Chapter Four

Before Liz could ask what he meant, Mitch had already left the room, so she automatically turned toward Cat. “I take it I’m the client.”

“Yes. You are the client. He’s a typical alpha protector.” Cat motioned her toward the other side of the house. “Always remember one thing and you’ll be fine.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s in charge.”

Liz’s first thought—been there, done that…never again. No one had control of her. Not now. Not ever. Birth to college had been enough rules, restrictions, and rebukes. Her second thought told her to keep her mouth shut for the time being. She dutifully followed the woman.

Cat headed down the hallway leading to the door into the lockout room. “Right now, the only thing on his mind is keeping you safe. Next, he thinks about the team. And, finally”—she unlocked the door, pulled it open, then pushed in a few numbers on the keypad next to another door—”if he’s still kicking when the assignment’s over, all’s good in his world.”

The inner door slipped open, and Cat walked inside.

Liz remembered the door had been locked when she arrived a few days ago, just as she had expected. When renters were on property, the room stayed locked, at least that’s what Drake and her father had told her when they all vacationed together at the house during her teens. This was the lockout room of the house, meaning it held everything personal and valuable to the owner.

Watching Cat open the doors with a key and passcode suggested the valuables in this room were a lot more than floats, snorkel gear, or a priceless vase. Being an inquisitive, and sometimes bored, teenager years ago, Liz had drawn out the floor plan of the house one summer. Even took measurements, trying to figure out the dimensions of the lockout room.

The size of the room she’d calculated had insinuated something big must be stored inside. Her mind had run rampant with what could be so valuable and fit through the door. She’d also figured out the room sat in the middle of the house. Had no windows. And, only one way in and out—the door now standing wide open. The one Cat motioned her to come through.

Lockout room? Panic room?

She stepped backward down the hallway, again and again. A quick, heavy load of fear rushed her senses, settling in her chest. Forcing a hard exhale of breath helped clear her mind and stabilize her breathing. This wasn’t the past. Wasn’t a nightmare. These were people sent to help her. All she had to do was stay in the present and follow their lead.

Liz stood in the hallway, shaking her head. “No. I won’t go in there.”

“Why?” Cat asked.

“You’re not going to lock me in. I don’t care how secure you’re trying to make me.” She wished she hadn’t tossed her purse on the chair when they came in, because that mace might have come in handy about now.

“That’s good. You think like one of us.” The woman standing in the doorway smiled. “But if you’re afraid of me, then you should have run the moment I opened the door. Gotten something big between you and me. Something I can’t reach across. Can’t easily jump across.”

Liz took in the advice. Didn’t move. “Drake said trust Mitch. I trust Mitch. Mitch left me in your care. So, I trust you.”

“Good…good thought process. Except, money and power at the right time can make even the most trustworthy turn.” Cat’s tone held a tinge of regret, and she seemed to pause with a memory. Her expression blanked. Then, on an intake of breath, her nostrils slightly flared. She blinked. “By the way, we would never lock you in the panic room. That would be your choice.”

Choice? She hadn’t been given a choice when she was ten. Her dad had simply secured her mom and her in what he called the safe room of their house. She hadn’t liked the idea then. And didn’t to this day.

“I still won’t go in that room,” Liz said.

“Understood.”

Cat disappeared back into the window-less room then reemerged carrying an armload of shorts and tops, skirts and pants, bikinis tops and bottoms. She nodded for Liz to follow her into the bedroom. Once there, Cat dumped the items on the bed then turned back toward the lock-out room.

“What are these for?” Liz asked.

The woman came back with shoes and sandals, plus maxi and mini dresses. “These are a few things I’ve picked up for you. Things to change your image.”

Liz picked up a matching bikini top and bottom then held it against herself. They weren’t as small as the ones she used to wear, but they were still small. “I can’t wear these. In fact, none of this is my style.”

“Exactly. If we change your look, the people looking for you may be thrown off the trail.” Cat leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Besides, don’t take offense, but your style could use a little updating.”

“I’m a professional journalist, not some beach bunny.”

Liz ignored the niggling thought of how much she’d love to still be the carefree woman from college. The one who wore the latest trends. Shortest shorts. Loudest prints. The one who laughed freely. Danced to every song she heard. Life used to be one hellacious good time after another, all the while carrying a 4.0. One classroom and one college professor had shattered that girl. She’d still carried the “A” grade, for the most part, but had conformed to meet the criteria of someone else. Never again.

She held the skirt in front of her and shook her head. “Too short.” A maxi dress. “Too low-cut.” A mini. “Way, way too short.” The bikini top… “Wrong message.”

Cat walked into Liz’s personal space and pointed to the master bath. “Pick. Out. At least one of each, and try them on. You have to change clothes.”

Liz pointed back at the woman standing in front of her. “I’m not moving until you give me a good reason why I have to change my look. I am who I am, and—”

Her chin uncontrollably quivered with the realization the words were a lie. Everything was a lie. She wasn’t who she was. Elizabeth Walkert didn’t exist. She’d never existed. The person she’d grown into over the years had never been real, either.

Even now, the name Liz seemed more real than anything else had evidently been. She understood that name. Liz was in danger. Liz required protection. Liz needed to know her short name could save lives.

With a slight gasp, she swiped her palms across her cheeks. Tears. Damn tears. She never cried. Hated the idea of losing control. Of looking weak. But she couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t stop.

What had happened to her life? Five days ago, she had a life. A career. Now all she had were tears. And the people protecting her.

Cat lowered her gaze to the floor and walked back toward the lockout room. “You know, it’s okay to break down. You’ve had a rough few days. I’ve been proud of the way you held up since you arrived here. Heck, I’ve even been known to shed a tear.”

“Thanks. I needed that.” Catching her breath, Liz tried to smile. “I doubt Mitch has ever shed a tear.”

“You’d have to ask—”

“Ask me what?” Mitch said as he entered the room.

“Nothing,” Liz countered.

He glanced at each of the women. “I didn’t imagine my name being said. What’s going on?”

“No big deal.” Cat raised her fingertips in a sweeping motion. “She’s just not happy with the clothes I chose for her to change her style.”

Mitch walked over to the bed and rummaged through the clothes, holding on to a green bikini top. “What’s wrong with them? Wrong size? Color? What?”

He sounded like a waiter wanting to know what to tell the chef when he took the plate back to the kitchen to be recooked. That was all she needed. The only thing she had left to hold on to was how she looked. To him, the clothes were nothing more than one more step in his assignment.

For a millisecond, she thought of telling him how good he’d look in red swim trunks and a pair of sexy sunglasses. Nothing else. His hand covering hers on the drive over had triggered her hormones. Got her to imagining all kinds of impossible scenarios. Like leaning against the ripped abs and tanned muscles she figured lay beneath his clothes. But she still wouldn’t let him tell her what to wear.

She pushed into his space. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I simply refuse to change the way I dress or look or sound or smile or—”

“Do you want to be dead on a slab?” His words, and stare, bored straight to the bull’s-eye. He leaned closer. “Well, do you?”

“No. I don’t.” Surely, he was being overdramatic just to scare her. He’d soon learn she didn’t scare so easily. “You had your questions. Here are mine. How would you like it if someone said you needed to do away with your five o’clock shadow look? Shave your head?”

He dropped the bikini top back on the pile of clothes and dodged out of the way of her moving hands. She jerked in reaction to his bob-and-weave action. Evidently, she’d been talking with her hands.

Flailing because she was anxious. “Wear a shirt and tie every—”

“I’ve worn everything imaginable to stay alive. Sometimes, nothing at all.” His phone rang, and he headed out of the room. “Cat, explain how bad this could be if she’d been put in our OPAQUE security program. Maybe then she won’t be so upset about simply trying some new clothes.”

“Right.” Cat’s expression never wavered, but the loud sigh said she hated getting stuck with some parts of the job. She started picking out clothing pieces, stacked them in a pile on a chair in the corner, then pointed to what was left on the bed. “Okay, I’ve narrowed your choices. Humor me and try them on.”

This was the second time Mitch had mentioned OPAQUE. She’d also heard the word years ago, from her dad and Drake when she’d walked in on one of their conversations. She needed to know what that stood for. Seeing no chance of online access any time soon, she decided to broach the subject with Cat.

Nonchalantly, Liz picked out one of each type of clothing from the bed then helped Cat carry the remaining clothes back into the lockout room. “What did Mitch mean by OPAQUE type security?”

In the room, she was pleasantly surprised to find a setup of table and chairs, small fridge and microwave, books, CDs and headphones, even a small laptop. The place was nothing like the bare essentials in the safe room when she was ten.

Cat laid the clothing on a table off to the side then opened a cabinet in front of her. “You’re one of Drake Security Shadow’s normal protection clients. Means we need to take some of your familiar edge off. Make people look at your clothes, body, walk, anything but your face.”

“Especially men?”

“Sure. Except, the bad guy can be a man or woman. Women will look at the outfit if it fits their style. Or wish they could wear what you’re wearing. They’ll wonder where they could buy the skirt. What would they wear with the top? Something like that. See what I mean?”

Liz nodded, understanding fully the reason for the different outfits. Her style was simple. Unprovocative. All business. She’d worked on perfecting that look ever since she lost an internship at college because a professor said she looked too cute. The next day, she’d walked into class wearing the all-business style and showed him what she thought of his chauvinist attitude. With the help of the local newspaper, she’d received an even better internship, earning an A in the course.

She’d kept that same style ever since. “So, we’re only changing my clothes?”

“That’s it.”

“What if I were an OPAQUE client?”

“You’d be prime-time danger.” Cat opened a drawer, motioning for Liz to look inside. “One that requires a lot more change. Tinted contacts. Tanning agents. Hair color. Extensions.” She picked up a pair of scissors. “Chop the hair short. Maybe a mole or a fake tattoo. Whatever it takes to make the person look completely different.”

“No way would I let you, or anyone else, ever cut my hair.” Liz pressed her already smooth style in place then glanced in the mirror above the counter. “I’m known in the publishing world for my neat makeup and hair. Makes me appear more serious. Makes the reader take me more seriously. Makes the publisher know I’m serious when I ask for more pay.”

“You can always grow your hair long again.” Cat laid the scissors back in their place and closed the drawer with a little more force than needed. “Dead is dead.”

Liz fought to intensify her pragmatic image of being a grown-up about this whole mess. Of being in complete control. Of being able to confront anything life threw at her. Of not being worried about her father. After all, none of this was her fault.

During the past ten years, she’d worked hard to never doubt herself. Now, this whole scenario was affecting the rope of confidence she’d built string by string, thread by thread, braid by braid. If she wasn’t careful, her life might—had already begun to—unravel.

Putting her doubt defenses back in place, she reassumed her mask of competence. “You and Mitch sure like to scare a person with your warnings.”

“I hope you never have to find out how true they are. Now, go try on those clothes.” Cat’s tone held no space for noncompliance. “I saw the can of mace on your key chain last night. Do you carry other protection when you’re on magazine assignments?”

“I know how to put someone on the ground. And I know how to shoot a gun.”

“Good. Do you own a gun?”

“No.” Liz nabbed the bright green bikini from the stack of clothes sitting on the chair. She convinced herself she was trying on that specific one because the color made her feel happy, made her feel strong, made her feel like she could handle anything that came her way. Not because Mitch had continued to hold the top in his hands after rummaging through the clothes on the bed.

Heading to the bathroom, she added a pair of shorts and fun-in-the-sun T-shirts from the bed. If she were in as much danger as Mitch implied, trying on clothes seemed trivial to squabble over. At least this was keeping her focus off worrying about her father. “This should be enough.”

Cat smiled. “Let me see how that swimsuit turns out.”

Ten minutes later, Liz exited the bathroom and dropped the clothes on the bed. “These clothes all fit. You did well, Cat.” Liz eyed herself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. “What do you think about this bikini?”

Cat glanced out the open doorway, then motioned Liz to stand behind her. “Stay quiet.”

Shouts and running footsteps sounded from down the hallway, then Mitch burst into the room. Gun drawn. Expression fierce. What had been all-business blue eyes were now steeled with determination and gray as battleship metal.

He’d changed clothes and added equipment, too. A black, formfitting, compression shirt hugged the outline of his muscular chest, his trim waist, and hardened biceps, while black Neoprene shorts stretched tight on his thighs. A sheathed knife was strapped against his leg, and a gun holster hung empty on his shoulder. Dark athletic shoes completed the look.

For a split second, he stopped, his gaze drawn to hers. He scanned her body in a once-over before he blinked. “Drake upgraded you to OPAQUE protection. You’ve got thirty seconds to get dressed.”

As if they’d done this drill a million times, Cat drew her gun and took up a position by the window. “Are they here?”

“Closing fast. Drake’s got a crew coming in from offshore to help.”

The words upgraded and OPAQUE triggered stone-still panic inside Liz. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t understand what was happening. “Is who here?”

“Coercion Ten,” Cat calmly said, inching her gun behind the drapery as she peered outside.

“Who are they?” Liz asked.

Her peripheral vision caught sight of the man from the Mariner’s parking lot standing guard outside her open bedroom door. Mitch had said his name was Keith. He’d been the backup, the one who’d followed them to the house in his own vehicle.

“I said get dressed.” Mitched focused his gun on the door to the master bath. “You’ve got fifteen seconds before some mighty bad men burst through the front door.”

Something inside her clicked.

She was a prime-time target. Wasting time.

She regrouped and moved to get dressed. The bikini would have to do as undies, so she grabbed a pair of shorts from the pile of clothing on the bed and pulled them on. Then tossed on one of the darker color T-shirts. “Ready.”

“Shoes? Tie-on. Something you can run in.” Mitch didn’t even glance in her direction.

Shoes. Of course, she needed shoes. She spied a pair of tennis shoes under a chair, slipped them on, and double tied them tight. Maybe this was all a drill. She hoped so, because her heart was racing like an amplified bass beat at a dance club.

Mitch turned and pulled her close beside him. “You don’t leave my side. Got it?”

She nodded. “Is this real?”

“Damn real. Stay behind me. Move when I move.” He headed to the doorway as Keith ran toward the other side of the house.

“Are we going in the panic room?”

“No. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

“Wouldn’t that be the safest place?”

“CT personnel carry explosives. They’ll blow it wide open if they have to.” He paused for a moment, tilting his head as if to listen. “I would.”

Outside, gunshots rang out. Some silenced and blunt-sounding with their thuds. Some not. The shots were close. Closer than she could imagine.

Another wet-suit-clad man as tall and broad and muscled as Mitch appeared at the end of the hall and stopped them with a raised hand. His eyes narrowed as he focused the gun in his other hand on them. Provoked or not, he appeared ready to shoot.

Mitch whirled, taking her to the floor beneath him, and covered her with his body. She realized he’d put himself between her and a surefire bullet.

“Incoming!” Cat yelled.

Glass shattering back in the bedroom was all it took for the man at the end of the hall to come running in their direction. Gun arm straight and pointed. His focus intense and deadly.

“Stay down.” Mitch pointed his gun at the oncoming man then shielded her even more with the brace of his arm in front of her face.

“I’ve got them!” the man shouted. “I’ve got them.”

Gunfire erupted. Grunts and screams echoed through the air. Then, quiet. Only quiet.

Mitch hadn’t moved since the first gunshot.