Page 2

Archer

Out of habit, I lift my left arm to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Being just as damp, it does little to help me. The inevitability that perspiration will drip into my eyes is annoying, but I’m not going to wear a sweatband. Not my style.

And, there it is . The sting is like opening your eyes under water. I blink away the salty bead just in time to block the blow meant for my right eye.

“Come on, Archer,” Blaze taunts, “you worried I’m going to mess up that pretty mug of yours?” He, on the other hand, is sporting a ridiculous neon sweatband to keep the hair that’s come loose from his man bun out of his face. It’s his style.

I keep my footing light, my weight on the balls of my feet, ready to pivot and deliver a counter-hit. It’s easy with Blaze. He’s the best at hand-to-hand combat out of the five of us, but the area he could use improvement on is patience. What is it with people and instant gratification?

“This old thing?” I jeer, flicking my chin upwards to indicate my face.

Blaze continues to close in. “Well, ‘old’ is accurate,” he says.

“Fuck off, kid.” I know he’s trying to get under my skin with verbal jabs and reminders that my thirty-eight years is akin to being geriatric, but it does nothing but add to my growing discipline. He lunges forward with a solid punch that I block with my forearm. And just because I’m feeling like being a dick to prove a point, I lunge back at him, placing him in a headlock, making sure to rub my sodden armpit against the back of his neck. It’s not much of a struggle; where Blaze is thicker and more filled out in his musculature, I have an extra inch on him with my lean build. I’m able to Gumby myself around him nimbly.

“Get the fuck off me, man,” he whines. “I don’t want you marking me with your nasty-ass pits. Save that for the ladies.”

I stop, astonished at his suggestion. “If you think that’s some sort of mating ritual to attract the opposite sex, God help the woman who lands in your sights.” And then I tighten my grip while messing with his hair. I slip his headband off to fuck with him more.

“Speaking of ladies, quit your flirting and listen up.” That’s Adam Cruz. Our boss. Or “Midas” as we all call him.

Releasing Blaze, the two of us step out of the ring and begin to remove our grappling gloves—but not before he slicks his sweaty hair back with his band.

The scrape of metal folding chairs against the concrete floor indicates that Phantom and Legion have joined us.

“Just got a call,” Midas informs us. “I’ve been given a general idea of the job, but it sounds like your typical personal protection for a female. Thirties. New York.”

Blaze further demonstrates his age by saying, “Sounds hot.”

“Seriously? You get wood from the words ‘female’ and ‘thirties’?” Legion, who is Blaze’s older brother, crosses his arms and gives him a judgmental as fuck look.

“What’s wrong with that?” he fires back.

Phantom speaks up, garnering all of our attention. “You mean besides the fact that your maturity IQ is on par with my thirteen-year-old nephew? Or the fact that you’re objectifying mere words?”

Legion pipes up. “Blaze, objectify means—”

“I know what it means, asshole.” Flames burn hot in his pupils.

I stifle a laugh at his expense. Legion, who is sitting next to me, fist bumps me in victory.

With a patient, albeit slightly irritated look, Midas waits for us to finish our tangent. “Look guys,” he says seriously. “This call came from my cousin.” I hear Blaze mutter an oh shit under his breath. “She’s not the one in need of protection. Her best friend is.”

It isn’t unheard of that we take a job with such little information initially. We’re all former military. Intel being given to us when it’s available is something we’re used to. And I know the second we leave this gym, Midas will be pulling a profile and running a background check on the client.

“10-4,” Phantom acknowledges, his no-nonsense demeanor on display.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Blaze says, his hands raised in surrender, “but she’ll need five of us?” There are some jobs we take that are for a night and only requires one or two of us.

Midas clears his throat and we all fall silent. “Blaze? What is the motto of Chrysus Defense?” He emphasizes the Greek pronunciation of Kree-sos perfectly.

Blaze looks to the ceiling, straining his memory. “I’ve got five on it?”

“For chrissake… ‘Keeping you safe, five strong’.” Midas’s patience is running thin.

“I know, dude…” Blaze has the decency to look ashamed, but just barely.

Midas raises his eyes, challenging Blaze if he does in fact know the slogan of the company that our boss started after leaving the Marines. “Good, just checking. I’m indebted to my cousin and she called the favor that I owe her. Which means all hands on deck.”

When Midas decided to retire from the military, he sought that sense of purpose, needing to help people still. So, with a substantial inheritance from his grandparents, he started Chrysus Defense. Having served under him, he offered me a job after my last tour. Same story with Phantom. But Legion and Blaze, being in their early twenties, were recruited and it didn’t take much convincing. We each have our own particular skillsets and strengths, and when harnessed as one, we’re a damn strong defense for clients, regardless of how big or small their needs are.

“If you children have had enough, we’re wheels up in an hour.” He taps his thigh with his cell. “Oh, and you guys might want to hit the showers,” he says, resting his eyes on Blaze. “You smell like a dirty jock strap.”

Blaze stands and glowers at me. Then he points at me, trying to make it known that the reason he smells so bad is because of me. But the guys have dispersed, readying themselves for our next job. And not giving two shits about the state of either of us.

I whistle the entire way to the locker room.

When Midas initially approached me with a job offer, I would have accepted anything. Working with him would be no different than our time in the Marines. I respected the shit out of the man and trusted him with my life. Aside from that, the guy offered a pretty sweet deal with fucking amazing perks.

There were no details he missed when he developed the company, either. Chrysus Defense sits on five acres of land in a rural area of Laramie, Wyoming. There, Midas had a state-of-the-art building constructed, complete with a full-service gym, shooting range and bunk houses for each of us.

But my favorite part is the small, personal airport on the east side of the property. With his numerous military connections, Midas usually secured us flights via Space-A Travel to cut down on his carbon footprint. Those flights allowed veterans and their families to travel on aircraft that is controlled or owned by the DOD. Due to the last-minute nature of the call tonight though, we are taking the personal jet.

It doesn’t take us long to settle in once we’re airborne. And right on cue, Midas taps his phone screen, holding it up, indicating we should be receiving something from him. Within seconds, we each have a shared doc that is the profile of our client.

Front and center is a photo of the woman, and I’ll be damned if my eyes didn’t linger a second longer than they should have. It’d be hard not to, and it irritates the fuck out of me that there is truth to Blaze’s immature earlier statement. She is attractive. Blue eyes, dark hair and olive skin.

What type of protection will she need? Typically, we accompany clients to high profile events, but our services range from estate security to threat investigations and international travel security, with everything in between.

“Mia Perry.” Midas takes a seat. We’re each skimming the doc, though we know the info will be verbalized. Blaze has the good sense not to whistle or draw attention to himself. “Thirty-seven years old,” Midas continues. Employed by The Met. One of the youngest Collections Managers in their history. Graduated from Dartmouth. Holds an MA and PhD in Art History and a BA in Anthropology.” Shit, she sounds smart as hell. “Lives in the West Village. Hobbies include culinary art, yoga and reading.”

Against the gentle hum of the plane’s engines, we’re quiet. It’s Phantom that asks, “If she’s just a museum worker, then why are there are so many photos of her? Is she dating a celebrity?”

I too, scroll to the second and third pages, glancing at the additional photos of her in various situations. Black tie attire next to a man who I presume is her father. A standard headshot for The Met’s website. An Instagram shot of her sitting in a revealing top with a blond woman. A Christmas card from 1994 with her parents.

Midas shakes his head. “No, she’s single. She comes from a very wealthy financier family, though. Think Hilton wealth…”

We’ve protected celebrities, politicians, families with high standings in society, bankers and more. Their wealth and possessions never cease to amaze me. It’s not every day you get to see watches that cost more than what’s in my entire life savings or cars that are worth more than some houses in my zip code.

Mia’s social status isn’t out of the norm. Nor is the fact that we’re flying to her. We are a full-service security company that puts our client’s needs before anything else.

I listen as Midas goes over Ms. Perry’s family history. She’s an only child. Father is widowed. Pretty cut and dry. But it always is until we meet the client and truths start coming to the surface.

We each have two sides to us: professional and off the clock. Midas though, always embodies professionalism, and perhaps that’s a good thing, being the face of the company and all. But, in turn, he’s good with people. They trust quickly and open up to him. So, if there are any skeletons in the closet for those who hire us, Midas can get to the bottom of it.

“So, we’ve got a single female trust-fund-type.” Legion states the only fact that we have.

“What we don’t know,” I said, crossing my ankle over my knee, “is the duration of the assignment, what or who she needs protection from, or basically…anything.”

“Affirmative.” Midas does a damn good job keeping his face neutral, outwardly appearing unbothered by the lack of info we have, but I see his jaw muscle flex. “But, we’ll find out in a few hours.”

I’m a country boy. I’ve traveled the globe with the Marines, but I was born and raised in Oklahoma. I currently live in the sticks out in Wyoming. Where there’s space. And elbow room. And a lot less people.

New York City is literally opposite of everything I am comfortable with. It also puts me on edge for the job, though I steel myself not to show an ounce of that uncertainty. Even with the late hour (we landed close to three in the morning), the city is awake . There are too many variables, blind spots and high points to consider. Extraction plans can go AWOL in an instant. Assailants can disappear too easily.

I fucking hate not having clear lines of sight or knowing an area like the back of my hand. It’s like I’m back in the Middle East, working on pure instinct and skill.

When we pull up to Ms. Perry’s residence, I automatically look for weak areas on the exterior. Twin sconces flank the front door, illuminating the space adequately. There are lamps in the windows that do a decent job of making it appear that someone is home, but then, so do most of the houses along the street.

I’m noting the Ring doorbell system when the front door flies open and a woman excitedly jumps at Midas. He catches her easily in a hug and it’s a solid minute before he places her back down. I can only surmise that this is his cousin, though her fair, blonde features are nowhere near his dark Puerto Rican looks.

Midas turns to the four of us, staggered on the steps and says, “Guys, this is my cousin Ashlee.” We each nod in greeting. Over her shoulder, I can see a dark-haired woman half hidden in the doorway who appears to match the photos from the dossier.

“Come in,” Ashlee encourages with a friendly wave over her shoulder as she turns to walk through the entryway.

Once inside, an endless black staircase greets us, the aroma of coffee drifts from the back of the house, and in front of us, is a woman who is visibly trying to keep her emotions in check. Tears have erased her makeup in narrow lines down the apples of her cheeks. She’s still beautiful. It’s obvious our presence is slightly intimidating by the way she protectively tucks her oversized cardigan around her middle.

Ashlee beckons us in further, motioning for us to take a seat. She sits next to her friend and says, “This is Mia, everyone.” Her tone indicates that she wants to say something further to add to the fanfare like ta da! but she doesn’t. It’s a wise choice.

“Ms. Perry.” Midas stands and shakes her hand. “My name is Adam Cruz, or Midas as I tend to go by, and this is my team: Legion, Blaze, Phantom and Archer." She visually follows as he recites our names, and when her gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than the others, it doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s an air of curiosity there, as miniscule as it is.

Midas returns to the sofa. “We understand you are in need of personal protection?”

“I…yeah. Ashlee speaks so highly of you all…I think it might be best. And please, call me Mia. Also, to be upfront and fully transparent, I don’t care if this is a favor that Ashlee has called in, I will be paying for your services. Regardless of what it involves.”

He nods in understanding. “Would you mind telling us the circumstances, Mia?” Midas adopts a gentle cadence to his voice; using her name like she requested also earns him his first iota of trust.

She tells us about how her father has been taken for ransom and the kidnappers want to be paid in a specific way.

“And your father, Mia? Tell us a little about him?” We all know that her father is an easy target with his personal wealth, but the ransom terms aren’t adding up.

“Conrad…that’s his name, obviously,” she says. “He uh, he made his fortune by arranging loans to companies. It grew from there. He’s widowed—my mom passed when I was fourteen. I’m not sure what else would be relevant…” Her voice trails off.

Midas gives her an affirming smile, but my data networking brain focuses on the call. “Was it a restricted number?” I ask.

She nods her head and a section of her hair falls forward. She tucks it back with a delicate touch. “Usually I don’t answer them, but I thought it might have been work.” Her eyes drop to her folded hands but not before I catch how strikingly blue her irises are.

When she explains that they don’t want to be paid in cash, but rather with an antique, we all grow curious.

“And why would they want an antique and not money?” Blaze asks what we’re all thinking.

Mia blows out a pent-up breath. “Because the cuff is incredibly valuable…priceless really.”

“If it even exists,” Ashlee adds.

“What do you mean?” I say, unable to help myself. “This artifact may not exist?”

“It might have at one time, but the probability now…? Highly doubtful.” A glassiness glazes Mia’s eyes and its obvious she’s lost in thought.

Midas steps in. “Mia, can you tell us more about the cuff? The more we know, the better we can help your father.” It’s enough to snap her out of her thoughts.

“Right, yes, I’m sorry. It’s easy to forget that others aren’t as familiar with the fable as I am.” She runs her palms along the tops of her thighs and begins. “The Love Cuff is a bracelet…a cuff, you know the kind that sort of clamps around your wrist?” She demonstrates this by locking her right hand around her left wrist, and I know she’s doing this for our benefit; the only jewelry we’re acquainted with is dog tags. “In the sixteenth century, Spanish conquistadors made their way to the Americas. Pizarro was in possession of a hoard of gold said to be from the Knights Templar. Eventually, he comes in contact with the Guztá chief—they were a Colombian tribe.” Mia stands, settling into her story further. “He and the chief trade.”

“Trade what, though?” Phantom asks. If Mia is deterred by his interruption, she doesn’t show it.

“Gold plated artifacts for the Knights Templar gold,” she states. “The chief melted it down and had it made into an ornate, intricately carved cuff. He presents it to his wife as a gift of his eternal love. Over the years, it’s passed to their only son who eventually becomes chief. But,” Mia says, pointing a finger to no one in particular, “the hostility between the Guztá people and the conquistadors begins to grow. And the chief senses the end of their civilization. They refused to capitulate. And this is the best part…” There’s a dream like essence to her voice and every single one of us is waiting on baited breath for her to continue. “With the conquistadors approaching for battle, the chief and his wife drink poison and their advisors seal them in a tomb. Being buried alive was a better alternative to them than admitting defeat at the hands of the Spanish. The chief’s wife was wearing the cuff when they were buried alive. It’s never been found.”

Of course it’s Blaze that chimes in. “The best part is that they take poison and are buried alive?” He scratches at his chin in confusion.

A slight redness paints Mia’s cheeks. “Well, yes. It’s terribly romantic, don’t you think?”

Before Blaze has a chance to make an ass out of himself, I find myself saying, “I can see that, yeah.” I’m rewarded with the smallest inkling of a smile. Do I think a double suicide/burial held a certain romanticism about it? No. But putting Mia at ease by agreeing with her hopefully gained us more trust.

“So, anyway, that’s the story of the cuff. Or the annotated version,” she chuckles humorlessly. As we each take our laptops out, Mia tells us to use the dining table. “Set up shop, please. Make yourselves comfortable.”

“Any of you guys want coffee? I’ve got a fresh pot going.” Ashlee looks around the room and laughs when we all say that we’d love one. “Thought so…”

Midas is the first to ask Mia the hardest question. “If you’re able Mia, can you tell us as much as you remember from the call? As close to word-for-word as possible. I know it’s not easy, but the more you can tell us, the better.” We’re each poised with our shared notes app to take down as much info as possible.

“Uh, I was there too, ya know,” Ashlee points out. “I’ll help.”

Midas gives her a smile. “Of course.”

“Well,” Mia says, “when I answered, it was my dad on the line.”

“How did he sound?” Blaze asks. “Was he calm, stressed, frantic, faint?”

Mia seems to consider carefully. “He was rushed, obviously. Stressed would be a good way to put it. You could tell he was trying to tell me as much as possible before—”

“—Before they shut him up,” Ashlee supplies dramatically. Mia raises an eyebrow at her friend, incredulously.

Blaze continues his questioning. “And does your dad have any medical issues? High blood pressure, a bad heart, diabetes…?”

“None that I know of. He’s pretty healthy. Plays tennis twice a week.”

We’re all typing, when Ashlee excuses herself to the kitchen and returns with a tray of mugs. We all decline cream and sugar, so she returns with the carafe and begins pouring.

“What type of impression did you get from the kidnapper, Mia?” Phantom takes his mug happily, sniffing its contents. “Could you discern an age, were they calm, angry, a little short on brains?”

Ashlee snorts at his last comment.

Mia smacks her arm. “Age, no. They just seemed eager and forceful. And I’m still trying to decide if they’re smart for knowing about the cuff or if they’re out of their minds demanding something impossible.”

Midas turns his attention on me and tells me to start tracing the call.

“Mia, may I see your phone?” She balks for a second before I add, “I’ll get to work trying to trace the origin of the call, but I’d like to clone it, so when the kidnappers call again, it will be directed to our satellite phone.”

“A sat phone? Isn’t that a little overkill?”

“We like to be overprepared.” I attempt a small smile, hoping to ease her fears.

“Of course.” She hands me the phone and I get to work.

“Mia?” For the first time, Legion speaks up with his set of questions. “How big is your father’s real estate portfolio? Does he have multiple homes? Different states…countries?”

Ashlee quickly answers for Mia, and with the blunt but truthful way she does, I can only guess how many cups of coffee she’s consumed. “Dude’s loaded. Manhattan, Breckinridge, St. John…”

“Thank you, Ash,” Mia deadpans. “But you forgot the chalet in Zurich. And maybe switch to decaf.”

Ha! Glad I wasn’t alone on my impression.

“Decaf is the O’Douls of coffee.” Ashlee takes a seat but appears to check herself. The room is silent for a moment. So, when Ashlee speaks again, Midas shoots her a look of warning. “Mia forgot to mention that the callers—oh, that’s another thing, they made it plural, so it’s not a lone wolf situation—but when they called and she spoke with her dad, he mentioned something about not forgetting good times they had.”

“That’s right, yeah.” Mia takes a tepid sip and continues. “He said, and I quote, ‘Remember the fun we had in September, December, and March.’ He sounded a little confused.”

“What happened during those months?” Legion asks.

I’m almost done tracing the call, but I steal a glance at Mia. Her brows furrow and she bites her bottom lip in contemplation. I force myself to focus back on my screen. “That’s just it. Nothing. I can’t recall anything happening. So, why would he waste precious seconds to say something insignificant?”

I tap one more keystroke and determine the call to be untraceable. They probably bounced the signal through too many servers to track. “Anyone else think it’s weird that he mentioned the months out of order?” Multitasking was a specialty of mine. I add to the shared notes about the call and I notice when each guy skims it, not surprised in the least.

Mia blushes, catching my eye. “Now that you mention it, it’s out of character for him.”

“So, if it’s out of character,” Blaze notes, “then it’s deliberate.”

“I agree,” Midas says.

Phantom chimes in. “Your father was trying to tell you something.”

Legion crosses his arms confidently. “They’re numbers. The months.”

Each of us, including Mia sits taller at his epiphany. “Nine, twelve, three.”

“Do they mean anything to you?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but the wheels are obviously turning. There’s a newfound brightness to her eyes and it has nothing to do with the caffeine.

“A code!” Ashlee shoots her hand in the air like she’s cheering on her favorite football player after he scores a touchdown. The six of us snap our attention to her, eyes wide like we can’t believe an outburst like that could come from a grown woman, especially during such a sullen time. “What? True crime TV, remember?” There’s a muffled chuckle from Blaze. “Wait. Is that right? Is it a code?”

“Ashlee, I stand corrected: continue with your coffee thoughts, because yes. My dad has a bunch of antiques and relics he’s collected over the years, and he’s got them locked up. Nine-twelve-three is how we access them.” She shakes her head admonishingly, like she’s upset with herself for not realizing it sooner. “He showed me once several years ago, but it didn’t click until now.”

“And you think they’re connected to the cuff?” Ashlee asks, looking smug with Mia’s appraisal.

“They have to be. Or one at least. It’s all we’ve got to go on right now, anyhow…” Ashlee places her hand on Mia’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Instantly, I think of the next logical step. “Tell me your dad doesn’t have these relics at his Swiss home.”

For the first time since meeting her, Mia smiles. “Nope. Just north of here. The Upper West Side to be exact.”

“Phantom, do a deep dive on Conrad. Legion, check if there have been any break-ins at his house, and Blaze, get me a dossier for all of his closest employees.” Midas stands, ready to take action. Mia follows suit, and so do I. “I’ll take Mia to her father’s place while you guys keep digging,” Midas announces.

“No.” I say it too quickly and it garners glares from everyone, including Mia. “I mean, why don’t you stay here and catch up with Ashlee? I’ll take Mia. I’ve already done the trace.”

I’m caught in a staring match with Midas, challenging him to disagree with me. It’s against my norm—I don’t question him ever, I don’t resist tasks, and I certainly never defy him in front of a client. Unable to pinpoint the change in my behavior, I’m shocked when Midas relents. But it’s not without a simmering contempt burning in his eyes.

“Be back by oh six hundred,” he says in a controlled manner.

At this moment, there’s nothing to be said for my disobedience. So, I say what I know. “Copy that.”