Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“You received the down payment?” Logan asks, strolling over to the window, his back to me.
“Yes,” I answer simply, avoiding thanking him for it. We need to establish an even working ground, and me expressing any gratitude doesn’t feature in that. “When do you want me to start?”
“Immediately.” He turns and motions an instruction to one of his men, who swiftly collects a file from Logan’s desk and brings it to me. “Everything you need to know about Camille is contained in that file.”
Ape Boy #1 holds it out, looming over me threateningly. Any normal man would stand to avoid being towered over. I’m no normal man. I reach for the file and rest my fingertips on the end, waiting for any sign that he’s going to release it. There’s no sign, no hint that he intends to hand it over willingly. He wants me to tug, just so I can feel his resistance. I lock eyes with him, but I don’t feed his ego. I keep my fingers poised where they are and wait. I’m not backing down, and it doesn’t look like he will either. We could be here a long time.
“Grant!” Logan barks, obviously detecting the animosity. “Give him the flaming file, for crying out loud!”
Grant relinquishes his hold in a flash, like a scared cat, letting me have the file. I don’t relish in my victory. That would put me at a level equal to these two idiots. I rest the file on my lap and have a brief flick through.
“My daughter is very precious to me,” Logan says.
I don’t look at him, not because I’m absorbing the information before me, but because Logan has taken it upon himself to include a wealth of family photographs of his daughter, ranging from when she was a baby to now, and none of which I’ve already seen on the Internet. She’s always been a stunner. My eyes freeze on a shot of her exiting a club. The date displays October 2015, and she looks totally wasted. The ex. This is a paparazzi shot. How much did Logan pay to keep it out of the press? Whatever, it was wasted money. There are plenty more like these on the Web, all showing his daughter looking wasted and all in the company of her drug addict ex-boyfriend. On a grimace, I snap the file shut and give Logan my attention.
“So why exactly are you hiring me?” I ask. I know why I’m here, but the information was sketchy. I need to know more.
“To protect my daughter.”
“What does she need protecting from, Mr. Logan? Has there been a threat?”
“Your services are a precautionary measure.”
Precautionary? I don’t believe him. I’m a very expensive precaution. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that,” I say flatly, tossing the file back on his desk, ignoring his shocked look. I’m guessing not many people tell this man how things are going to be.
“I’ve hired you as private security. Your job is to protect my daughter.”
“From what, Mr. Logan?” I grate, rare frustration creeping up on me. The man’s a dick. “The more information I have, the better I’ll be at my job.”
He huffs and waves a hand in the air to one of the giants flanking his desk. “Show him.”
I watch as one of the men takes a white envelope from the desk and passes it over, this time with no signs of resistance. He’s a fast learner. I take it and slide out the unfolded paper, finding a picture of Camille with four letters typed beneath her face.
D.E.A.D.
Short and to the point.
“That came via courier yesterday,” Logan says. “It’s probably just some fool who’s come out on the bad side of a deal. Threats are part of the job. I upset a lot of people.” He indicates his security men. “But never has a threat been directed at my daughter. Like I said, you’re a precautionary measure. You’re the best.”
I nod, dubious, running a thumb over the paper thoughtfully. “Yesterday, you say?” I ask casually as I chuck the paper on the desk with the file. That paper is too crisp and clean to have been handled much. There are no creases, no folded edges, no crumpling. It’s pristine. You’d expect something somewhere, even if it’s a tiny curl of a corner, given that it’s been stuffed in an envelope, delivered, and removed. God knows how many people must have handled it on its journey to the fiftieth floor of Logan Tower. Nothing?
“Yes, yesterday.”
I play it cool. “The name of the courier?”
He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “We have endless couriers delivering here. We don’t keep records. They come, someone signs, and it gets sent up to the right floor.”
I accept his answer. At least, I appear to. “No demand for any money?”