Page 2 of Wrecked (McIntyre Security Bodyguard #16)

Four Years Earlier

I drove up here to Chicago yesterday from home—Dayton, Ohio. I’ve been back home, living with my mom and sister for the past year, ever since the accident.

That’s what I call it— the accident .

To be more precise, I jumped out of an airplane during an Army Ranger training mission, and both my primary and secondary parachutes malfunctioned.

It’s rare, but it can and does happen. Thanks to encountering a few trees on the way down, breaking my fall, I survived, but I still hit the ground hard enough to fracture both of my legs.

I guess it could have been worse. I could have died. Instead, I’ve spent the last year in a grueling rehab program rebuilding my strength and getting fit again.

Naturally, my military career ended the day of the accident.

Six years as an Army Ranger down the toilet.

I’m starting over, looking for work as a civilian.

A friend of mine, Miles Bennett, a former Army Ranger buddy, suggested I look into the company he now works for—McIntyre Security in Chicago—to see if they have any openings.

He says they’re always looking for folks with my kind of skills.

It turns out they have an opening for a personal protection operative. In other words, a bodyguard.

My skillset meets all the requirements for the job, so I applied. And to my shock, I got a call back and an interview scheduled for two days later.

And that’s why I’m here in the Windy City—for my interview.

Hell, yes, I’m nervous.

I’ve never actually interviewed for a job before, unless you count speaking to an Army recruiter.

I went into the Army right out of high school because I was inspired by the adventures of my mom’s younger brother, Uncle Matt, an Army Ranger.

I was enthralled after hearing his stories of trudging through deserts, mountains, and rainforests and jumping out of airplanes.

Rangers lead the way!

I got in, and I loved it. I loved the challenge, the physical demands, as well as the mental demands. The day I was accepted into the Ranger program, I was on cloud nine. I served for six years… until my chutes malfunctioned, ending my military career.

And now, here I am, a civilian, on my way to my first civilian job interview. Hooah!

It’s a nice day outside in mid-June, so I decide to walk to my interview.

My hotel is only a mile from the office building, and the exercise will do me good.

It’ll help me process some of this anxiety I’m feeling.

This is the first job I’ve applied for since the accident a year ago, and I’ve been able to walk without support, and mostly without pain, for three months.

My doctor thinks it might be premature for me to return to work so soon—especially such a physical job—but I need a job, not just to support myself but for my sanity as well.

I leave the hotel with plenty of time so I can walk at a comfortable speed to the building and not break a sweat.

As instructed, I’m dressed casually for the interview—a pair of khaki cargo pants, a white Henley T-shirt, and black sneakers—because after my initial talk with the company CEO, a man by the name of Shane McIntyre, I’ll be undergoing both a weapons and physical fitness assessment.

I’m bringing a change of workout clothes in the Army duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

I’m not the least bit concerned about the weapons assessment. I can shoot a flea clean off a dog at fifty yards. It’s the physical fitness assessment I’m worried about. My legs aren’t wholly back to one hundred percent capability yet.

The first thing I did after leaving the Army was grow out my hair again.

I always wore it long when I was in school.

That was the only thing I didn’t like about my military service—they made me keep my hair at regulation length.

Now it’s long again, and I’ve got it up in a bun to keep it out of the way so I can at least try to look professional.

My myriad tattoos are hidden underneath my shirt, as are my nipple piercings.

On the outside, I look professional; on the inside, I’m a party.

Rachel pleaded with me to cut my hair for this interview, but I refused. If these people don’t want the real me, including my manbun, then they don’t really want me.

I turn left onto N. Michigan Avenue and head west another half mile. When I come to my destination, I gaze up at a modern glass and steel structure.

Impressive.

There’s an engraved stone above the main doors that says MCINTYRE SECURITY, INC.

Am I nervous? Hell, yes.

My watch says I have five minutes until my appointed time. I step through the front doors into the air-conditioned lobby. It looks very professional, with its polished marble floors, potted trees, and comfortable modern seating. Very chic.

I stop at the front desk to check in. “Sam Harrison,” I say to the young brunette seated at the desk. “I have an eight o’clock appointment with Shane McIntyre.”

She checks her computer screen and nods as she hands me a clip-on badge.

“Wear this in the building. Mr. McIntyre’s office is on the twentieth floor, in the executive suite.

It’s clearly marked. Look for the glass wall.

” She points behind herself to a bank of elevators.

“You can go on up. His admin’s name is Mrs. Hughes. Check in with her first.”

“Will do.” I clip the badge on my shirt. “Thanks.”

As I walk past her desk, I catch her following me with her eyes. I get that a lot from women.

Sorry, sister. You’re barking up the wrong tree.

I take the elevator up to the twentieth floor and step out. Right across from me is an impressive glass wall, just like she said. The words SHANE MCINTYRE, CEO are etched in the glass door.

I catch sight of an older woman with short white hair smiling as she waves at me from behind a desk. I walk inside.

“You must be Mr. Harrison,” she says with a bright smile. “The security desk downstairs called to say you were on your way up.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have an appointment—”

She laughs, the sound soft and light. “Oh, please. Call me Diane. You’re right on schedule.” She points to a partially open door to my left. “That is Shane’s office right there. He’s expecting you, so go on in.”

I nod. “Thank you, ma’am.” She’s about to say something when I correct myself. “I mean, Diane. Is it okay if I leave my bag here with you?”

“Of course, dear. You can set it down right where you are.”

When I reach the CEO’s door, I pause a moment to take a deep breath and center myself. Relax, you’ve got this. Then I knock.

“Come in!” calls a male voice.

I push the door open and walk into an impressive corner office.

The man seated at a desk in front of a huge bank of windows overlooking N.

Michigan Avenue is younger than I expected.

I’d put him in his mid-thirties. With short brown hair, a trim beard, and bright blue eyes, he’s a damn fine-looking man.

I feel so underdressed seeing that he looks like a million bucks in a charcoal gray suit and a white dress shirt open at the collar.

I take another deep breath. “Mr. McIntyre—”

“Call me Shane, please.” He waves me into the room. “We don’t stand on formality here. You must be Sam.”

Shane stands and extends his hand over his desk. I step forward, and we shake.

He gestures to the pair of black leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, please.”

As I sit, I scan his desk, trying to get a better feel for him.

The desk top is clean and uncluttered. In addition to a laptop, there’s a large calendar blotter, an ashtray filled with paperclips, a plain black stapler, and a coffee cup filled with ink pens.

On the walls of his office are a series of impressive photographs of Chicago, featuring everything from the nighttime skyline to Wrigley Field to The Bean in Millenium Park and the iconic Lake Shore Drive that meanders along the shore of Lake Michigan.

Looking perfectly relaxed, Shane leans back in his black leather office chair. “So, Sam.” He meets my gaze directly. His eyes are a surprising shade of bright blue. “First of all, thank you for your service.”

I nod. “Thank you, sir.”

He smiles. “That’s not necessary. Shane will be fine.”

“Right. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

He chuffs. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You served, too?”

Shane nods. “Marines.” He grins. “I’m tougher than I look. Now, let’s get to the matter at hand. Do you think you’d be interested in personal protection, namely being a bodyguard?”

I nod. “I would. I think I’d make a good bodyguard. I have all the skills listed in your job opening.”

Shane frowns. “I’m sorry about your accident.”

Of course, that would have to come up.

“How has your recuperation gone?”

“It’s not been without setbacks, I’ll admit that. But both legs are fully functional. I’m ready to demonstrate that in the physical fitness assessment.”

Shane nods. “Fair enough.” He pushes a document across the desk to me.

“Part of the compensation package includes a fully furnished apartment in The Gold Coast, not far from here. I happen to own the entire building, and a lot of my employees live there. I occupy the penthouse floor of the building. The building is secure. Additional amenities include a private underground parking garage, a state-of-the-art fitness center, as well as many other perks.”

“I certainly wouldn’t turn down free lodging.”

“It’s probably one of the nicest buildings in the city. In your resume, you indicated you were proficient with small firearms.”

“I am.”

“What do you carry?”

“A Beretta, sir.”

Shane nods. “I’ll want our shooting instructor to evaluate your skills. I hope you’re okay with that.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“Good. Our weapons instructor’s name is Daniel Cooper. He’s expecting you at our company’s private shooting range this morning at nine. Are you carrying now?”

“Yes, sir—Shane.”

Shane nods, as if he expected as much. “After your weapons evaluation, you’ll come back here to the building for a physical fitness and hand-to-hand combat assessment by our resident martial arts instructor, Liam—my brother. Your resume here says you have studied Jiu-Jitsu, Karate, and Krav Maga.”

I nod. “I have black belts in all three.”

“In light of your accident, are you still able to handle yourself in one-on-one contact?”

I nod. “Yes.” It may hurt like hell, but I can do it.

“Excellent.” He closes the folder on his desk. “If you pass all the assessments, then I’ll offer a provisional position with a ninety-day probation period. I’ll have someone drive you to the shooting range for your appointment.”

Shane makes a phone call, and a few moments later, someone is at his office door. “Come in, AJ,” he says.

A nerdy guy about my age walks in. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans, a white Oxford shirt with a pocket protector, sneakers, and round wire glasses. “All set?” he asks.

“Yes. AJ, this is Sam Harrison. He’s a candidate for a bodyguard position. Sam, this is AJ Byer. He’s the head of our IT department. I’ve asked him to give you a ride to the shooting range. Feel free to ask him anything about the company you want.”

AJ nods. “Nice to meet you, Sam. For what it’s worth, this is a great place to work, and Shane is a great boss.” AJ shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

* * *

We arrive at the shooting range about twenty minutes later. It’s located northwest of the city, in a rather remote industrial area.

AJ drops me off at the door and hands me his business card. “Here’s my work number. Let me know if you need a ride back to the office. I think Cooper’s planning to bring you back himself, but if that changes, just holler.”

“You mean, if I fail the assessment?”

AJ laughs. “Somehow I doubt that will happen. Shane seems to have taken a liking to you, and he’s a great judge of people.” He points to my McIntyre Security visitor badge. “That will get you through the door. Good luck!”

I thank AJ as I get out of the car and head for the entrance.

Sure enough, I swipe my visitor badge to get in.

Inside is a large space filled with displays of weapons, ammo, and tactical equipment.

There are racks of guns on the walls behind the counters.

Clothing racks, body armor, Kevlar vests, tactical belts—anything you can think of.

I count four people working the room, but just one stands out to me.

The man behind the main counter eyes me curiously.

He’s an older guy, probably in his mid-fifties, with short gray hair and a trim beard.

His T-shirt hugs his broad chest and muscular torso, the short sleeves molded to his biceps.

His forearms are sexy as hell, with his tanned skin, thick veins, and a chunky, old-school wristwatch.

He looks all badass as he moves around the counter and heads my way. He’s wearing worn blue jeans that are lovingly molded to his body. His T-shirt is black with what looks like a company logo in the top left corner. He walks with a confidence that’s hot as hell.

I do my best to ignore the way my pulse picks up at the sight of him.

There’s a Glock tucked into his chest holster. He’s undoubtedly the boss here, so that makes him Daniel Cooper—the guy I’m here to see.

Heat flares in my chest as I observe him. And damn it, if I don’t start getting hard just looking at him. Thank God I have relatively baggy khakis on. It wouldn’t be good for this guy to know he’s given me a semi.

I look away and pretend to take interest in a display of 9mm handguns on the wall behind the counter.

“You must be Sam Harrison,” he says as he offers me his hand.

Holy shit—that voice!

It’s low and gruff, and it makes my knees go weak, and all I can think about is dropping to my knees for him.