Page 5 of Saving Jennifer
In the hallway, Gator waited, eyes sharp as ever. “Well?”
“I’ll be at the safe house at seven,” Noah said, which wasn’t exactly an agreement, but close enough.
Gator’s smile was slight but satisfied. “Knew you’d come around.”
“I haven’t come around to anything,” Noah countered, but there was less conviction in his voice than he’d intended. “Just doing a favor for family.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.” Gator clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the property myself. Give you the lay of the land before our guest arrives.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Garden Districtsafe 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.