Page 3 of Saving Jennifer
Noah scrubbed his hand over his face, avoiding Gator’s gaze as he thought about not only what he said but how he said it. The old man was right, he owed him far more than the cost of one security gig watching a spoiled rich Frenchwoman, one who’d probably complain about every little thing that didn’t go her way. Sounded like his idea of purgatory. But he knew Gator wouldn’t have called him, wouldn’t ask him to come all the way to New Orleans, unless he believed Jennifer Baptiste was in danger and needed the kind of protection Noah could provide. There was no question at this point—he was taking the job—but he needed Gator to know he wasn’t about to be a glorified lapdog for Ms. Baptiste.
“I’m not a babysitter, and I’m not interested in protecting some rich socialite who’s probably brought this on herself.”
The look that passed between Gator and the woman seemed to say,look, didn’t I tell you he was going to be a total jackass about this?She simply shook her head, her expression remaining calm, a serene smile tugging at her lips.
“Jennifer Baptiste is a lot of things, but a socialite isn’t one of them. She’s the black sheep of the Amir family. Not acknowledged by them, illegitimate daughter of Muhammed Amir.”
That gave Noah pause. “And the Boudreaus got involved because…?” Noah sat back down slowly, heaviness settling in his chest. Family. It always came back to family with the Boudreaus.
“The Amirs have already tried twice to kill her,” Gator continued. “Car bombing that she escaped by pure luck. A break-in at her hotel room. They want her silenced, permanently.” He paused before drawing in a deep breath. “She had the chance to let the Amirs hurt Gabi. Hurt Salem and steal baby Chloe. Instead, she’s put her life on the line to see justice carried out. Jennifer Baptiste might have started out a selfish woman motivated by avarice and greed, but she’s changed, and I want her to have the opportunity to become the person I believe she can be.”
Noah finally reached for the folder, flipping it open. The photo on top showed a woman with dark hair and striking green eyes. Something in her expression caught him off guard—determination, intelligence, and a defiance that seemed at odds with the fading bruises visible on her face. This was not the pampered heiress he’d imagined.
“You mentioned the Texas branch says she’s trouble,” Noah said, recalling Gator’s words on the phone that had brought him here.
“She is. Stubborn as a mule, refuses protection half the time, and won’t back down from the case despite the danger.” A hint of admiration colored Gator’s tone. “Reminds me of your mother.”
It was a low blow, and Gator knew it. Noah’s mother was fearless, principled, and unwavering, and he adored the ground she walked on. Even when she butted into his business. Luckily, she didn’t come up the mountain all that often; nope, she sent his brothers instead. “That’s manipulation, old man.”
Gator shrugged unapologetically. “Is it working?”
“I’ll meet with Carpenter,” he said finally. “But I’m not promising anything beyond that.”
Gator’s smile was knowing. “That’s good enough for now.” He leaned back in his chair, his expression growing more serious. “Samuel’s practically one of my sons, you know. Knows me, knows who I am, what I’ve done. It’s why he went into the DEA, and it nearly got him killed. Then he followed me into my previous life, bent on vengeance against the man who betrayed him. I know you haven’t seen him in a while, but I’m here to tell you he’s grown into a good man.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often that Gator made even oblique references to his CIA past. The old man was a ghost, his entire existence in the intelligence community carefully erased when he “retired.” That he brought it up now spoke volumes about how important this was to him.
“He agrees you’re the only man for this job,” Gator continued. “And Samuel doesn’t say things like that lightly.”
Noah didn’t respond, his attention on the bayou stretching out before them. A heron stood motionless in the shallows, waiting for prey. Patience. Something he’d once had in abundance, before Kabul, before Donovan’s betrayal. Now, it seemed as foreign as the humid Louisiana air after years in the Tennessee mountains.
“Eat your pulled pork, or my Willie will be disappointed,” Gator said softly. “We leave for Sam’s in an hour.”
Carpenter’s office wasbrick and glass, newly renovated with updates that helped rejuvenate and revive their Canal Street location. Noah was willing to bet the view from the roof overlooked the Mississippi River and was probably one of the best in New Orleans. The man himself stood with his back to the door when Noah entered, his attention on a large white board covered with numbered lists and bullet points.
“Noah Temple,” Carpenter said without turning. “I was beginning to think you’d disappeared without a trace.”
He turned then, extending his hand. Tall and lean, with a bit more salt in his hair than the teenager Noah remembered, and the watchful eyes of a man who’d seen his share of conflict, Carpenter had the bearing of ex-Agency, probably without even realizing it.
“Drug Enforcement Agency, I’ve been told. Glad you were able to prove you were set up.” Noah said, accepting the handshake. Even though he’d had no intention of coming back to New Orleans except for an occasional visit, purely for pleasure, he’d made sure to keep up with everything to do with the Boudreau branch of the family, and that included Samuel Carpenter, although he wasn’t as close to the man as the rest of his family. He remembered meeting him in passing a couple of times but couldn’t say that he knew him well.
“And you were Army Special Forces. Green Beret. Distinguished service in Afghanistan and Iraq.” Carpenter gestured to a chair. “Until Commander Donovan decided you made a convenient scapegoat.”
Noah remained standing. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I make it my business to know who I’m working with.” Carpenter moved behind his desk. “Especially when they come highly recommended by someone like Gator Boudreau. Plus, you’re family, which makes a big difference with my company.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“No?” Carpenter raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”
It was a fair question. Noah had spent the time since lunch at Gator’s, indulging in Miss Willie’s delicious pulled pork sandwiches, telling himself he was just going through the motions, that he would listen politely and then return to Tennessee. But something about the woman in the photograph nagged at him—the defiance in her eyes, the strong yet vulnerable expression barely hidden beneath the surface. Yes, she’d appeared poised and polished, but he’d be willing to be there was a scared little girl buried just out of view. “Professional courtesy,” Noah said. “Nothing more.”
Carpenter didn’t look convinced. “Ms. Baptiste arrives tonight. She’ll be staying at a property owned by your uncle in the Garden District—off the books, untraceable to either the Boudreau or Baptiste families. More importantly, it can’t be tracked by the Amirs.”
“You’re assuming I’m taking the job.”
“I’m assuming you’ve already taken it, whether you’ve admitted it to yourself or not.” Carpenter slid a phone across the desk. “Secure line. My number and Gator’s are programmed in. Ms. Baptiste’s case file is in the encrypted folder you’ll find on there too.”