingly vague about why you dropped off the grid for three years.”

“My personal history isn’t relevant to this assignment.”

“Isn’t it?” She took a step closer, studying him with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes. “I’m trusting you with my life. I think I’m entitled to know who I’m dealing with.”

“You’re not dealing with me,” Noah said flatly. “You’re under my protection. There’s a difference.”

Her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Samuel Carpenter said the same thing right after the Amirs nearly succeeded in killing me while I was under their ‘protection’.”

That gave him pause. “What happened?”

“What didn’t happen is a better question. He assigned a team who treated me like a package to be delivered from my hotel to the district attorney’s office. They didn’t listen when I told them one of the security staff at my building was acting suspicious. Less than forty-eight hours later, my car exploded in the parking garage, and the suspicious security guard disappeared.”

The implication was clear. “You think someone in the company was compromised?”

“No. I trust everyone working with Carpenter Security Services. I think they weren’t taking me seriously. You must understand, I’m a pariah, the bad guy in this scenario. I put Gabi Boudreau in danger in Texas. I put the target on Salem Hudson’s back when Tarik asked me to, even though I didn’t know what he intended. I never realized what a monster my half-brother was. He never gave me any indication of how depraved he was, or the lengths he’d go to in order to get Salem back under his control.” She sighed. “You don’t know me. Everything you’ve heard or read about me is probably true. But if you are going to take this case, work to keep me safe, I’m going to ask you to listen when I express my concerns. If I’m uncomfortable or the situation feels off, I want you to hear me, to investigate.” She fixed him with a direct gaze. “So yes, Mr. Temple, I think your background is very relevant. I need to know if you’re the kind of man who listens, or the kind who automatically thinks he knows better because he’s got a gun and military training.”

There was something refreshing about her directness, even if her attitude grated. Noah found himself respecting her caution, if not her delivery.

“I’m the kind of man who stays alive by trusting his instincts,” he said. “And right now, my instincts say we should continue this conversation after you’ve settled in, and I’ve finished checking the premises.”

For a moment he thought she might argue. Instead, she nodded once. “Third floor has the best vantage points. I’d prefer the second-floor bedroom at the back of the house. It has access to the balcony and the oak tree that could provide an alternate exit if necessary.”

Strategic thinking. Not what I expected from an interior designer.

“You’ve given this some thought. How do you know the layout of the house, to know where the best vantage points are?”

“Like I said, you learn fast when people are trying to kill you.” She picked up her bag again. “I have a copy of the blueprints on my computer, along with photographs of the outside gardens, courtesy of Samuel Carpenter.” The look she gave him made him instantly alert and yet gave him pause. He shouldn’t underestimate her. That would be a mistake. “I’ll meet you in the study. We have matters to discuss.” She walked away before he could respond, leaving him with the distinct impression whatever Gator had told him about Jennifer Baptiste, it barely scratched the surface.

Noah continued his security check, noting she’d gone straight to the study rather than to her preferred bedroom. Curious, he made his way back downstairs after ensuring the upper floors were secure.

He found her at the desk, laptop open before her, already surrounded by papers spread in organized chaos. She looked up as he entered, her expression unreadable.

“Well? Will the fortress hold?”

“It’s not a fortress,” Noah replied, remaining by the door. “But it’s defensible. We’ll need to establish protocols—daily routines, communication procedures, contingency plans.”

“Already done.” She gestured to a folder on the edge of the desk. “My suggestions, based on what didn’t work at the secure apartment.”

He crossed the room and picked up the folder, scanning its contents with growing surprise. The document was thorough, detailed, and tactically sound—communication protocols, emergency rendezvous points, even preferred routes to various locations in the city.

“This is…comprehensive,” he admitted.

“I told you, I learn fast.” She closed her laptop. “The question is whether you’re willing to incorporate my input, or if you’re going to insist on doing things your way regardless.”

Noah closed the folder. “Ms. Baptiste—”

“Jennifer,” she corrected. “If we’re going to be in close quarters for the next two weeks, we might as well use first names.”

“Jennifer,” he conceded. “I understand your frustration with your previous security detail. But this adversarial approach is counterproductive.”

“And what would you suggest? Blind trust? That hasn’t worked out well for me so far.” Despite the challenge in her words, there was something vulnerable in her expression that gave him pause—a glimpse of the toll this situation had taken.

Noah set the folder down and took a seat across from her. “How about we start with honest communication? You tell me what you need, I tell you what I can provide, and we find the middle ground.”

She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his sincerity. “Alright,” she said finally. “What I need is somebody who doesn’t treat me like a helpless victim or an inconvenient burden. Someone who understands that I know more about the Amirs and their methods than anyone here. Trust me when I say the Amirs do not like me. They do not want me in their lives in any way, shape, or form. What I need is someone who won’t try to shut me down when I say that I need to work, because even though I have to testify, to deal with lawyers and the courts, I still have a job to do. Since the Amirs have frozen all my bank accounts and I am forced to stay in the United States, I need to work. It is hard enough to do my job remotely. Sometimes work is the only thing that makes this entire nightmare worthwhile.”

Her passion was unexpected—not the entitled demands of a privileged heiress, but the determination of someone fighting to keep her head above water.

“And what I can provide,” Noah said carefully, “is protection for someone who understands what it means to be targeted by powerful people. I know how to stay off the grid, how to recognize threats before they materialize, and how to respond when they do.” He met her gaze directly. “I won’t promise to agree with everything you suggest, but I do promise to listen.”

Something shifted in her expression—not quite trust, but perhaps the foundation for it.

“Samuel Carpenter said you were different from the others,” she said quietly. “He said you’d understand what I’m up against because you’ve faced something similar.”

Noah tensed. How much had Carpenter told her about Kabul, about Donovan’s betrayal?

“He said I could trust you because you know what it costs to stand up for what’s right,” she continued, watching him closely. “Is that true?”

The question hung between them, heavier than it should have for two strangers meeting for the first time. Noah found himself at a crossroads—maintain the emotional distance he’d cultivated for three years or acknowledge the truth of what brought him here.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I know what it costs. And what it’s worth.”

She nodded once, something like relief crossing her features. “Then we have a starting point, Noah Temple.” She extended her hand across the desk. “Two weeks. We work together. We both stay alive. And maybe—just maybe—we bring down the Amirs in the process.”

Her hand was surprisingly calloused for an interior decorator, her grip firm. Noah found himself returning the handshake with a sense of committing to something far more complex than a simple protection detail.

“Two weeks,” he agreed, knowing even as he said it that nothing about this assignment would be simple—not with the enigma who was Jennifer Baptiste, not with the Amirs’ resources, and certainly not with the unwelcome sense that for the first time in three years, he was exactly where he needed to be.