Rare Vigilance by M.A. Grant
Chapter Three
Helias was waiting out front for Atlas when he pulled in for his first shift the next night. He accepted the envelope containing Bea’s final, signed copies of the contract with a murmured thanks and took a moment to inspect Atlas’s appearance.
“I see the suit we ordered fit well,” he said. “Ms. Kinkaid provided us with the measurements from your personnel file. You can expect another suit to arrive tomorrow. The rest will be finished by the end of the week.”
Atlas tugged gently at the bottom hem of the jacket. He owned some nice suits—a cost of doing business in his line of work—but he’d never owned something where the very fabric felt expensive. He owed Bea big time for writing the clothing allowance into the contract. “I appreciate the craftsmanship. And how quickly they were ready.”
That earned him an approving nod from the consilier. “I will be sure to pass along your compliments,” Helias promised. “Do you have your phone with you?”
Atlas pulled it out of his pocket.
Helias brought out his own and tapped out something. A second later, Atlas’s phone buzzed, asking him to accept the drop. He approved it and looked to Helias for an explanation.
“At Mr. Vladislavic’s request, I’ve sent you the general map of the property that was given to previous agents so you can find your way around more easily. I’ve also sent you all the necessary security codes to access the property’s buildings. When the codes change, you’ll be informed.”
He’d need to glance over those files sooner, rather than later. “Thank you. Will most shifts be spent here?”
“I do not believe so. Cristian is heir to Mr. Vladislavic’s business and takes on some of the responsibilities.”
So, business meetings. Calls. Possible trips.
Helias’s mouth did a funny little quirk, like he’d tasted something foul and was trying to politely hide his reaction. “In addition to his father’s expectations, Cristian has an active social life. He prefers to go out frequently. We will provide any vehicles necessary for his trips.”
“What’s different about tonight then?” Atlas asked, noting the lack of any other vehicles parked out front.
“Mr. Vladislavic ordered Cristian to stay on the property while he was away at an unexpected meeting.”
“He placed Mr. Slava on house arrest for the night?”
The faintest ghost of a smile crossed the consilier’s face. “Exactly. Unfortunately for the rest of us, it means Cristian is more bored than usual.”
Helias headed for the house, gesturing for Atlas to follow behind him. The place was transformed from the previous night’s visit. The expectant quiet of the building had vanished, replaced with the familiar noise of people bustling about, passing in and out of doors as they worked. A few called greetings to Helias on their way, while others kept their heads down and moved with clear purpose. Whatever Decebal’s “business” was, it required a lot of people. Keeping track of them all was going to be a nightmare.
He was distracted from the grim thought by a chorus of raucous laughter and teasing jibes spilling from a room in the back corner of the house. A room Helias headed for with dogged determination. Atlas was tall enough he could see over Helias’s shoulder as they neared the cracked door. A small group of smiling people surrounded an odd-looking billiards table where Cristian was lining up a shot.
Atlas had a split-second to admire the line of his arm directing the length of the pool cue, the brow furrowing in concentration, and the stretch of his worn t-shirt over his shoulders before a woman stepped forward and blocked the view. She was about Helias’s height, with rich dark hair, ivory skin, and the strength and grace of a dancer. She wasn’t smiling. She set him on edge for a reason he couldn’t place.
Helias didn’t seem bothered by her intense inspection. “Ioana,” he said in greeting. She moved aside for him without an argument. She didn’t prevent Atlas’s entrance either, but her cool gaze stayed trained on him every step he moved closer toward Cristian and the rest of the company.
Cristian straightened, giving up his shot in favor of leaning on his cue and scowling at the intruders. The others abandoned their places at the table to stand beside him, watching Helias and Atlas in silence. Ioana and a large man were the most imposing of the group. The other two were more relaxed. The tall woman holding the other pool cue had a model’s cheekbones, but walked like a soldier. The slimmer, shorter man beside her wore expensive athleisure and a haircut that could have paid Atlas’s rent, and continued scrolling through his phone as if Atlas were of little concern to him. They held themselves with the ease of people well aware of their own capabilities, which warned Atlas not to test their skills.
Helias ignored them all and focused on his employer’s son. “Cristian, Mr. Kinkaid has arrived for his first shift.”
“Is that who it is? I didn’t recognize him.” Cristian moved to peer past Helias. “Why the suit?” he asked Atlas bluntly.
Atlas clasped his hands in front of him and reminded himself to stay relaxed. “It’s the uniform.”
“You’re overdressed,” Cristian said before nudging Helias aside with the butt end of the pool cue. His attention never shifted from Atlas.
Helias moved with a slight frown. He looked about to start in on Cristian when an alert sounded on his phone. Like that, the consilier’s focus shifted, leaving Atlas to fend for himself.
Atlas reached up and undid his tie, folded it neatly and tucked it into his pocket. Cristian didn’t look away when Atlas reached up again to the neck of his dress shirt. Cristian went still. Atlas popped the top button slowly and hooked a finger under the collar to pull the fine cotton away from his skin.
“Better?” Atlas asked, deadpan.
Cristian made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and looked down at the table. “Hardly,” he mumbled.
Behind him, Ioana and the large man exchanged a look. So Cristian being flustered was unexpected.
Cristian lined up his shot and drew back the cue. “There’s no reason for you to be here tonight. You should leave.”
His flippant dismissal caught Helias’s attention. The man slipped his phone back into his pocket and glanced at Atlas, who saw nothing but resignation in the split second of eye contact. See? Helias seemed to say. This is what I warned you about.
He didn’t need Helias to fight his battles for him. And he wouldn’t accept payment for work he didn’t do. Cristian may be his charge, but he wasn’t the one paying Atlas’s bills, and Atlas had no intention of letting down his employer on his first day.
“My contractual obligations began tonight. Your father expected me to be here,” Atlas said. “As he is my employer, I will be following his orders.”
The crack of the cue ball hitting Cristian’s intended target didn’t quite drown out the surprised inhalations of Cristian’s friends. Clearly no one talked to the boss’s son like this. He’d have to ask Bea exactly how many agents Cristian had run off. He couldn’t believe no one had stood up for themselves.
Cristian rose slowly, beautifully indolent, even as he offered Atlas a twisted smile. “How well trained you are already. Watch out, Helias. He’s going to steal your place as Father’s most loyal lapdog.”
Helias ignored the taunt. “If you no longer need me, Cristian, I have some matters to attend to. I assume you’ll introduce Mr. Kinkaid to everyone?”
Cristian waved him off and stepped aside so the tall woman could take her place at the table instead. “Sure, sure. Andrei. Vasilica. You’ve met Ioana. And this is Dinu to his friends, so you get to call him Constantin.” Cristian pointed to each person as he spoke, forcing Atlas to keep up with the quick pace, and probably assuming he wouldn’t remember everyone.
Andrei, the bruiser, was old enough to be Cristian’s uncle. Might be, actually, considering how he hovered protectively at Cristian’s shoulder. Vasilica was the pool shark, though the predatory glint of her eyes was more for Atlas than for the game. Ioana remained a silent shadow at Cristian’s other side, and Dinu—Constantin to Atlas, apparently—glanced up from his phone to nod back to acknowledge Atlas’s existence. These four must be common fixtures around Cristian if Helias wanted them introduced.
Cristian seemed a little sorry that Atlas didn’t ask for the names again. He waited for a moment longer before turning back to Helias. “There. Introduced. Have fun sorting out tonight’s mess. And don’t worry about Mr. Kinkaid. We’ll take good care of him.”
Not ominous at all.
Atlas didn’t move when Helias left the room. He was out of the way of the table and area of play, so Cristian wouldn’t be able to complain, but he wouldn’t give ground and retreat. Nope, he would stand there until Cristian acknowledged him.
He’d have a while to wait, it seemed, as the game continued without a moment’s pause. Vasilica took her shot and swore when she missed. Cristian moved up to the table and finished out the game with three swift, well-placed shots. Vasilica groaned, though she didn’t seem too bothered with the loss. Constantin chuckled and leaned in to murmur something to her.
Atlas didn’t catch it. Cristian had his full attention as he sauntered closer, cue resting lightly over his shoulder. The pose stretched his shirt over his chest and Atlas fought to not stare at the clearly defined lines of muscles shifting beneath the cotton. Okay, maybe he stared for a moment.
Cristian noticed. He invaded Atlas’s space like he had the night before in the hall, stopping mere inches away this time. He was close enough Atlas caught a light hint of chamomile mingling with the detergent clinging to his shirt. If Atlas breathed too deeply, their shoulders and chests would brush together. He ignored the prickling over his skin, a warning against the forced proximity, but remained in place, waiting for some kind of recognition from his charge.
His stubbornness won him the battle of wills. It took an awkward silence, but Cristian finally asked, “Are you playing?”
The mildness of the question surprised him. Maybe Cristian only acted out to authority figures like his father or Helias, and Atlas had just been unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire. Maybe they’d work this out here and now. He could hear his CO’s hoarse voice barking out, First rule of engagement: only engage if the target is hostile.
“Not during my shift,” Atlas replied.
Cristian smiled and tilted his head, peering up at Atlas through his lashes. “Then you’re useless to me. Wait outside until we’re done,” he purred. When Atlas didn’t move, his tone sharpened. “Do you know how to obey? Do I need a whistle to train my father’s lapdog?”
The target is fucking hostile.
Behind Cristian, Ioana and Andrei shifted. He flicked his gaze to them, only to be met with hard stares and growing frowns. Movement to his left. Constantin had taken a step forward, closer to the corner of the billiards table. His phone had been tucked away, leaving his hands free. Vasilica’s hand rested lightly on the crook of Constantin’s elbow, but it wasn’t a hold that urged him to caution. It was a sign of solidarity, a promise to back him if things got ugly.
Atlas was outnumbered and there was no chance in hell these four would mind their own business if he decided to disobey Cristian.
The brat knew it. He smiled and flicked his hand toward the door. “Shoo, puppy. The adults have games to play.”
With no other choice, Atlas turned and left the room. He tried to ignore the laughter following him out into the hall. The click of the door shutting at his back reminded him of the finality of a gunshot, of a confrontation ended by force and might, rather than diplomacy.
Cristian’s taunt was far too accurate as Atlas loitered in the hall. The other people passing through shot him understanding looks. A few glanced at the door behind him, then offered him a faint smile of commiseration. They didn’t have to say anything else. The pity in their gazes delivered the message to him just fine—Glad I’m not in your shoes.
No wonder other agents had walked away from the job. If Cristian was this much of a nightmare when he was stuck at home, how bad would he be once they left the property? Or when they were at a private event or out shopping or doing whatever else it was Cristian did for entertainment? Maybe he could talk to Decebal and find out if this was normal behavior. He preferred to not call in the boss so early, but if Cristian’s life were truly at risk, it might be worth the blowback to have the lines of their positions clearly drawn by the actual employer.
Atlas stewed over how to bring up the issue while he waited for Cristian and his gaggle of cronies to finish their game. It was a long, boring wait before he heard movement behind the door. The soft thud of footfalls moving closer and the murmur of mixed voices filled him with such relief he actually moved away from the door so he wasn’t blocking their exit. Ioana emerged first. She didn’t spare him a glance, simply strode away and headed up the stairs. Constantin and Vasilica came next, side by side and chatting about needing a snack. They pulled a hard right and headed for a different door, probably one leading toward the kitchen. Andrei came out last.
He paused in front of Atlas, who had to crane his head back to look up. The man was an intimidating sight. Broad shouldered, barrel-chested, and with an expression of supreme disapproval, he glared down at Atlas like he was personally responsible for the dull night.
“Cristian is waiting for you,” Andrei rumbled. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the partially closed door. “Do not make him upset.”
“I have no intention of it,” Atlas lied.
The mountain before him gave a huff to indicate his obvious disbelief of the statement before sauntering away toward yet another door in the hall. Scattering like rats from a fleeing ship, it seemed. Atlas took a moment to steady his breathing before pushing open the door into the billiards room.
“You wanted to see me?” he began, only to trail off at the sight of an empty room.
Cristian was gone.
Damn.
Atlas popped back into the hall to call for Andrei, but the area was strangely deserted, like it had been the previous night. No one around to talk to at all, in fact. Atlas pulled the door closed, granting him the privacy of the room, before letting his head drop forward to rest against the well-stained wood.
It was a brilliant setup. No one in the house—even those who weren’t part of Cristian’s inner crew—would dare go against the boss’s son. Fine. He could handle this. How hard could it be to find his missing charge?
There was no point returning to the hall. Cristian hadn’t snuck out that way, a fact made obvious by his friends’ slow and steady exits from the room. They’d been buying him time. So where the hell had he gone?
The room looked secure. One door in from the hall, none out. No windows, thanks to rooms on either side. Nothing but sturdy bookcases in the back left corner and a comfortable, if dimly lit, sitting area and small wet bar to the right. Atlas avoided the bar and the scattered wineglasses, still stained with hints of dark wine. There was no chance Cristian would be hiding behind the bar, laughing silently to himself. This was a test. Cristian was trying to expose Atlas’s incompetence, to get him fired before he had a chance to prove his value.
He pulled up the grounds map on his phone. It offered little help and only confirmed his original assessment that the door was the only way out of the room.
Okay, so no obvious exit. Maybe there was some kind of hiding place instead? He’d never personally found or used one during his tours, but some of the diplomats he and his platoon had protected had spoken of them. Small, hidden spaces designed to offer a few hours cover until an extraction team could arrive.
He took another slow walk around the room. The only place he could think to hide such a space would be by the bookshelves, where the seams and joints of the hidden door could be camouflaged by the ornate, carved facing of the shelves. Scanning them was tedious. It was too easy to be distracted by the carefully dusted rows of books. The aged and foreign books lent age and gravity to the space, which even the billiards table couldn’t detract from. Eventually, he gave up reading the spines and instead turned so he could look at the shelves from an angle. That’s when he spotted the book pushed back too far on a shelf.
Another foreign title, the faded gilt letters pressed into the aged leather of the spine. It was almost disappointing that nothing happened when he pulled it out and examined it. No Scooby Doo trapdoor opened beneath his feet, there was no grinding of gears as an Addams family wall split. He slid a hand into the slender gap left behind, feeling for something, anything...and found a loop of wire against the back wall of the bookcase. He tugged it down with two fingers. Behind the bookcase, he heard a metallic click and a corner of the case shifted forward a half inch. He replaced the book, stepped back, and carefully tugged at the now free corner.
There wasn’t a hiding place behind the door. Instead, Atlas found a narrow hall waiting for him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Going down a creepy, secret hallway was not on his list of first shift activities. There wasn’t another choice though. He needed to find Cristian and prove himself capable of handling whatever assholery was thrown his way. Regretting every life decision that had led him to this point, Atlas closed the bookshelf behind him and followed the dim lights to the right. The hall eventually met a set of stairs, which led downward to a different door.
This one was jarringly modern, a solid metal thing with a keypad that also didn’t show up on Helias’s map. Refusing to give up, he scanned over the list of codes provided for the property’s buildings.
Every delay meant Cristian was getting farther and farther away, a fact that grated on Atlas as he tried a code and was met with a flashing red light from the keypad. He reviewed the mixture of English and Romanian names, but didn’t see anything in English describing the new lower-level door.
It took a moment for the door pad to reset so he could try the code linked to the first Romanian word. Failure, and another wait. The same thing happened with the second word, and the third. Every failure honed his resolve. If he had to go through the entire damn list, even if it took the rest of his shift, he would. On the fourth attempt, the lights flashed green as the code took. He quickly put an asterisk near that code and slid past the door.
The new space was sleek, contemporary industrial architecture at its best, completely different from what he’d seen in the house above. The rich woods were replaced with smooth, concrete walls whose white paint reflected the warm light from the handful of inset ceiling fixtures. The black and silver pipes overhead emerged out of one wall and crossed to the other, unhidden and unconcerned with aesthetics. The only similarity between the upstairs and this new area was the sense of space. He could see everything, with no hidden corners or lines blocking his line of sight. That openness made up for the lack of windows, hiding the hallway’s subterranean placement well. He tried the same code on the door at the far end of the hall, surprised when it worked again.
His unexpected appearance surprised the people in the next room. They jumped up off the comfortable sectionals. A few steadied glasses of red wine, which must mean they were off shift. He wasn’t, and didn’t have time to waste on pleasantries.
“He was here?” Atlas asked.
The people looked at each other, holding a silent conversation Atlas didn’t have time for. He picked the largest of the group, took a threatening step toward him, and asked again, “Was he?”
The man nodded and pointed a hand toward one of the doors lining the richly decorated walls of the room. Experience had taught him no one gave information away that freely.
“Is that where he actually went, or where he told you to tell me he’d gone?”
The man frowned and dutifully pointed at a second door. Cristian’s game wasn’t over yet. The ploy was frustratingly obvious though. Did Cristian really think he was that dumb?
Atlas went to the first door, ignoring the calls for him to stop. The room beyond was small, with a glittering piano and little else, though a narrow door in the back corner beckoned. Feeling more and more like Alice in some demented Wonderland, Atlas pressed forward. He couldn’t wait to tell Bea this story. Maybe she could negotiate him some kind of bonus for the levels of bullshit he had to go through. No wonder Todd had quit.
At least this newest hall he stepped into was quiet. The doors here were ajar, as if people came and went freely, without concern for privacy. The bedrooms seemed large. They were all painted in varying shades, with a mixture of furniture types, clearly individualized for whoever was staying in them. One even boasted a backlit display of small knives he wouldn’t have minded getting a closer look at. Most of the bedrooms must have shared the decadent bathrooms set here and there between rooms. Supplies littered the counters in some, and it was impossible to miss the reflection of his shadow over large expanses of glass and stone showers as he passed. Flickering light escaped from one of the rooms farther away, an indication that someone was at least watching—though maybe not listening—to a TV.
The thick carpet underfoot muffled Atlas’s steps as he neared the door, but he paused anyway when he heard familiar voices behind it.
“He’s probably panicking right now,” Andrei’s bass rumbled.
“I bet he’s gone to find Helias like the rest did,” Vasilica said. “All bodyguards are the same.”
Atlas wrinkled his nose at her smug tone. She didn’t know him. She sure as hell didn’t know how skilled he was at finding and protecting others, thanks to his training.
“He might stick,” Ioana argued, and his estimation of her rose a bit. At least she was more cautious about dismissing him than the rest. “Did you see the way he was watching us?”
“It was hard to miss,” Cristian said smugly.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ioana asked. “Your father won’t let you run off another one.” She was a planner. If there was any hope of surviving this job, he’d have to either find a way to earn her trust, or find a way to avoid her direct ire.
“I have no intention of running this one off,” Cristian promised. “I just want to...ruffle him a bit. It was so easy to earlier.” His silky, teasing words made Atlas’s gut clench low and hot.
“Cristian—”
“Trust me, Ioana. We’ll leave him to panic before reappearing miraculously at the end of his shift. You saw him earlier with Helias. He’s stubborn and far too confident in his abilities. He won’t go to anyone else for help. He’ll swallow down his complaints and stick out the job. He’s used to suffering.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Ioana said.
“That’s because it is. The longer he’s here, the more we can play with him.”
He didn’t need to hear any more. Atlas retraced his steps back to the piano room and reflected on Cristian’s unnervingly accurate description of him. Only a handful of people had ever been able to read him so well. His grandmother. Bea. His platoon. And Bea was the only one still alive. For Cristian to have cataloged him, defined him, after so few meetings...
He’s used to suffering.
Fuck, he needed to come at this job from a different angle. He needed to throw Cristian off, find a way to fake like tonight hadn’t already gotten under his skin.
“Sitrep, Marine,” he muttered under his breath.
What did he know? Clearly Cristian expected him to tear the compound apart in his search. To take hours to do so. He didn’t expect Atlas to be competent enough to find him. So, Atlas’s intelligence was his greatest asset against the brat. It was a starting point.
He paused at the piano, sliding a finger over the ivory keys as he passed, too lightly to draw any sound. The same reverence he’d felt when sitting beside Mrs. Adams during their weekly lessons after church remained even now. It might be nice to try playing again, put the lessons his grandma paid for to use. But that wouldn’t be possible today, so he kept on.
Nothing but an empty sectional greeted him when he left the piano room behind. The group he’d run into earlier had left no trace of their presence, not even an empty wineglass. Atlas shook his head. At least he didn’t have to threaten anyone to keep his visit down here secret.
It didn’t take him long to return to the billiards room, though it took a second to find the latch to let him back in through the bookcase. He grabbed a napkin from the bar, along with a spare pen he found by a restocking list, and sketched out the undocumented section of the house he’d just familiarized himself with. He updated his list of security codes with additional notes. Once those tasks were complete, he stuffed the napkin in his pocket, returned the pen, went to the table, and racked the balls. He hadn’t played in a while.
Hours later, shortly before dawn, the bookcase door creaked open and admitted Cristian and his wayward group. Cristian came to a standstill mere feet into the room. Atlas bit down on the inside of his cheek to hold his smile in check and adjusted his bridge hand for the shot. The hit was perfect and the far ball dropped into the pocket. Only then did Atlas murmur, “Mr. Slava.”
“What—” Cristian began, taking two more steps forward before drawing up. “You—”
“Knew you’d never disobey your father’s direct order to stay within the property’s bounds,” Atlas finished for him.
“But I—”
“Was perfectly safe downstairs,” Atlas agreed.
Cristian made a choked sound. “You knew?”
He sank a shot off the cushion, though it wasn’t as clean as he would have liked. God, he really did need to practice if this was how rusty he’d gotten. He rose from the table, slowly stretching to his full height so he could look down at his charge, who still stood there with his speechless friends at his back. “Knew what? That you’d slipped out through a hidden door and into a quiet room down below to compose yourself after seeing me again?” Now, despite his best efforts, the grin broke free. He shrugged. “You left a book nudged back from the rest. Wasn’t too hard to figure out from there.”
Cristian didn’t move, but his friends turned and glared at Andrei, who wilted under the weight of his failure. Good. It’d be hard for the man to act as an accomplice again if Cristian doubted he could perform a simple task correctly.
Atlas found a new position and finished out the last of his shots, sinking the balls easily. The table cleared, he faced the group once more. Andrei and Constantin wouldn’t meet his gaze. Ioana watched with steady interest. At her side, Vasilica glowered as though Atlas had personally offended her by being the better player. Only Cristian, standing ahead of them, mattered. The blend of emotions running riot over his face proved Atlas had played his hand correctly.
Cristian’s chin tipped up when Atlas stepped closer. His attempt at maintaining eye contact left him strangely vulnerable by the time they drew chest to chest. He made a nervous inhalation when Atlas leaned in, then shivered when Atlas’s breath brushed against his ear.
“I don’t know how many agents you’ve gotten to quit, or who your father has been forced to fire,” Atlas told Cristian quietly, “but this time you won’t win. You can say what you want about me, do what you think will piss me off and make me run, but I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?”
Cristian’s balance wavered, from surprise or fear or anger, Atlas didn’t know. He didn’t reach out to steady him, didn’t shift away, didn’t retreat a single inch. Instead, he let Cristian angle in closer. Then he asked again, with a little more steel in his voice, “Do you understand?”
The gentle brush of a warm exhalation against the side of his neck was a victory only made sweeter by Cristian’s soft, unsure answer of “Yes.”
“Good boy,” Atlas whispered. And because he was a bit pissed off, he added, “I didn’t even need a whistle.”
Cristian reared back, but no insult flew. He’d shocked the man speechless.
Atlas pressed the cue against Cristian’s chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Mr. Slava.”