Lipstick and Camouflage: Brandt's Dozen, #1

Lipstick and Camouflage

Frances Stockton

One

Falls Church, Virginia—November

Rested, recovered, and ready to get back to work, Travis Blake pushed his way through the doors of Brandt Security, a phantom twinge in his left shoulder reminding him of the reason for the mandatory stay in the Bahamas.

Well, well, Travis Blake, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Sara Grayson, administrative assistant to Daniel Brandt, greeted Travis, once a Navy SEAL who’d excelled at hand-to-weapon combat, had fit in with Brandt’s team of former Special Operatives turned private security specialists.

Sara was smart as a whip, devoted to the men of Brandt Security, and, like all of Brandt’s team, had the military experience to back up her impressive credentials. Despite the prim pinstripe skirt and white blouse, she was pretty with her sleek dark brown hair bound in some sort of bun, painted-pink lips, and polished-perfect nails.

If the boss man were to ever take notice of the glances she sent his way, he’d be a lucky man. At least, Travis thought so, but then Brandt had his reasons for keeping women at a distance.

Morning, gorgeous, Travis replied, sending her a smile. What’d I miss around here while I was away?

Oh, let’s see, security disasters averted, three successful, lucrative private investigations completed, Kristian’s got a black eye, Kono and Mack are on a case in Baltimore, my brother’s keeping everyone else grounded, and Brandt is his usual brooding self.

How’d Kristian get the black eye? he asked, referring to his best friend since BUD/S training. Kristian’s specialty post military service was private security and executive protection, same as Travis.

A right hook did the trick, LT, the man in question said behind him, his reference to Travis’ former rank the norm between them.

Turning, Travis saw Kristian Rodriguez leaning against the doorjamb of his office. His swollen bluish-purple eye stood out like a 3-D puzzle amongst his normally pretty features.

I see that. Who hit you and when?

Cilla, Kristian answered, cringing. Two days ago.

Jesus, I thought you two had a nice thing going. Travis shook his head in sympathy. In the past, Kristian tended to be a charmer, often taking roles or cases that put women at ease, or discover valuable intel if necessary. After he’d taken up with Cilla, he’d curbed the playboy assignments.

I tell you, I was loyal to her, too, Kristian stated. What did it get me? Followed, which led to Cilla seeing something she misunderstood. Next thing I know, her right fist connects with my face.

Let me guess, you were guarding a woman, Travis said.

Yes. A pretty one, granted, but I’d done nothing to deserve Cilla’s wrath. Hell, she could’ve endangered the person I was assigned to protect.

Is the danger over now?

Done and gone. I’ll fill you in on the details over drinks at Molly’s soon. As it is, the boss has been in his office all morning. Something big is going on, feel it in my bones, LT.

Molly’s was the local pub where the team gathered after a particularly stressful day or difficult assignment. The bar was a hole-in-the-wall, but the pub-grub was excellent, peanuts and salty popcorn were placed and refilled on every table, booth, or along the bar without delay. As nice as the Bahamas had been, Travis had missed the beer and popcorn designed to make patrons buy more beer.

How long’s he been here? Travis asked Sara.

He was already in his office when I arrived two hours ago, she answered.

Told you, something big is coming down the pike, Kristian said, whistling. So, meet any beauties in the Bahamas, LT?

Scott Reilly, an actuary and company wiz with numbers, accounts, and all things mathematical, came out of his office. The guy belied the stereotypical nerd with his spiked black hair, tattoos visible due to his white rolled up sleeves, and multiple piercings. Considering he’d once been a Captain, it was almost impossible to detect the Marine he’d been, but he’d served his country and military intelligence well.

What’s this I hear about beauties? Scott asked curiously.

Kristian’s being nosy, that’s all, Travis answered, shrugging.

Would’ve been nice to get laid, but since the night he’d come under fire and taken a slug to the shoulder that could’ve gone a little higher or lower, depending on the shooter’s aim, slam bam thank you ma’am sex wasn’t a priority anymore. He’d had his chances, sure, but, in the end, dancing, a lot of rum, and lounging became his MO over the last month.

Scott looked at Travis, his intelligence overriding his newest piercing, through his right eyebrow. Ouch, that sucker had to hurt, though Travis prayed to God Scott hadn’t pierced anything below the waist. Welcome back, Travis, how was your R&R?

Thanks, it was good, exactly what it was meant to be, you know how it is, he answered.

A door opened up behind Sara Grayson’s desk, their boss, retired Colonel Daniel Brandt, the man who’d led joint Black Ops missions in Afghanistan and Iraq until tragedy struck him down, walked steadily with a cane as he came out of his office.

Blake, glad you’re back. I’ve a job for you if you’re ready.

Since his last assignment ended up with him in emergency surgery, Travis understood why everyone was hell bent on making sure he was okay. Yeah, it had hurt like hell. But, he’d been lucky that the .22 slug hadn’t busted any bones, just dug in deep.

He’d also taken out the threat to the woman he’d been assigned to protect. Now she was safe and her children could go to school without fear of their mom’s ex-boyfriend.

Yes, I am. He was tempted to salute Brandt even though the big man stopped wearing the military mantle in favor of a gray suit and tie. The tailored pants kept anyone from noticing his prosthetic right leg.

Very well, my office, five minutes, Brandt stated then walked to his assistant’s desk, laying a black file on her desk.

Can I help in anyway, sir? Kristian offered.

Brandt looked over, shaking his head. Not yet, but it’s possible in the future depending on the direction this goes. Finish your expense report on the Chancellor case and hand it over to Scott. We’ll talk later once Blake is in place. How’s the eye?

Kristian stayed by the doorjamb, lifting one shoulder. I’m good, sir. I’ll take care of the paperwork and standby.

If I didn’t say so, you did a good job with Ms. Chancellor, Rodriguez, Brandt complimented. She returned to the UK as safely as she arrived, much to her agent’s pleasure.

Are you talking about the pop star, Mia Chancellor? Travis asked Kristian.

That’d be the one, Kristian said. She came to D.C. for a couple days to scout a potential location shoot. Wanted to come and go without a lot of fuss, on the arm of someone who looked more like a date than a bodyguard.

Ah, now I get it. You played your role well enough that Cilla bought it, too, Travis said.

With a little help from the paparazzi and Mia Chancellor’s social media following, yes, Kristian replied, running a steady hand through his long black hair that belied his stint in the military. Instead of trusting me, Cilla overreacted. Hell, the pop star’s all of 19, maybe. I’m capable of a lot of things, robbing the cradle isn’t one of them.

That’s why I trusted you with the assignment, Rodriguez, Brandt stated then whispered something to Sara and went back to his office, closing the door.

If you’re getting a compliment from the boss, it’s deserved, Scott said.

Thanks, I appreciate it. Kristian had gotten himself into a sticky situation with a client a year ago. He’d not overstepped, but the client developed a crush on him and she’d had a hard time letting go after the job was done.

What Scott said, Travis remarked. Best go get coffee before my meeting, sounds like it’ll be an important one.

Excusing himself from the octagon-shaped reception area, he made his way to the staffroom equipped with a small kitchen, a table for twelve, a massive fridge/freezer combination, and a coffee machine that could make a full pot or one mug at a time. Needing caffeine, Travis went to a cupboard and located the heavy navy blue monstrosity that read ‘The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday’, in honor of finishing BUD/S training in San Diego.

In his experience, no day as a Navy SEAL had been easy, yet it’d been worth it. He’d served his country, witnessed horrors that still haunted his dreams, but he’d done so with honor and now he was serving as a security and private security specialist in one of the most lucrative, trusted companies in the country.

Travis liked his job. The salary was stellar, included healthcare benefits, retirement funds, and investments. Sometimes he headed up security for rock stars in Virginia or DC for concerts, sometimes he played bodyguard, or was posted on detail for a court witness. Often, he and his colleagues worked in conjunction with the U.S. military, especially if it was something best handled by civilians.

Today, it sounded as if he’d get his first assignment since being shot in the line of duty. Usually, that meant a cake job, but given the level of attention and the black file Brandt had put on Sara Grayson’s desk, he had the feeling case was going to be big and dangerous.

With that in mind, Travis made himself a mug of French roast, black. Hot, dark, strong, that’s how he liked his coffee, same as his women, as few as there’d been of late.

Passing Sara Grayson on the way to the boss’ office, he slowed down, shoving his hand in his coat pocket. Today, he’d chosen a black suit with a light gray shirt and a black tie. It was far removed from the t-shirts, shorts, and sandals he’d worn for the last month. But as much as he missed paradise, he was glad to be home, Sara Grayson one of the reasons why.

Finding the small, pink seashell that he’d found on the beach, he pulled it out and placed it on her desk. She already had a collection of shells and small stones or trinkets in a big glass jar on her desk. Once it was filled, he suspected she’d move it to a prominent spot in the room and set out a new one on her desk. Whenever the men returned from an assignment, they gave her something that represented their case instead of flowers and chocolates.

For your jar, he said.

Thank you, Travis, she exclaimed, taking the shell and smiling. It’s adorable. Where’d you find it?

On the beach, thought it was unusual.

It looks like a baby’s bassinet. I can just imagine a little sea snail or creature tucking itself into the shell, sleeping safe, she said, getting a little teary-eyed all of a sudden and Travis immediately felt like a jerk.

I’m sorry, I just thought it’d look nice, he assured, having no clue what a baby’s bassinet looked like or if he’d taken a snail’s home.

Don’t you dare apologize, she ordered. I love it.

Good, you deserve a helluva a lot more than seashells and trinkets for putting up with this motley crew, Travis said.

I wouldn’t work anywhere else, Sara stated with such sincerity, Travis nodded. They were the same age, 40. Though right now, his body felt 50, even rested and recovered.

At Brandt’s door, he knocked, waiting for the boss’ deep voice to call him inside then opened the door and walked into an office the likes of which rivaled anything at the Pentagon. The computer setup alone was state-of-the-art, featuring several touchscreens, keyboards and things Travis would prefer not to deal with. Computers, technology, were what they were, but give him a boxing ring, a punching bag, or a board to break, he was home.

Brandt was behind his behemoth of a desk, the thing as impenetrable as a block of lead and downright ugly. Word around the company was that the desk once belonged to his father, General Darius Brandt, who’d inherited it from his father. When and if the boss ever had kids, Travis guessed the desk would be passed down to his first born.

On the desk were multiple smartphones and landlines, one of which likely went directly to the White House. On occasion Brandt Security was called upon to assist Homeland Security, FBI, DOJ, ATF, or the DOD.

Brandt gestured to the ordinary chair in front of the desk. Take a seat.

Yes, sir, Travis said, moving faster, his mug still in hand.

How are you feeling? Brandt inquired.

Strong and ready for active duty.

Dr. Jarrett and Dr. Grayson sent reports. You’d be back on the beach or home if I thought you weren’t ready to go. Just the same, I know what it’s like to take a bullet to save another’s life.

I’d do it again. Two little kids have their mom back safe and sound, that’s what matters to me.

You did the right thing there, too, Brandt said. The hardest thing about this job is taking a life, no matter the circumstances.

Travis took a sip of his coffee, giving him a chance to watch his boss. He figured it still irked Brandt to no longer be in active military service. He was a Marine through and through, tough, strong, willing to go the extra mile, never one to leave a man behind. The loss of his was testament to that sacrifice.

Seriously, I’m fine. The timeout Dr. Grayson recommended was exactly what I needed. My shoulder feels good, occasionally gets tight, nothing I can’t handle. Honestly, the last few days in the Bahamas I was ready to come home and get back into the grind, you know?

Brandt stared back at him, the power of his boss’ gray eyes warning him not to move. For a man pushing 50, Daniel Brandt was fit and tall. His short black hair was peppered with gray, his features showing laugh lines.

When he was ready, he nodded and turned his attention to a thick black file on his desk. Black files were code for undercover work.

I’ve got a job I think you would excel at, Brandt said. Before I explain, I should warn it could be a long, complicated one.

Travis leaned forward. I’m intrigued. What’s the job?

Security, reconnaissance, and possible recovery, Brandt began. I should also warn you right now, the case is black but it could turn red. Hell, I’m hoping it hasn’t already and that’s what you need to determine first and foremost.

Red meant someone was in danger. If that happened, the only objective was to keep the client safe.

Who am I protecting, and what am I looking for?

Let’s start from the beginning. Brandt pushed the file across his desk. Open it. Read.

Travis pulled the file closer and opened the cover, the first thing he saw was a photo of a dead man, eyes open yet vacant, limp mouth, bloodstained chin, throat slit ear to ear, dried blood beneath him. A couple other crime scene photos showed he was on the ground, in an alley between aged-red brick buildings.

Looks like an assassination. Method was precise, quick and over before the victim hit the ground. Weapon was either a thin filet knife or a box cutter. Killer was behind him... He paused, looking at an autopsy report with the photos. Whoever did this cut right to left, making them left handed or ambidextrous?

Correct. Additionally, the victim had his Achilles tendon severed, possibly to render him immobile. Keep looking, he’s not the only victim, and it doesn’t get easier, Brandt warned.

Travis lifted the pictures and focused on the victim’s bio. John Hanson, age 50, Caucasian, 5’5", computer programmer, married, survived by four, last known address, a military base in Aberdeen, MD.

Pictures of the second victim showed he’d also had his throat slit, ME noted a lacerated Achilles. Mike Smith, 28, was listed as a ghost hunter from Baltimore. The third was a pretty blonde woman, Marilyn Silverman, a newlywed, was a hotel receptionist from Peabody, MA. The last photo was of a Hispanic woman, Selena Martinez, 22, housekeeper, Salem Quarters Hotel and Conference Center, Salem, MA.

Why am I looking at a crime scene photos that seem to be something Dr. Grayson should be examining to help the FBI create a serial killer’s profile? Travis asked.

The first, John Hanson, worked with a small team of civilian contractors, Grisham Technology and Engineering, at APG that designed and tested drones, Brandt said. Back in August, the building was broken into while he was on night duty, the drones were vandalized, and he disappeared. MPs investigating came to believe it was an inside job, that Hanson had gotten hold of classified material before initiating a virus that sent the supposedly secure computer system back to the 70s, and letting the vandals into the building himself.

Jesus, what’s the material? Travis asked.

Running theory is a blueprint for a new drone.

We’re not talking about a remote controlled helicopter from some tech store or camera to spy on a neighbor.

Spy, maybe, but a toy, no. Fortunately, it hadn’t gone beyond the design phase. APG’s investigators claim they found evidence on Hanson’s home computer that made them think he was selling inside information about small weaponized drones to a hacktivist. He believed in ghosts and conspiracy theories. My sources assure me his wife has been cooperative, and along with their children, has since been placed in protective custody.

Ghosts and conspiracies, great, how’d Hanson manage to get a blueprint out of the facility?

Most likely he’d encrypted the information on something that he could easily hide in his pocket, like a microchip or small thumb drive. My money’s on the chip, it could easily be stored in a smartphone or tablet.

Okay, I got it. Travis sipped his coffee, settling in, looking at the pictures again. What’s with the multiple crime scenes?

The order I’d placed the photos is the order in which they were killed. Both Mike Smith and Hanson were found within blocks of the hotel, two days apart. Hanson was found in an alley that led to an old Salem cemetery. Smith’s body was discovered in the men’s bathroom at a local bar. A couple of witnesses at the bar said they’d noticed Smith getting friendly with a woman in a booth, but no one could adequately describe her.

Based on this, I’d think he’s the hacktivist Hanson was selling trade secrets to, Travis guessed.

Bingo.

Shit. And, the housekeeper, she’s involved?

It’s possible Hanson didn’t want to make an exchange online and the hotel was their meeting place. Whoever killed them tracked them there. Honestly, I don’t think the information on that chip is merely about a drone. What bothers me is whatever else Hanson may have stored on the chip before he destroyed the system.

Bio on Mike Smith says he’s a ghost hunter, Travis said.

At the time of the murders, there was some sort of ghost hunter convention taking place in Salem, Massachusetts.

The receptionist was a newlywed, no evidence she was a ghost hunter. Why kill her? Swallowing hard at the loss and unable to look at photos of either woman for long, he concentrated on his boss.

She was found in luggage storage room near the front desk of the hotel, naked, her throat cut, same as the others, no damage to her Achilles. Her time of death is listed as 11:00 AM and she’d signed in to work that day an hour before that.

From what I’m hearing so far, the assassin’s female.

I agree with your assessment. I can’t imagine what her husband’s going through, same for Hanson’s widow and children. The maid was single, but she may have had family in the area, a boyfriend or girlfriend, it’s tragic no matter what.

Still want to know why the killer went after the receptionist. Any chance there was security footage of the front desk?

Cameras in that area face the entries into the building and the lobby. The luggage room was located behind the desk and out of sight. Detectives did check her front desk computer activity in that hour. She’d checked in a handful of people, one had checked out at 10:45 AM but needed to store her luggage. Mrs. Silverman indicates that request on her logs.

That’s common practice for a conference, isn’t it?

Can be, yes, but in this case, the con was almost over.

Let me guess, cops think one of the attendees is the killer?

It’s a safe bet. She registered at the hotel via the internet under the name Brenda Clark the same night John Hanson was found in the alley.

Am I looking for her, then?

No, stay with me, here, Blake. At 11:15 AM, Silverman logged into her account, researched information on a particular suite booked for Jerome Johnson on behalf of Charm City Paranormal Investigators, one of the names on the registry was Mike Smith. The housekeeper was found in a room connected to that suite less than a half hour after Ms. Silverman. By all accounts, the occupants had checked out by then.

Couldn’t have been the receptionist, she was already dead. At a guess, Brenda Clark took over Mrs. Silverman’s identity long enough to find out who was staying in that room and killed the maid once she got in. Clark sounds like a chameleon, I’ve dealt with those in the field.

You’re not that far off. The real Brenda Clark’s a 45 year old accountant from Connecticut. She’d had her purse stolen at the train station and never made it to the convention. Whoever took her identity also paid for the entire stay with a prepaid credit card.

The pickpocket got Clark’s ID. She’s lucky to be alive. Any chance she got a look at the suspect?

Brenda Clark reported a smallish, older woman with brown hair and a cane fell in front of her and she’d lent a hand. The woman smelled of mothballs and alcohol, limped off.

Damn, this suspect is a piece of work. Anything else I should know?

The suite had enough room to sleep 8-10 guests and they’d had some sort of gathering the same night Smith was killed.

So the ghost hunters were partying in Salem? Don’t think that’s cause to think they’re dangerous or in danger, Travis said.

Can’t say what they were doing. The group left the hotel later that night, returned to the suite, ordered room service. No one raised an alarm over Mike Smith, so they likely didn’t know he was dead or thought he’d had other plans.

Okay, if the murders stopped at these, Travis said, gesturing to the photos. Then the killer must’ve have gotten what she was looking for.

Or, she failed and is biding her time until she finds out who has it. As it is, the cases in Salem have gone cold, Brandt replied. Kono and Mack are currently investigating two men registered to that suite, Sam Billings and Jerome Johnson. They’re the founders of Charm City Paranormal Investigators, live in Fells Point, MD.

Am I going to Baltimore, too?

Yes, the other name on the registry is Cassidy O’Neal. She’s the one who had the adjoining bedroom.

Where the maid was found, Travis said, getting a sick feeling in his gut.

You’re right on track. Your job, Blake, is to look after Cassidy O’Neal, assess whether she is in danger, and if she has the chip, recover it.

Travis sat up straighter, ignoring his now cold coffee in favor of studying the remainder of the black file, namely information on Cassidy O’Neal. Okay, tell me about her.

She’s a computer graphics designer for a company in Baltimore County called SMART, has a search engine, online encyclopedia, social media networking, newsfeed, you get the picture, has a little cookie logo on the main page that changes daily.

Interesting, Travis commented, continuing to read. Cassidy O’Neal, 36, graduated with honors from Maryland, had absolutely no outstanding debts, warrants or notable record other than a parking ticket, which she paid in full a day after it’d been written, and she’d been valedictorian in high school.

Noah Walker initially got this case. You were still in the Bahamas when it came to us. He couldn’t find anything incriminating, illegal, or unusual in Ms. O’Neal’s background, with exception that she believes in ghosts.

What’s the deal with the ghost hunting? Travis questioned. He’d experienced a lot of strange and unexplainable things, never once thinking he’d run into the supernatural or the undead.

I don’t think there’s reason to worry about that. It’s a hobby, not a career, Brandt said. I’m concerned that she could be in danger, especially if she has the chip.

If she did, wouldn’t she have tried to use it, decode it or something by now?

Brandt shook his head no. According to Noah, she doesn’t even search the internet for dirty pictures or porn, no history of piracy or file sharing or visiting torrent sites. She does have over a hundred books on her Kindle. So far, the other two ghost hunters are coming back clean and there seems to be no sense of danger surrounding them. But, Kono and Mack will be in Fells Point for the duration.

Fair enough, he said.

And, if there is a threat, the job doesn’t end until it’s neutralized. Your priority is Cassidy O’Neal’s safety.

Where am I going?

Federal Hill in Baltimore City, Brandt answered.

Travis sifted through Cassidy O’Neal’s background information. A photo slid off the file, showing a redheaded woman coming out of an apartment building entrance.

She didn’t strike him as a ghost hunter, though he’d expected a hippie-type. This woman was sedate, wore glasses or sunglasses, a white long-sleeved blouse and a long navy blue skirt that went all the way to her ankles. Her hair was braided, but it looked to be long enough to fall between her shoulder blades. Her shoes were flat.

Maybe that was due to her height. At a guess, he’s say she was close to 6’, trim yet with the right amount of curves to give her a grabble ass, and sweet, full breasts a man could rest his head on. Despite the professional attire, hell if he didn’t think she was pretty, even from the distance.

Noah’s shot? he asked, picking up the picture and showing it to Brandt.

Yep, there’s a couple more. He staked out the apartment complex fairly well. Nothing jumped out at him as threatening, but you know from experience that what looks fine on the surface can be misleading. Building 517 of Fletcher Street Apartments is rented primarily by local artists. Building 515 is where Ms. O’Neal’s apartment is located, that’s where you’re going.

If Noah has this much information so far why isn’t he on the case? Travis asked, curious, primarily when he found a photo that showed the woman in a better light.

If she unbound that hair and loosened up a button or two, she’d be damn sexy. Hell, she had a super fine mouth, the kind that woke up his long dormant sex drive. Wrong time, he knew, but he couldn’t fight biology or physiology, for that matter. The longer he looked at her photo, the tighter his fly became.

She made Noah, ran him off, Brandt admitted.

What? Being ‘made’ by the ghost hunter meant that she’d spotted Noah and called him out, even though he specialized on blending in with his environment, any environment, urban, suburban, village or desert. As he’d been a sniper, he’d had to make himself scarce without drawing attention to his position.

Apparently, his rented sedan was new to the neighborhood and she’d started watching for it. Two days ago, she marched right up to his window, threatened to call the cops if he didn’t leave.

Did he explain himself?

Yeah, used his cover as a surveyor, had a permit, the tools. She didn’t buy it.

Noah Walker got made by a computer nerd?

What he didn’t want to do was alarm her or alert anyone else who might be interested in that chip, especially if she somehow has it. He left without incident. If she followed up on his permit, she’d only have learned that he was looking at an abandoned commercial property down the block and the surrounding area.

But you don’t think she knows anything about the chip.

No, and considering the people who are dead because of that damned thing, the less she knows the better for her, the people in that apartment building, and anyone associated with her.

Salem PD still hasn’t caught the killer, Travis said.

Trail to all four murders went cold, Brandt answered. There’s a good chance someone else at that facility in Aberdeen knew about the design and planned to use it for their financial gain. While you’re guarding Ms. O’Neal, Sebastian Cane’s going to APG to find out who knew what, when, and why. What I’m betting he’ll find is a woman who’d been imbedded in that drone facility knew what Hanson was planning and followed him.

Travis closed the file. What’s my cover?

Ms. Grayson has arranged for you to move into the furnished apartment next door to Ms. O’Neal’s. By luck, there’s an abandoned comic book shop down the block from Fletcher Street that can be converted into a gym or a dojo. Noah got the ball rolling while he was surveying the neighborhood. No reason to hide your military background, you’re moving into the area, making a change.

That I can do, Travis stated, as an expert in hand-to-hand and hand-to-weapon combat known as SCARS, he’d taken that knowledge a step further after leaving military service in mixed martial arts. A knee injury kept him from pursuing it as a career and he’d come to work at Brandt Security instead.

That’s what I figured. You’re on the clock now. Go home, ditch the three-piece suit, pack some boxes, and make your way to Federal Hill. Once you’re settled, contact Kristian and Noah. They’ll come in if you assess the situation as dangerous and need backup. Stay in touch with Ms. Grayson, Kono, and Mack. If the case turns red, alert me immediately.

Inwardly, Travis was wondering if that would be enough to fool Cassidy O’Neal into trusting him, hell, all of them. If she’d pegged Noah as not belonging, what were the chances she wouldn’t figure out Travis was more than her neighbor?

Then again, keeping her safe was his duty. He’d find a way to gain her trust.

Thank you for trusting me with this case. I won’t let anything happen to Ms. O’Neal.

Remember, the less she knows about that chip, the better for all concerned, especially for her. She has a family, Blake.

File doesn’t say she’s married, Travis recalled.

No, she’s not. Her parents are traveling. Her older brother and sister live out of state with their spouses and both have kids. It’s her younger brother I’m worried about. He’s in college, part of a band. Noah saw her go out with them. One brought her home, got a little too friendly, and he left in a hurry.

Noah made sure she was okay, I hope? Travis asked.

Yeah, she was fine. He almost gave himself up when the boy came back the following night. Never went inside the building, just stared up at her window that faces the street. The boy left after a patrol car went by.

Got it, sir, I’ll take care of her.

Good luck, stay in touch, Blake. If you don’t, Ms. Grayson will have my head on a platter. She worries about each one of you when you’re on assignment.

I’ll text and file a plan as soon as I’m settled and get the layout of the apartment building, Travis promised. At least I can lose the suit. Too bad its cold already, otherwise, I’d pack shorts.

"Stop at Ms. Grayson’s desk for