Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2) Read online

  Dressed and ready for the day I wait anxiously to hear from the police, but there’s no update, and gradually I stop looking at the phone to make sure I haven’t accidentally put it on silent. Slowly I convince myself, if they haven’t bothered to rush to get back in contact they can’t think it’s as serious as it seemed at the time. My mind starts to blur over the facts, as I refuse to let myself feel intimidated. The bright sunshine and blue skies, replacing the ominous dark of the day before, help to lift my mood.

  The morning passes quickly. Despite everything I manage to get in my word count and more, as a sudden unexpected blast of inspiration hits me. In one day I’d experienced more than I normally would in a year. The range of emotions I’d gone through, the people I’d met—the ebullient waitress, the police officers, and the detective—being in a police car and police station for the first time as well as the encounter and attack itself; all fuel for my plots. My characters come alive, and start rambling off in directions I’d neither planned nor expected, and I know I’m doing some of the best writing I’ve ever done. Hmm, I make a joke in bad taste to myself. Perhaps I should get out and get stalked more often. Although, that does seem quite a high price to pay for some inspiration!

  While I’m churning out words by the dozen, as usual, I lose all sense of time. Lost in another world, I work all day and by the evening, when I eventually emerge from my study, I realise I’ve forgotten to organise an alarm system for the house. But I’ve also forgotten any real urgency to do so. I’m happy with the work I’ve completed, pleased with the progress I’ve made and having heard nothing further from the police and still unable to conceive anyone could want to hurt me; I no longer feel under threat. At least here, in the safety of my cosy home. I’ll be a lot more cautious if I have to go into London anytime soon. No one knows where Dexie Sanders lives. Yes, I’m sure of that.

  “Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?” Val rings around seven, just as I’m putting a ready meal for one in the oven.

  Pleased with myself, I tell my agent that I’ve doubled my word count today, and start to enthuse about how the new novel is shaping up until she stops me, laughing. “Not much keeps you down, does it? I’m ringing to see how you are, not what you’ve done.”

  I smile, my phone balanced between my shoulder and ear as I get out a plate and cutlery. “Sorry, Val. Everything seems different today. I’ll just be ultra-vigilant when I’m out in future.”

  “Did you sort out your alarm system?”

  “No, I’ll get round to it sometime. I haven’t had time today. It will be fine, I’m sure.”

  “Mia, it sounded serious to me!” She sounds exasperated and reminds me again of the precautions that I should be taking in her view. Then she adds, “Look, I’ve pulled in a favour from someone I know at Grade A Security. They’re a protection and security company with great rep. They’ll be sending someone to see you tomorrow about what exactly it is you need.”

  “There’s no point, Val. I’ll get round to sorting it out.” Eventually, but I add that under my breath.

  She sighs loudly, “You’re a celebrity, now, Mia. I think you need some expert advice on this.”

  “Actually, I’m bloody angry I need to pay out money just because someone doesn’t like the content of my books,” I suddenly snap. I’ve started making a decent income now, but it’s not a fortune and just as hard earned as anybody else’s, often as a result of fourteen-hour days and no weekends off or holidays. “Why don’t they just bloody well not read them, if they hate them that much?”

  “I’m trying to help, here, Mia,” Val retorts sharply, stopping my tirade.

  At once, realising it’s wrong to direct my anger at her, I apologise. After she reminds me someone’s coming from Grade A tomorrow, I thank her for taking the time to arrange it, and we say our goodbyes. Putting down the phone, I eat my dinner for one. Christ Val, I was just feeling comfortable now you’ve unnerved me all over again! Glancing around my kitchen, I check the window is locked, and in the silence realise how alone I am. I’ve always lived by myself, and so far have never felt lonely. With all the characters talking in my head I don’t need anyone else’s company. But all of a sudden I realise how vulnerable that makes me, a twenty-four-year-old woman, living on her own, out in the country, at least a quarter of a mile from the nearest neighbour.

  A shiver runs up my spine as though a ghost has just walked over my grave.

  ****

  As darkness gives way to light, my fears once again begin to evaporate in correlation with the sun rising, and the next day starts much like the last. The police still haven’t made contact, I’ve heard no more about the stalker, and once again, my writing’s on a roll. I pause only to make a few notes on my iPad to remind me to see if Detective Waring, who’d given me his contact details and card, might be amenable to talking me through some police procedures I’ve been getting confused on. I do like to get authenticity into my work.

  As I’m pondering whether the detective would mind answering some questions, the rattle of the letterbox signalling the post has arrived interrupts the flow of my thoughts and jolts me back into reality. I don’t live a great distance from the town of Epping, but far enough away to be considered resident in a rural area. Hence, I’m almost the last on the postman’s round, and he often doesn’t get to my road until late morning, sometimes not until after lunch so I never know when to expect him. I don’t bother moving at first, not until I hear the knock on the door which probably means there’s a delivery I need to sign for. Sighing, I back away from the keyboard and check my watch. Eleven o’clock. The postie’s made good time today. Calling out for him to wait for a moment, I run down the stairs from the spare bedroom which serves as my study, and open the door to him. He’s my regular, so he greets me with a smile.

  “Only a few bills for you, love,” he says, passing the brown envelopes over, then he waves his hand downwards, “But I didn’t know if you realised you had these? I didn’t think you’d want them left here to spoil.” Having pointed out the delivery left for me, he nods and leaves, quickly exiting down my short front path, and jumping into his van to continue his round.

  But I don’t watch him go. Instead my eyes are focused on what he so kindly pointed out to me. Someone had left a bouquet of white lilies against my front door. My mouth goes dry. I don’t know anyone who’d send me flowers. And while relatively innocuous, if you like that type of bloom, to me it looks like something you’d put on a coffin. With a feeling of dread, I suspect that is exactly the effect they are meant to have. Shit! Sinking to my knees, I gingerly extract the card that’s attached to the cellophane wrapping. Carefully I open the envelope, which has my address clearly printed on it, then, with shaking hands, I hold it up, letting the contents slide it out, still hoping there’s a possibility it’s from a friend. But reading the words printed on the card in big bold type, I rock back on my heels and put my hand to my face. Dear God! He does know where I live!

  Fuck! My hands tremble so much I drop the card. Tears of frustration and fear come to my eyes and I angrily wipe them away, annoyed at myself for my weakness. Glancing down, I read what’s written on the envelope again. It’s addressed to Mia Fable. I’m right to be afraid. Another threat, and this time there’s no doubt he knows my true identity, as well as my address.

  I leave the flowers where they are; I don’t want to touch them, and I don’t want to bring them inside and have that sickly sweet scent wafting through my home. I shut the door, so they are out of my sight and waste no time grabbing my phone and ringing the detective I spoke to on Tuesday evening at the police station in London. He answers, and I tell him what’s happened. There’s some confusion as he’s with the Met, the Metropolitan Police Force covering London, but the local Essex Police are the ones who deal with the area where I live, so he’s going to have to contact them and pass my case over. I just teem with exasperation. I don’t care whose jurisdiction it is. I just want them to bloody well get it sorted!

 
It takes two hours for them to decide who’s doing what, and to get someone out to me, but I suppose an unexpected delivery of flowers is not generally classed as an emergency. When they do arrive, they come mob-handed suggesting the notes of my interview last night have finally been transferred and they’re now taking it as a serious threat. Different police officers come tasked with various jobs, one starts to fingerprint the front gate, which would have to have been opened to deliver the flowers then, finished with that task, uses tweezers to pick up the card and place it in a plastic bag, berating me for handling it. I snap my patience now almost non-existent. What did they expect me to do? He bags the flowers and takes them out to the police car and I breathe a sigh of relief once they are out of my sight. But it’s impossible to forget the words that I’d read:

  RIP BITCH! ONCE YOU’VE PAID YOUR DUES.

  Apart from the forensic expert who, on returning to the house, continues to mutter about me contaminating his crime scene, there are three other police officers; a detective, a crime scene officer, and a constable; the latter standing as if on guard by the front door. The detective, who quickly introduced himself as Detective Sergeant David Coulton, takes me into my sitting room and starts to question me, taking me through every possible scenario where I might have made an enemy.

  But nothing’s changed from Tuesday night; I still can’t think of anyone who would want to threaten and scare me. He seems focused on the demand that I pay my dues for what I owe. But I owe nothing to anybody. Shaking my head and narrowing my eyes I’m perplexed and puzzled as to what the hell this could be about. I honestly have no idea! Who’d want to do this to me? I think he’s on the wrong track. Although it doesn’t make any sense, the only thing that occurs to me is that some nutter has got extremely upset by the content of my books. But in that case, why weren’t the flowers sent to Dexie Sanders? Why were they addressed to me?

  “Is there someone you can stay with for a few days?” Coulton asks me when we’ve exhausted just about every avenue to explore as to who might have a serious grudge against me. “If you can go somewhere else, you would feel safer. At the moment, we can’t say whether this is a credible threat or just a hoax. It could just be someone playing a cruel joke, getting their kicks from upsetting you. But as the person knows where you live, well, I must admit that makes me more than a tad concerned. He might remain content with just leaving these messages, but we can’t rule out that his actions might escalate into actual violence.”

  I don’t have to think about it for long. There’s no one I’m that close to that I could impose on to give me house-room. So I shake my head as I tell him, “Not unless I stay at a hotel. And how long would I have to go away for?”

  He shrugs. “The problem is we have no idea who is threatening you or why. Until he crawls out of the woodwork, it’s impossible to say.”

  What the hell do I do? I’m scared and feeling very alone. My stalker is already winning, and that infuriates me. “Then it’s impossible for me to leave,” I tell him, firmly. “I haven’t got unlimited resources. Can’t you provide protection for me?”

  “I’m sorry, but unless we know who or what we’re protecting you from, or have evidence there’s a real risk of physical danger towards you, we just haven’t got the manpower after all the recent cuts. We’re spread too thin already.” He looks at me sympathetically, “I can have a squad car include your house in its regular rounds, and obviously, we’re only a 999 call away, but, horrible as this might sound, the situation needs to escalate before we can do much about it. I know that doesn’t give you much comfort, Ms Fable, but I’m afraid that’s how it is.”

  Nodding slowly, I accept that in the scheme of things my stalker problem probably appears insignificant. To them, maybe, but not to me. He looks around. “You need to have a security system installed. One with a panic button connecting you directly to us.”

  I’m an author; I’m not a practical person, and it probably sounds pathetic when I start to ask him for his advice. “Who can install a security system? What type do I need?”

  Suddenly an unfamiliar but authoritative voice interrupts us. “You can leave that to me.”

  I spin round. My eyes open wide, and my jaw drops. All the air has been sucked from my lungs, as I struggle to take in a breath. I’ve written about scenes such as these. The immediate attraction to someone on first sight, but I’ve never experienced anything like it in real life. Having to put my hand on the back of a chair to steady myself, I can’t tear my eyes away from the man standing in the doorway, his massive frame making my sitting room seem far too small.

  He’s wearing a leather biker jacket, tight fitting black jeans which cover his long legs and, to complete his ensemble, biker boots. In his hand, he’s holding a helmet. He’s so tall; I have to lift my chin to look up at his face. His eyes are dark, almost black as they focus on me, his nose straight and aquiline. His lips are slightly parted, revealing straight white teeth. He’s got designer stubble – more than just having missed a shave but less than can be called a beard – on his chin, and dark brown hair just long enough to reach below his collar looking neat and styled even though having been flattened by his helmet. All his features add up to one thing, and the reason for my immediate irrational reaction; if I’d dreamed about a man I couldn’t have conjured up someone who appealed to me more. It’s as though one of my favourite fictional lead characters has come to life. My stomach clenches and my body’s unwanted response to this devastating man scares me almost as much as the threatening notes I’d received. This man, whose very presence makes my house feel like it’s shrunk; not just because of his size, but there’s something about him that oozes power and dominance and which makes me want to give myself over into his care. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before and never believed I ever would. I do not get attracted to men.

  “Who … Who the fuck are you?” I manage to stammer out, my voice sounding so unlike my own, shaking and full of trepidation.

  Chapter 3

  Jon

  Six years ago

  I read the email again. Then I lifted my head and gazed up at the burning hot sun floating in an unbroken sky of blue, as I considered the job offer I’d just been made. Was I really at the point where I wanted to change what many would see as my dangerous career?

  If it had been from anybody else, I might not have given it a moment’s thought. But Ben Carter had been my Captain; Special Air Services Capt Carter to give him his full title, and I’d been one of his Squadron Sergeant Majors. We’d worked together in that elite unit of the British armed forces, commonly known as the SAS. We’d been seconded at the same time to the Counter Revolutionary Warfare team, conducting training in close protection techniques to prepare bodyguards to protect VIPs. Billeted in the same accommodation, we’d spent both days and nights together. We’d parted company when I was transferred to the mobility troop and shipped out to Afghanistan.

  This was where I was now, stood on the hot desert sand, my phone in hand. Once more I re-read the message Ben had sent. Having left the service a year ago, he was setting up a security company, and was inviting me to buy in as a partner. He’d approached me firstly as a good friend and comrade and secondly because of my expertise in close protection. It was an intriguing offer, but was it for me right now?

  I looked around at my team of four men waiting for me as we prepared to go out on patrol, and knew I had to put Ben’s proposal out of my mind, needing to focus on my current career. Switching back to soldiering mode, I checked my weapons and ammunition, getting myself in the right mindset for the mission ahead. We were tasked with clearing a village of insurgents and hopefully freeing the residents from their oppressors. But despite the seriousness of the work in hand, the tempting idea lingered. Did I want to leave the service and take a job with a private security firm? I hadn’t got the funds to buy in, but I knew I wouldn’t mind working for Ben. I’d be doing close protection work, something for which I was more than qualified. I’d
always enjoyed Ben’s company, both as my senior officer and as a friend. We were very similar in our approach to life and, it has to be said, have the same taste in the female sex. We’re both Dominants, and we’d both headed for the nearest BDSM clubs when on leave. We’d even shared the same woman on occasion. Yes, he was a good friend, and would probably be a good employer.

  I glanced at my watch and watched the second hand approach 0900 hours. Time to leave. The nod I threw towards my troop signalled I was ready to go, and they followed me as I led the way to the armoured vehicles ready to move out.

  This life is all I’d ever known. I’d been in the military since the age of eighteen, and having put in the requisite time, managed to pass the arduous tests required to join the crème de la crème of the British Army. Could I change and do something different?

  As we emerged into the scorching heat of this god-forsaken desert, I laugh at myself. I must be mad, but I couldn’t really see me doing anything else but being a soldier. Although this place could well be the death of me, for now this is my life.

  Present day

  It shocks me when I arrive at my destination to find it looks like all hell’s broken loose. Curious to discover what’s going on, I pull up my motorcycle in the driveway between two police cars. As I tug off my leather gloves, tucking them into my helmet, I can’t fail to notice the admiring look my mode of transport is receiving an from a young constable who’s hovering by the front door. To be quite honest, I’m still giving the bike appreciative glances myself, finding it hard to believe that the lovely and very rare Agusta is mine. Acknowledging his obvious envy, I nod at him, then step forwards getting down to business. My credentials are already in my hand.